Ms. Booty & Mama Loca.

Today.

Ms. Booty Homemaker @ 32 weeks pregnant.

Laughing. In Bell Buckle, TN on the Webb School Campus. Visit with best friend, Kay.

No sugar tonight in my coffee....

no sugar tonight in my tea!


Day five: no sugar.

Thunderstorms outside.

A cold in my head.


Grumpy Ms. Booty.

When dinner was the noon-time meal....

My grandparents always called the mid day meal "dinner," left over from sharecropping days and living in the country with a full garden for energy boosting fare for poor rural folks. Even in the years of my childhood, when they owned their home and ran the adjacent country grocery and Sinclair gasoline station, they'd break mid day for sustenance. There'd be field peas and pans of hot bread (cornbread!), fresh sliced tomatoes, some bits of meat quite often (pork, cold roast or fried chicken). Often, corn, greens, new potatoes. Some days there'd be thick sliced bologna from the store, and maybe canned peaches with canned milk. At my mamaw's, across the river bottom and on her surplus stamps or hard earnings from third shift work at the hospital, there'd be the best biscuits you've ever touched to your lips. Fried meat. Several vegetables and milk or ice tea, maybe a Dr. Pepper. Sometimes, hunks of government cheese.

I have always adored the ritual of gathering (whether from the earth or from the market) foods to be prepared with spirit and generosity, then shared with folks. It is one of the deepest things I know.


So after multiple false starts this day, I've made it back from the market with lots of fresh veggies, lean proteins and some whole grain things I got from Turnip Truck. I love when my larder is full -- it just makes me feel secure and homed in and nested somehow. I like knowing that if you and some child you found on the street were to show up unexpectedly, and ravenous at that, I could feed you. There's my food psychology.

Aside from which, lugging around this changling body and making a new set of lungs for this boy babe is hard work. I need all the nutritive, spiritual and emotional support I can come by.


Ta Dah!

Get Thee Behind Me, Satan (I Mean, Sugar).

Friday I saw my midwife for our bi-weekly visit. (Isn't it odd that bi-weekly means both twice a week and every two weeks?-- I do mean, of course, the latter in the previous sentence. Let us say, once a fortnight....)

Thirty-one weeks down, nine more to go!

The babe's growing, popping my belly and bosom further out; my navel resembles that of a Christmas orange. My measurement is right on the money. My blood pressure remains nice and low. Bloodwork all good. Hair's thicker than ever, and while I'm a bit puffier than usual, I have that glow, I am told.

I am a roly-poly goddess filled with life and domestic and other-worldly ambition, but a reduced reserve of energy with which to fulfill these desires.... I do my best. Some days, this is good enough.


While we eschewed all other prenatal testing, I did, a couple weeks ago, down a bottle of syrup sweet liquid for the one hour reading. An extended family history of diabetes and being of the voluptuous variety, I thought it a good idea.

While my glucose tolerance test came back in the normal range (albeit at the higher end of normal-- peak is 140, mine was 130), here's the thing:

In the first six months of pregnancy, I gained 10 pounds. Perfect.

Then, in the last six weeks (as of Friday's midwife visit): I gained another FIFTEEN pounds. YOW. Which puts me over my goal total gain of 20, by 5 pounds, and I've nine weeks yet to go! (Though according to my sister, who's delivered two bouncing girl babes in her day, there's little liklihood that I'll go much longer than mid September).

Granted, a plentiful bit of this gain is fluid-- just my style to be in the last trimester of pregnancy during a heat wave and flaunt my swollen feet and hands, and sometimes face.

Now, I do eat healthily, but all the extraneous stuff has to go....

So: sugar is out completely. (I'd given up sugar pre-pregnancy in order to get more fit and feel better and enhance fertility-- an exercise in futility since all My Beloved Mister had to do was look at me to get me knocked up-- but I was lured by ice cream's siren call.... Oh my sweet frosty friend, why hast thou forsaken me?)

My one true and solid craving? Copious ammounts of fruits: also out. (Berries are the best bet; good since I've got all these blueberries I picked down in Kelso last week and will go pick more when the weather relents a bit, and I'll choose a closer patch; adieu my dear watermelon, banana and peach).

Also non-whole grain carbohydrates and white potatoes: out. (Shall I sneak brown rice into my twice monthly Taste of India lunches??? I yearn for the lentil, a good korma and saag paneer.... Oh, woe is me to no longer get my naan on.)

Sigh. In the name of health and of Ziggy's best interests in all ways, from here on out, I'll be feasting from the high nutritive value foods at the lower end of the glycemic index. (Who could have imagined the Frosted Flakes were lower on the index than the wholesome and dear to my heart Cheerio?!-- they're both out, at that, I reckon).

Enough is the same as a feast. I shall know abundance of a different variety, and revel in Ziggy's eminent arrival.

If y'all have good recipes / ideas that don't encompass the above NO-NOs, but include the GOOD stuff, send 'em my way.

I'm figuring to eat lots of big green leafy salads with lean proteins. I'm familiar with the glycemic index and whole foods science from experience and while I'm handy in the kitchen and have certainly taken my share of nutrition classes and such, I'm always open for tips and good finds.

Off to the market for greens and goods!!

The Tump, Revisited.

It's all about the center of gravity changing.

Duh. Everyone says that. Everyone knows that. But until you've experienced it, it's all a bunch of blather.

I am, as it turns out, quite capable of keeping myself upright when anchored by my amply endowed bosom and booty. I'm accustomed to being built like a peasant-- wide utile hands and feet, generously rounded hips, thick muscular calves.

I am not, however, at all accustomed to leading with my belly.

This is new territory.

Neither am I accustomed to being called Tumblina by My Beloved Mister, and yet....

The Tumping of Ms. Booty.

Well, I've finally done it.

Had my first pregnant tumble, that is.

Serves me right, as I've laughed over others' tumbles and tumps and frankly, if you were to've seen a big round pregnant lady such as me tip over and land on the ground, unable to rise for several minutes, you'd probably laugh, too.


Our friend Catherine died earlier this summer. That was not funny, but very sad. She was a lovely wonderful woman, full of life, a dear friend to my whole family.

After the service, held at Oak Ridge's non-denominational Chapel on the Hill-- the same place our brother wed our dear sister-in-law La-- there was a receiving of friends and families along with food and cold drinks. We do things that way in the South. Maybe y'all do elsewhere, too.

In any case, as I'm nibbling on finger sandwiches near my sister, she turns to me and says,
"Have you fallen yet?" As if it is inevitable.

I nearly spit pimiento cheese across the multi-purpose room. "What?!," I gasp.

"Have you fallen yet?," says my sister, "I fell all the time when I was pregnant.... down the driveway, out of the car, in the kitchen."

She says this so matter of factly, as if, like a swelling belly and fatigue, falling is just a natural part of pregnancy.

I nearly pee my pants laughing. Literally. I am picturing my round bellied sister rolling over like a gigantic physio ball with appendages, and I am picturing myself doing the same thing. As of that moment, I hadn't yet fallen.



So, hey, Dana? My yet came today. I fell. Just a little while ago.

My Beloved Mister was readying to depart for his evening shift on the radio and I took Bert out to pee in the side yard. I'm not really sure what happened. Suddenly, ass over tea kettle, the sky was in the wrong place and I was on the ground with a grass stain on the knee of my jeans and an abrasion on the skin beneath the denim. My wrist hurt. I caught my weight with my wrist, like they tell you not to do, but I didn't want to land on my belly. I let go of Bert's leash. That, or the fall pulled it from my grasp. He did not run away. Rather, he ran to me immediately, to see that I was okay.

I sat. Stunned. Thought about crying. Didn't cry.

My Beloved Mister walked out of doors just as I was pulling myself up from an all fours position on the ground.

"It's hot out here! Like an oven, " he says.

I stare at him. Then say, "I fell."

"You fell?"

"Yeah."

"Are you alright?!"

"I think so." Now I'm really wanting to cry because I feel stupid and because I'm almost always okay with anything until I hear his voice and then when I do, I respond to the sound emotionally.

"On the driveway? On the grass?"

"Kind of both."

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure. "

"Did you trip?"

"No."

"Did you get dizzy?"

"No."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I think.... I think it's just the loosening joints. I stepped, and then.... I don't know. I just fell."

"Are you sure you're okay? Go inside. Where it's cool. Put your feet up."


So, I took a tumble.

I think it must've looked hilarious.

You Say Tomato.

This very cool Festival takes place in our neighborhood next month. Several of the Stitch & Bitch girls will be gathering for a tomato brunch early in the day and some of us are entering the recipe contests--- I'm still not sure of my entry. Ideas?

Desperate Housewife my zigzag!

"Ms. Booty Homemaker blog. Desperate Housewife my zigzag! Entertaining. . . . " -- Holly Ambrose

Find out more about Ms. Ambrose's writing here: http://www.floridaecotrips.com/

Nope. Ms. Booty doesn't know her.

I've Been Pimped By Him So Many Times.

My Mister and the dog have their own thing going. Er, the dog not going, more like it.

Bert becomes, with my Mister, literally anal retentive. For me: not quite literally, it's a shit storm.

Last night, post birthing class and mid-way through a season two episode of The Sopranos (we're so hooked.... we're rewatching), Bert begins to do his buck dancing across the floor and the dropping of his huge $6 bone (purchased recently, by my Beloved Mister from the butcher at one of the fancy markets from whom he receives Nashville's Table goods for agencies in need) . I put down the last of the homemade peach ice cream and here's how the conversation goes:

Ms. Booty Homemaker: Well, looks like it's poo time. Should I take him out?

My Beloved Mister: The thing is, I've been pimped by him so many times.

MBH: (amused) Yeah, I know, baby. He won't perform for you.

MBM: We could choose to teach him restraint now, you know.

MBH: But what if he really needs to go?

MBM: Yeah, and he's telling us what he needs....

MBH: I think maybe I should just take him out.

MBM: (sighing) I'm sorry it has to be you, babe.

MBH: What if our child is like this?!?


MBM looks stricken.


MBH, dressed in one of her favorite slinky slips. & Bert, the dog, exit to the side yard; re-enter a short time later.


MBM: Well? The verdict?

MBH: He pooed. Immediately. Down in back by where the woods start.

MBM: Did you pick it up?

MBH: It was too dark.

MBM: I'll get it in the morning. (sigh)

Big Fat Pregnant Woman Comes Out to Play.

http://girl.comics.org

Blue Ditsies on the Bed, Please.

Last evening the Beloved Mister & I attended our first childbirth education class, a curriculum based in large part on the Bradley Method, and conceived by one of the former midwives in our practice and a woman who birthed with them twice. The latter, Angela, teaches the six week course and as we learned, her sister, who just had a baby in the last six weeks, is one of our neighbors just down and across the street.

Prior to attending class, we supped together on bacon, eggs & toast and my Mister felt Ziggy's fist raised & shaking for might so as to smote the man.

Anticipating that we'd be the oldest in the class, we were surprised to see two other couples who seem close to our age, and of course there was dear young Em, whose mum Evelyn came along in Em's husband's stead, as he's completing clinical rotation for the nursing program prior to graduating in a couple weeks. There were seven couples in all.

After having filled out some brief paperwork on stats, we women were asked to write our ideal birthing situation with all details and of course, I took that quite literally. My Mister kept peeking at my "novella" and declaring, "Don't tell me, you're used to being paid by the word."
Smartass Mr. Booty.

Angela took up our papers and then went 'round the circle for each woman to introduce herself, her partner and tell a bit about her pregnancy, life, ideal birth experience and so on. We're all midwife patients, and not surprisingly, most of us want to have a natural birth with as little intervention as is possible. When Angela got to our turn, she announced that most ideal birth experience passages on folks' papers simply stated that they wanted to a) be at the hospital or b) avoid hospital intervention, but that Ms. Booty's described a home birth right down to the exact sheets she wanted on the bed. A fact which, of course, drew a hearty laugh from the room, none more so than from Ms. Booty's little corner.

Em, being Em, does not want to die. That's her truest fear. And while I don't share it, I'm glad she can give voice to it so honestly.

One couple is having a high risk pregnancy, as she has lupus. One couple says they haven't thought much about the birth as it's stressful and she gets overly emotional, so afraid is she of the pain.

Many, like me, wish for homebirth in their ideal world, but will be birthing elsewhere (hospital or birthing center) for one reason or another. In our group, there are four girl babes and three boy babes, all expected between September 13 and October 2. Only two couples are completely set on a name.

After the full round of getting to know one another a bit better and some discussion on how the class will proceed the next several weeks, we tucked away with our pillows into our respective pairs for relaxation exercises, which included simulated contraction discomfort by way of a clothespin clipped to the women's ears.

My Mister took the liberty of "peaking" my "contractions" by giving the pin an extra squeeze.

Once home and settled in for the night, I slept the sleep of the innocent.

Berry Nice.

Yesterday I drove down to Sharon's place in Fayetteville (near Huntsville, home of the space program, and VERY near Pulaski, homeplace of the Klan).

Fayetteville's a sweet small town with a preserved historic square and district.

Sharon and her family live just beyond town in the country.

The rains knocked us out of our swimming plans, but we drove over to the next little town, Kelso, and picked two & a half gallons of gorgeous blueberries. Her girls, Allie, Ruthie and Gretchen were along for the adventure and may've eaten more than they picked. No matter. Ruthie chattered to me constantly and at one point announced that she loved me so much. She wanted to know if Ziggy loved her. Absolutely so, I told her. Then we decided that at least for now, Ziggy loves everybody.

Do you have a spiced blueberry jam recipe? Post it in the comments section or send it to me if so.

Baby Shower Pictures.

Cake from my neighborhood bakery, Sweet 16th.... mmm.
Sliced into: red velvet cake. Yummy! Party Feet!
Table Decor.
Ms. Booty demonstrating the science fiction show of Ziggy's ass moving across her expanding belly.
Presents! It's a grabber, from Sue.... to end those "I can't bend over to get it" moments.
Smart Sue. Funny Sue. Lucky Ms. Booty.
Jen & Erika.
Lovely hostess Leslie & Erika.
Ms. Booty cracking up....
Is Sue choking on a baby from the cake and Kissy's saving her? Or are they laughing?
Many kind thanks to Em for taking the pics.

Gestating the Y.

This is fascinating.... research indicates that environment plays a significant role in baby's sex, and may explain the lower number of boys now being born to American women:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4758495

(Audio feed should be available today by 10 AM Eastern)

The study indicates that it takes approximately 10,000 more calories to gestate a boy than a girl, too, which may explain why I can near always eat something! The story also says I need to earn some more bucks, as boys are more costly and thereby single moms tend toward having girls.... Who knew?

This Is How It Goes: Part Three.

Part Three:

Yesterday, I went out to Opry Mills, the big crazy outlet mall, to which I've been maybe twice ever before (both times to run in and buy shoes). My purpose yesterday: to find a pretty colorful frock to update my maternity wardrobe and perhaps find something to wear to my first ever baby shower as the guest of honor.

No such luck. My greatest accomplishment at the mall would have to be a toss up between actually finding my car upon exiting the crazy over-stimulating place and twice stopping to use the restroom and finding toilet paper, soap and hand towels at the ready both times.

At any rate, fortified by half a sandwich from my neighborhood healthfood store, I arrived at my friend Leslie's too early to just pop in (or, so I thought) so I made a game of things and decided to circle the block until I espied Sue's car out front, at which point I'd know I'd not be TOO early.

Thereby, I arrived at Leslie's darling new home at precisely 2:02, finding Sue and Erika both present and lending a hand with what needed doing.

By and by, a clutch of others arrived. We visited, noshed on good stinky cheese and hummus and fruit and crackers. The guests were a mix and match of women from my two Wednesday night groups: the Stitch & Bitch girls, and the 2nd Wednesday group which meets under the auspices of personal and professional goal setting and support. Straight away, Leslie announced that the S & B girls were a bit wilder than the other group, which is true enough, though the 2nd Wednesday women just need to have their spirited-ness prodded slightly; they're a wonderfully engaged and delightful group.

Les prepared a beautiful luncheon of rice pilaf and some scrumptious-I-must-get-some- NOW Barefoot Contessa lemony dressed greens with a deliciously pounded out and prepared chicken breast. She read a beautiful blessing for a new child prior and we all enjoyed one another's company immensely. It made me feel so happy to sit there at the table's head with my tiara shining away and basking in the good company of these fine women. As we had coffee and red velvet cake (adorned by Erika with tiny baby figures), I opened gifts from these magnificent women.

When home again that evening, and sharing details of the shower with my Mister, he oohed and ahhed at these dear women's generous gifts, then hugged me and said, "Thank you for having these good friends who are so kind to us. I don't have any." I told him he was welcome, but that he does in fact have good friends, he's just less in touch with them, which comes as a surprise to no one at all.

This evening I shall go to a consignment sale pre-sale for first time moms only with Emily, who expects her firstborn (a daughter) the same week we'll have our boy. My Mister and I have prepared our list and I have his blessing to deviate as I see fit. I'm lucky, like that.

It doesn't hurt, though, that I made no attempt to get in the way of his going to a sidewalk sale yesterday at Great Escape where he scooped up season 3 of the Sopranos on DVD as well as a Frank Zappa disc (he says it'll be Ziggy's favorite when he's five) and a box of Albert King goodness.

The week ahead holds much busyness in the way of trips to Fayetteville and Oak Ridge for me; La Leche League meeting, a For Kate's Sake benefit dinner (http://www.forkatessake.org), childbirth education class, Stitch & Bitch here at our place, more putting up of fruit & food preparation (want plenty good stuff in the freezer so we'll eat well when the babe comes and I'm too wiped to cook!) and an appointment with the midwife come week's end.

This Is How It Goes: Part Two.

Part Two:

My Beloved Mister has been working six and seven days a week the last few, with rarely a grumble, though I know he tires and would wish for greater leisure. I try to accommodate some of that by amping up my efforts, picking up slack on the domestic & social fronts. Increasingly, I deeply appreciate the opportunity to relinquish my role as primary bread winner and place my focus more securely elsewhere. With the merger of Nashville's Table to Second Harvest comes new challenges, but too, the finer insurance I've already mentioned, a good raise, and even agency gear, including long and short sleeve shirts and a great rain jacket. My Mister is learning and has commented somewhat favorably of the difference between a lean and mean little agency and one that has greater resources with which to take care of its employees. Additionally, on top of his regular weekend shifts, he is filling in as weeknight evening host on WPLN continuing through the next week.

Friday found us with an open stretch of day until my Mister had to be at the radio station in the evening. We tucked into the old Lumina sedan and took off for the Tennessee River Valley, driving to the Cumblerland plateau's edge on Interstate 40, then heading first south, then east on highways 111 and 30, winding round and round the hills for a long descent to the fertile valley below. Unusually, I quite nearly got car sick, though perked right up once we arrived in Pikeville where we stopped to buy fresh produce at a roadside stand: okra and tomatoes, for a pot of my Beloved's gumbo, one of the first dishes he prepared for me when we lived at the "nest," my attic apartment of the old farm house across town. Also purchased at this stop was fresh baked whole wheat bread and a small bag of tummy soothing ginger snaps, both from a local Mennonite family whose wares were very fine; aside from which, I have much interest in the Anabaptist communities.

Our next stop was at another produce stand, this one an expansive compound where the owner promised that come fall, we would find more varieties of pumpkins than anywhere in Tennessee save for one other place, which, of course, appealed to our pumpkin loving selves. The wooden stalls, built to accommodate fruits and vegetables through the majority of the year, were adorned with hand lettered signs offering up 'Cups of Tomatoes: $2.50' and such as that. A 'cup' was a quart sized container of enormous vine ripened red heirlooms.... Mmm. Inside an attached outbuilding were boxes of various Jello puddings, bags of 'Nilla Wafers, packs of Clark's Teaberry gum, zip lock bags of dried October & pinto beans as well as blackeyed peas. There were shelves of canned preserves & pickled veggies, jars of rusty ringed berry surprise jam, pumpkin butter, and Sand Mountain molasses. We chattered with the proprietor, who'd arrived to serve us on a riding lawn mower, purchased some hot-pickled tomatoes and for me, a bag of boiled peanuts, piping hot from the kettle. Love me some boiled peanuts!

From the car, we admired the river, the greenness of the land and the preservation of the historic districts of the old towns. As we had a particular purpose for this jaunt, or 'field trip,' we reviewed our research materials on the Scopes Monkey Trial. This month makes the 80 year anniversary of the trial of the century, which took place in the Tennessee River Valley in the town of Dayton, county seat of the hill country which makes up Rhea County. Known for its rich soil and in particular, its strawberries, Rhea County was home to lots of the kids I went to college with in the big city nearby: Chattanooga. My Beloved Mister and I listened to a recent story taped from an airing of All Things Considered, in which townfolk were interviewed as to their recollections of the 1925 trial and its aftermath in the community. My very favorite part of the show is when a local selling fruits & vegetables from his tailgate in front of the courthouse tells Noah Adams, "To me, a monkeys like a chicken!" I've been saying it for days, now, and don't intend to stop any time soon.

Upon arriving at the town square, upon the center of which sits the very courthouse where the trial featuring William Bryant (creationist) and Clarence Darrow (evolutionist) as battling wits, we got very excited. The courthouse is a red brick three story affair with a tower up toppermost, the courtroom itself on the second floor proper, administrative offices below and a basement (now a small but very fine museum) located below that. I was fascinated to learn that all these years I'd misunderstood the genesis of the trial and that Dayton isn't as backwoods as the media has painted it for all these years: the citizens of this little town in actuality placed themselves at the center of the storm ON PURPOSE by getting Scopes, who taught chemistry and coached, to meet the ACLU's request of having someone sacrifice him/her-self for the sake of challenging the law which prohibited evolution from being taught. In point of fact, Scopes has only ever substitute taught biology and later recalled that he wasn't even sure he'd taught evolution at all.

The townspeople hoped to generate interest and income for their town's dwindling economy. Darrow and Bryan provided the bread; the citizens the circus. They brought in performing monkeys, churned out souvenir goods and were thrilled at the prospect of being in newspapers both across the United States and overseas. While the tourists didn't flock to the event as the organizers had hoped, Rhea County homies came out in droves, packing the courtroom far beyond capacity with nearly one thousand bodies tightly filling the space -- no air conditioning! The final day of the trial, the heat rose above 100 degrees and the proceedings were moved out of doors to accommodate the ever growing ranks of spectators.

We were able to go into the courthouse and be right there in the room where this remarkable piece of history took place; my Mister even sat at the judge's chair and that of each opposing counsel. I took some snaps, though haven't yet had them developed. He was a kid in a candy store, being right there in the thick of it and we were pleased to note that this is not some stuffy history set aside, but very much a living history with a room that's in full use to this very day. The Rhea County police station is across the parking lot and behind the courthouse; there's a donut shop (specializing in strawberry donuts) and a deli that caters specifically to the students of Bryan College, both just around the corner.

As we had to be back in Nashville for the Mister to be on the radio in the evening, we weren't able to stay for the town's yearly play, a reenactment of the trial, using actual transcripts of the event and local talent to put it to the boards right there in the courthouse. (A gentleman was setting up the sound equipment while we were in the courthouse and when asked how many audience members they expected, he shrugged and answered, "Oh, two. Or two hundred. Never can tell, really." He then (wisely) encouraged us not to miss the museum in the basement.

Having taken as much in as we had time for, we got sandwiches from the aforementioned deli (the Mister's Club and my Bryan College special were delish: the latter, a lightly grilled turkey sandwich on pesto bread with tomato, lettuce, herbed butter and Muenster cheese). We ate these, along with a to-die-for cream cheese donut (the strawberry variety had just sold out) in the car rolling toward Chattanooga through the lush green surrounding highway 27.

Our kind of day.

This Is How It Goes: Part I.

Part One:

Well, then.
Yesterday, Saturday, marked 30 weeks of pregnancy for me....
a mere 10 weeks to go until delivery (approximately)!

Ziggy continues to be increasingly mobile; I've read that this is the most active month, with the final two tapering off due in part to the babe's increased size and by proxy, the womb's relative smallness.

I'm not always sleeping well or long, though some nights, like the one previous to last, I got in a full twelve hours as my Mister rose early with the dog and took precautionary measures not to wake me by closing the door and packing me into the bed with pillows surrounding me. Such bliss, to sleep like that. Especially when last night was a five hour night of restlessness, mobile babe and bathroom trips every couple hours, it seems. I woke at 5:30, and at last, unable to get back to sleep, Bert and I made the trek over to the dog park as the sun was still rising, the birds sang out and hardly anyone was exhibiting signs of wakefulness in the neighborhood. We saw no one, save for a lone runner and a city bus with a driver and not a single passenger.

We begin our childbirth education classes at our midwives' practice this week-- I'm planning on having a natural vaginal delivery with no intervention unless absolutely necessary-- we'll skip the drugs, the fetal monitor, the episiotomy and so on, thank you very much. Our midwife, Deborah, will attend the birth and unless we find someone who is looking to get certified, we'll go without a doula, as it's simply a greater expense than we can prioritize at present. Changing insurance three times during my prenatal care has proven to be an increasingly helpful thing, as we owe a pretty penny for care administered under the auspices of the first insurer. Our most recent carrier costs less out of pocket and gives us far greater choice and quality of care, something for which I am intensely grateful. At last, it looks possible for both of us to receive chiropractic care -- my Mister's been out of sorts since his days hefting warehouse boxes and goods at Dell and my loosening joints could greatly benefit from stabilization and maintenance.

I most certainly feel a bit clumsier these days; a bit like a Weeble. My right hand tends to have very limited feeling due to my faux carpal tunnel and grasping things is quite difficult at times. Rolling out of bed can be a comical affair, as can bending over to retrieve more oft dropped items: loose change, lone socks or washcloths from the freshly laundered pile, kitchen utensils and all like that....

My hands are staying a bit plumper than usual, infused with fluids-- I've removed my engagement ring and also, in the last day, my promise ring to myself: the big turquoise I've worn since purchasing it in El Paso on my travels across the United States half a decade ago. My feet, though I elevate as often as possible, stay a bit swollen & I'm down to wearing two pair of shoes only: my Birkenstock thongs, and my Crocs, both of which offer comfort and support without binding. I've also decided that while I can still wear my pre-pregnancy jeans (tops are out of the question!), my Beloved Mister's underwear are more comfortable than my own.... I may finally have to break down and purchase some low cut maternity panties.

I think my Mister would say that I've had a tougher time with things in the last few weeks than in the whole of my pregnancy, as he's been not the target, but the witness to some of my less than shining moments-- like having a come apart the other night, devolving into fifteen minutes of weeping, all stimulated by having been less than ideally patient with my precious (& precocious) niece Autumn, thereby questioning my ability to be a good mother, let alone a good aunt, to someone I love as much as life itself; in point of fact, at the first of this episode, I couldn't even name what troubled me and I've yet to voice my finding to my Mister. He was simply loving and kind and allowed me to weep until I'd come back to some kind of balance and extracted myself from his arms to prepare supper, an activity I find saves me with it's purpose and therapeutic aspect of chopping.

I've been a bit more tired, headachey and even emotional than since the first trimester, at which point all symptoms were obliterated by the novelty of early pregnancy and blissfully cold weather, which I'm finding was far kinder to my body than the heat and poor air quality of Nashville summer. This is the worst year by far for air quality in my tenure here. Where last year (in August!) we had only a single warning ozone trouble for high risk folks (a category in which the local EPA office's engineer tells me to count my third trimester self), we've already had more than can be counted on one hand prior to a full month of summer marking the calendar. Breathing is easily more labored than ever previous; rest, low stress and relaxation help on all counts.

For Kate's Sake.

This afternoon I was given a baby shower by my friend Leslie... it was Lovely.

During the latter part of our visiting, chatting and catching up, one of my girlfriends, Kissy, told those of us who weren't aware about this beautiful and amazing family who live in Nashville-- The story of this family just amazes me--- it's incredibly sad, but also, such a triumph of the human spirit in some beautiful ways.

Doug & Alison Kirk have two little girls, Caroline (age 6) and Kate (age 3). Both girls are afflicted with Nieman-Pick Type A/B, an extremely rare and ultimately fatal disease. Caroline is aleady in an unstoppable decline. Kate, however, has been the beneficiary of donated cord blood, which may just save her life, and could well be an answer for other children. Some amazingly generous Nashvillians have formed a 501 C 3 and are working toward helping this family, and others. If you've gotten this far, I encourage you to learn more here: http://www.forkatessake.org/



There is much to do, much to learn.

The world of women & children.

I LOVED having Dana and the girls here. We had a really lovely time, though had I taken a nap early yesterday day, I'd likely have been more patient with Autumn's understandable outbursts of energy and excitement and generally just a little easier in my own skin. I get so worn out, it's astounding. And I just hate when I'm not as patient as I could be, wish I were, want to be.

The girls loved the big pool at the Y and we did have a really good swimming time; I think it was the first time Haley spent such a long time in a pool where she could play uninhibited by depth, as my Y pool has a graduated shallow end that goes from few inches to 3 feet deep for a long span. There's also a "mustard," as Haley called it. A large metal sprinkling mushroom, really, that rains a constant downpour. Also, a slide into the deep end, which is 6 feet deep. I'd planned to go down the slide with Autumn on my lap but the rules prohibit that and Autumn was such a total champ to not get upset by it at all, which never ceases to impress the hell out of me, and she was beyond thrilled to see both Dana and me go down the slide.

Another excitement for the little girls was seeing my Beloved Mister, their Uncle Eric, when they first got to town (he'd come home mid-day, uncharacteristically, with a special delivery for the little girls-- a toy for them to give Bert: a squeaking monkey, which Bert the great destructor had gutted in a mere fifteen minutes).The big deal was that the girls got to see him climb into the Nashville's Table truck to drive away. They were literally hopping and screaming and clapping!! Haley looked up at me and said, in the most grown up and approving but slightly surprised way, "I did not know he could drive a big truck!" Is that child 3 or is she thirty?

Dana did me a HUGE favor while I was cooking supper. She'd asked to help and I told her the thing I really honestly needed help with was that the bathtub needed to be scrubbed out-- it's very tough on me to do that these days and frankly, I was already smarting in the tail bone area in a big way from scrubbing down the floors and baseboards earlier in the day. Dana made our old porous porcelain tub shine like magic. I could've kissed her toes!!

We celebrated Dana's birthday some more.... We had the traditional La Grone family cranberry coffee cake along with the extended birthday partying and sang to her several times, the majority of which were practice sings while the cake baked. The girls adore singing happy birthday. I gave Dana a little crop of gifts including a book we never got around to filling up with recipes, but we'll work on that!

Ziggy was gifted the most amazing package of goodies from the fancy Gymboree store: a darling pair of swim trunks in shades of light blue with orange & lime green & yellow octopuses and starfishes and seahorses, a hat that matches the trunks, and a pull over rain and wind jacket. I'd told Dana I want to take Ziggy to swim as soon as his little navel heals and get him acclimated to the water straight away, so she's making that a good likelihood for us.

The girls loved rocking the baby cradle and singing lullabyes. Haley sang into my belly, too, but was disappointed the baby didn't talk back to her.

We had a good longish walk in the rain with Bert; each little girl had her own umbrella & trudged through the big curbside puddles in river sandals and sundresses, and the grown up girls wore raincoats. Hurricane Dennis' aftermath worked on us; it felt like Seattle.

Lockeland Design, the nearby elementary school, has a wonderful playground, so we shut up all the gates and Bert ran free out of doors for the first time in many days and the little girls played on the newly installed playground in the rain, much to their delight.

Sharon came by with her three little girls upon our return from the park; they acted shy at first, but Autumn and Haley weren't having that and insisted on interaction. Haley asked several times who wanted to "play house" with her. Getting no takers, I offered my services as the cook of the house, but got no mind paid to my offer except for acknowledgment from Autumn who is such a fair-minded girl she can't let something like that go by without paying attention. Usually the big star of my nieces' world, I was relegated to the sidelines in the face of actual small children to play with, which is how it's supposed to be.

Prior to departure time for sis and the girls, we took in the snakes program at our neighborhood library and each got to touch a corn snake presented by Ranger Randy of Radnor Lake. The girls' interest lasted almost to the end of the program and Haley even had a great question: she wanted to know why the corn snake wasn't making the Sssss sound at us. (He wasn't frightened of humans, came the answer).

Dana and my Beloved Mister brought in the changing table Dana had hauled here from East Tennessee. Built by Lee, the girls' step-grandfather, it's a completely solid no-nonsense piece and will save our backs a thousand times. When Dana admired it, my Mister exchanged an antique telephone table with Sis for her offering.

I was sad to see them head off, yet also glad to know I could rest a bit, as I was much in need of some, as well my Mister knew, declining my offer to accompany him to the station where he'll be filling in as evening host for the next couple weeks from 6 to 10 PM Central. You can hear him online here: http://www.wpln.org.

Quite early, I crawled into bed with my hot water bottle ministering to my aching tail bone and was fast asleep with the little twinkling lights aglow 'round the big chiffarobe mirror when my Beloved arrived home late.

Today, I've lunched with a couple of my Stitch & Bitch girls: my pregnant pal, Em, and my non-pregnant friend Sue-- I've been lunching every couple weeks of my pregnancy at my favorite Indian food joint and these two have been joining me the last several months. We'd not seen one another in a couple weeks and today was the first day that Em and I hugged and our bellies literally snugged up together, making us have to lean in closer to greet one another. I brought some pass-along nursing bras for Em; she brought me burned copies of the HypnoBirthing CDs. Sue's such a warm and gracious soul, she offered helpful tub scrubbing hints and as ever, indulges whatever we throw at her, including what I'm sure must seem like an endless barrage of pregancy chatter. Highly intelligent, she's also the worst and most hilarious pun maker of all my friends. When Em asked if I'd put up peaches, Sue answered, "No, but she's put up lots of Herb!"

It wasn't the two hour lunch Peggy swears is necessary to be a good one, but it qualified as worthy nonetheless. Both Em & Sue had to rush back to their respective offices, so I was last to pay and dash. Upon telling him we'd see him in a couple weeks, the gentleman who's looked after us at Taste of India all these months asked, "So when is the big day!?" I let him know that my due date is approximately September 24 and Em's is the 28th. He's watched both of us get bigger each passing visit, go from queasy to ravenous and sometimes exchanging pregnancy / parenting / birth books and gifts. I recall how when we were about 15 or 16 weeks along and barely showing to anyone but ourselves and our mates, Em suddenly saw a baby across the room wearing a helmet and declared that she hoped her babe wouldn't have to. We'll have to continue these lunches once Mott and Ziggy arrive.

Afterward, I visited my favorite global boutique, the Scarlet Begonia, in hopes of spending a gift certificate on some pretty colorful frock to wear to a shower in my honor this weekend. Alas and alack, nothing quite cut the mustard (er, mushroom?)-- I was either swallowed in too much fabric or tugging at the bosom and belly and, by proxy, booty. And the necklines available left lots to be desired, like, namely: a V or scoop rather than a crew or collar. Yow.

Animal, Vegetable or Mineral?

Call me Aubergine.

My girlfriend Sharon stopped by with her three girls Allie, Ruthie & Gretchen yesterday; since we were eighteen year old freshmen at the University of Tennessee, Sharon has always reminded me of sister Dana and to have them both here at once, plus all five of the little girls was a ticklish encounter. The children all piled up in my big yummy king size bed looked like wild-haired flowers with toothy smiles and flashing eyes posing before Sharon's camera. They are all uniquely beautiful, like their mothers.

Sharon brought by some maternity clothes, some of which I rejected (no basic crew neck tees, please! No golf shirts with collars and no baggy-ass britches!). Dana and Sharon, two peas in a self-assured, responsible, respectable pod, rolled their eyes and commented that in the last month or so of my pregnancy I'd simply be grateful for anything that fit. I'm particularly peculiar, or peculiarly particular, I know. The Beloved Mister does not do buttons, and Ms. Booty does not do crew necks. Or bad coffee.... but don't let me get started on that!

One outfit I declared would be too small as it's a size medium, is a deep plummy purple-- a stretchy knit pants & top with a keyhole opening just above the bosom -- ("She'll like that," declared my sister, "She likes to work the cleavage action." "Yeah," said Sharon, "It's just a little sexy; good for showers or going out.")

The outfit is not too small, but fitted as I prefer. And they're right, I rather like it, even if I claim an uncanny resemblance to an eggplant: curvy, rounded and a peculiar poison to those unable to get down with the nightshade family.

Let Them Eat Cake.

Well, Bert's feeling quite a bit better; we visited our good country vet yesterday morning and as suspected, he's got a viral bug. He'll need a week more home from the dog park, along with extra rest and as much fluid as we can get him to drink. Many kind thanks to those of you who wrote and called with get well wishes and advices.

My Great Uncle J.W. (John William) McDaniel passed away late last week. He was the baby brother of my late maternal grandfather H.V. (Herman Victor). Of that big bunch of siblings, only my Great Aunt Annie Faye remains. I planned to go drive to Bowling Green for the funeral service yesterday, but car troubles (electrical system) intervened and had me stranded in a blinding downpour with no windshield wipers for over an hour, leaving no time to get there and only the poor choice of chancing it again. I'll be holding the McDaniel family in the light, as both they and the
La Grones are experiencing a major shift in generational leadership --- that my own parents are now the elders is astonishing to me, particularly since I am such a late bloomer my own self, and am only now starting a family just shy of forty.

My dreams of late are incredibly colorful, rich, intense. Lots of baby dreams (not just about mine, but about baby girls from China, abandonned children, etc.) -- I should perhaps say maternal dreams. And lots of sexually / sensually hyper-focused dreamings. I find myself wanting to stay in bed for "just five more minutes," to complete a particular dream cycle come early mornings....


Sister Dana and the little girls, Autumn and Haley Jo, will be here around noon-time for a two day visit. If the rains don't make it too cool or unlikely, we'll swim at the Y and visit the parks & playgrounds. We'll continue to celebrate Dana's birthday (our family always celebrates the entire month!). To that end, I'll be baking my favorite birthday cake, which has also become that of my Beloved Mister. (I've included the recipe for you below.) It came to be appreciated in our family when my mother prepared it for some church lady event. It was near my birthday; I was a teenager, who up until that time was a German Chocolate Cake nut. In any case, the cake got dropped on the floor, busted up beyond repair and we ate it immediately (like crows, we are!). So good (and simple) it is, it's since become a La Grone staple for birthdays, weddings, and other gatherings. The picture above is at our wedding's pre-ception at our home; my mother is slicing into her fresh apple cake, seated next to the cranberry coffee cake. From L-R: brother-in-law Keith, Isabel, Autumn, Peggy & Dana.


As promised: Here is the recipe. Even if you drop it on the floor and it busts all over the linoleum, it's still damned good cake. Especially warm. Mmm.


Peggy's Cranberry (Church Lady) Coffee Cake (Linoleum, or not)

2 C flour
1 t soda
1 t baking powder
1/2 t salt
1 stick butter, soft
1 C sugar
2 eggs, beaten
1 t vanilla extract
1/2 pint sour cream
1 8 oz can whole cranberries
1/2 C nuts (chopped pecans, almonds, or walnuts....)
confectioners sugar

Grease a tube, loaf or bundt pan. Cooking spray works well.

Sift together flour, soda, baking powder and salt. Cream in butter. Add sugar to creamed mixture. Add in eggs, mix. Add vanilla and stir in sour cream. Mix all but cranberries, nuts and confectioners sugar.

Alternate cake batter, cranberries and nuts in baking pan. It'll be pretty and swirly.

Bake at 350 for 55 minutes.

Cool in pan (if using bundt pan, cooling on a coke bottle helps). Put cake on plate, sift confectioners sugar over cake to prettify.

Peggy's note: "If you serve warm, it will be crumbly. Makes me want some... I love... love... Mmm."

With Two Cats In The Yard....

Junie Moon and Buddy Wiggins, the Maine Coon mother - daughter pair, are taking their afternoon siesta between the hedges and the flower beds beyond the wide low slung porch in the front yard.

Bert, however, continues to feel poorly-- warm nose, depressed affect, a puking of mostly grass. Our good country vet is closed for the day and we're loathe to take Bert elsewhere, as the folks there love him as we do. For now, I'll follow friend Sue's advice (she, like friend Annie Banana, who's a regular McGuyver Girl, knows something about EVERYTHING, and is as likely to whip a knitting needle, a Shout stain remover cloth or a pair of pliars from her bag when called for and have a host of Ask Jeeves x Heloise type hints at the ready) -- which means I'm off to the Kroger nearest our house (noted for its ghetto scariness over the years, neighbors call it everything from Hostage Kroger to Mutant Kroger and Bad Kroger). I'll purchase some low fat cottage cheese and perhaps some already made up chicken broth as well as Pepto Bismal. If I can just get Bert to stay hydrated, that'll help an awful lot.

Think a good thought for our boy, won't you?

Love, Family, Career.

Here's a snap of some of my Stitch & Bitch Girls, taken in late Spring....
L to R, back row: Sue, Jami, Deb, Jen
L to R front row: Em, Meshel, Ms. Booty.

Wednesday night our plans to meet for dinner and then visit the psychic were once again foiled. We did in fact meet up for dinner, but were stood up by the psychic!

We did, however, have a fine time visiting with one another and each came up with the three questions we wanted answered had we seen Madame No Show.

Here're mine as scrawled on the back of Sue's Shoney's Rise & Dine card:

1. What steps must I take to live my fondest dream?
2. How long will I be in Nashville?
3. Where is my career headed?

Other questions from our merry band of crafty stitch & bitchers included: Will I learn to effectively cope with anxiety? Will I ever settle the questions of inner peace and spirituality? What will take up most of my time once I move? What is my romantic outlook? Will I have children?

The big questions are all about, as we discussed, love, family, career.

Next gathering we plan to bust out the runes, the tarot deck, the I Ching.

The Simple Life.

I slept through last night after several nights in a row of rising for a chunk of hours during Ziggy's most active part of most any given day, unable to get comfortable in any position and not wanting to disturb the Beloved Mister. My rest may well have been affected for the good by my first visit in over a week to the pool at the Y yesterday. Wallowing and whirling in the water, getting a few good laps in as well as a spot of sun on days the ozone warnings aren't severe does me a world of wonder from the typical aches and pains of pregnancy to the mind balm the combination of sun and water offers.

Ah. I feel this morning like a new woman: well rested, balanced and serene.


We were horrified to learn of the London bombings yesterday morning, but most elated to know that our Ingrid and her Andrew (the Mister's Brit-dwelling Sister and her man, respectively) are safe from harm. My mother-in-law called with the message of a good report, just before the Mister rang me to see what news I could raise on his sis.

Bert's still a bit puny, though seems better after a couple days of no dog park, a bit of coddling and a bland diet of chicken broth with just a bit of fowl. Perhaps this evening we'll walk the half mile over to the park so he can run, wrestle and sniff asses with his pals. The effect of that activity is to Bert as the pool is to me. And I have to say, watching the dogs frolic is good human therapy, too. Fine entertainment!

When my in-laws were in weekend before last, they visited the dog park daily with Bert, even introducing him as their grand-dog on a day when they found me fast asleep with my tootsies elevated, and most generously took the initiative to slip out with the big dog for some canine exercise. They are, unlike my own nuclear family-- who've nonetheless embraced Bert-- dog people. The Beloved Mister grew up with a household which always included a dog, and they even provided a home for a succession of German Shepherds who were in training to become therapy dogs and were in need of acclimating to a family of people as part of said training.

In any case, we had a marvelous visit with the Mister's mother and father. A stand out moment would have to be standing on the walking bridge spanning the Cumberland River between East Nashville and downtown, sharing an appetizer from Eddie's (as in former Titan Hero Eddie George) Bar and Grill during the Taste of Music City: a crazy noodle-sun dried tomato-polenta concoction all layered up in a plastic champagne glass, me and my sweetly reserved and usually culinarily un-adventurous in-laws digging in with plastic forks! We had a ball. On another night we also shared a supper of our much adored hot chicken with them, and Sunday morning we took them for a belated combo Mother's / Father's Day breakfast at the wonderfully famous Loveless Cafe and then for an afternoon meandering down backroads including the Natchez Trace, one of our favorite places, and a scenic route that begins it's northern end a mere stone's throw from the Loveless.

George & Emmie excitedly anticipate the arrival of their second grandchild and to our delight brought with them lovingly hand knit things made by relatives for the Mister when he was a babe, several other clothing items, Grandpa George's baby blankets, and the beautifully hand carved cradle that'd first held baby Mabel, my Beloved's paternal grandmother, whose engagement ring I wear. These are precious gifts, and are dearly appreciated.

Ziggy is so fortunate already to be so loved. As are we.



Today, being Friday, is generally the Mister's day off, yet he's driving a truck today for Second Harvest instead.... Therefore, I've thrown my own self into a fit of productivity here and will shortly be putting up peach jam, then continuing with my ever evolving To-Do-I-Am-Nesting-List.

In the late afternoon, my Beloved Mister will arrive home. We'll go for a dip at the Y, water the neighbors' lawn and garden, visit the dog park with Bert and then have Hot Chicken Friday Supper.

It's a simple good life of a summer's day.

Best Bert.

This is Bert. I'm wildly in love with him and am so glad he came to be part of our family. Last November, one early Sunday morning, I read an email sent out by a woman on our neighborhood list serv. This dear shepherd mix was within one hour of being put down in a shelter in an outlying county.

These types of postings are frequent, yet something about this one demanded immediate attention, and with hardly a word to my Beloved Mister, and without any thought of contacting our landlord, I up and called the list serv poster to offer our home for fostering this down on his luck dog. Jean, who is an avid animal lover and runs a rescue organization for Great Pyranees, simply couldn't pass this boy by, noting him as special. She also told me that his owner had been in an automobile accident, made a parapalegic and after floating from one family member to another, then being chosen and subsequently dropped for a therapy pet program, this not quite year old male pup was in dire need of a place to call home.

Called Sarge by the pound and Thor by Jean, I picked him up from her home a week later; she'd vetted him and loaned us a crate for our foster experience.

It was love immediately. I couldn't part from him again, nor let him stray from a loving home such as ours. Bert, as we now call him, became a forever family member is much adored by all who meet him.

He's feeling puny today, has been since last night. He's got a nasty cough and a warm nose, and he isn't eating much save for a munch down on some grass last night after I'd fallen asleep. At 70 plus pounds and a year and a half old, Bert has no idea how big a creature he is, and only wants to be held and cuddled today. I'm off now to make him some chicken broth prior to departing for my gathering with the Stitch & Bitch girls this evening.

Festive Ms. Booty.

I wish you my heart.

I'm woefully behind on blogging, waylaid by last weekend's wonderful visit with the in-laws (more on that later), a week's worth of projects crammed into precious few days, a kick ass bend-me-over the toilet all afternoon migraine headache accompanied by my first experience with Braxton Hicks contractions and generally just being engaged with living my days rather than chronicling them. Then of course there's been this directly passed holiday weekend as well....


Ziggy's been ever more mobile and one recent morning fresh out of the shower with hair in a top-knot and a towel that no longer wraps round me, the Beloved Mister said, "Babe, You look like a Sumo wrestler!"

Honestly, I quite nearly burst into tears, then laughed raucously instead, told him that that was a terribly mean thing to say and he could only say good and nice things for the rest of the day. He immediately told me what a beautiful pregnant glow I have and I pictured my glowy round self on the mats taking down a five hundred pound Japanese wrestler.


Over the long weekend I visited my folks in East Tennessee, celebrated my sister Dana's birthday with her, swam and played with my little nieces and went to church to see / hear them sing with their Vacation Bible School group; even though I pretty well abhor praise music, I got all misty watching them, and especially so, watching their non-church going father present and beaming at his girls. When we went round the table and made birthday wishes for my sister, her youngest (age 3) said "I wish you my heart," which her mother later explained came directly from a sermonette about giving one's heart to Jesus; it was precious and suiting that this is the same child who not only has clarified that Jesus has a booty, but also announced some months ago that she was "strong like Jesus" as she hung from the monkey bars. (This she'd determined from "Jesus Loves Me:" 'We are weak, and he is strong....')

I attended a Filipino pig roast with my mother and daddy Sunday evening, at the home of a dear family who knows how to throw down! Eleanor prepared more dishes than mother and I could call forth on paper the next morning; standouts included her deservedly famous egg rolls and these gorgeous caramelized plantain and sweet potatoes, skewered and grilled. Mmm. Her husband's garden is a delight and there were kids all over the big back yard playing on an enormous inflatable water slide and a very upscale slip and slide. I sat with my folks and with three older ladies, two by the name of Jean, and one Charlcey. The round picnic table we occupied was a bit tipsy and required continual shifting of balance. Alas, when too many of us got up to refill our plates, the whole table, including the large umbrella, took a tump and Charlcey took a tumble to the ground, landing (thankfully) on her hind side on soft ground. She was lifted up unscathed, but wearing the margaritas and root beer which'd been momentarily abandoned on the table's other side.... It shames me slightly to say that Charlcey's tumble will live on as the moment most recalled -- and, well after the fact, laughed over-- of the weekend . My Beloved Mister is somewhat appalled by the La Grone sense of humor.


I stopped on the plateau on the way home to Nashville yesterday morning and bought a bushel of peaches from a one armed man. I plan to put up some preserves this week. The wild blackberries 'round here are getting closer to ready, too, which of course means they're very late. The drought here is killing us. Thank heavens for the good rain we got this morning early and it looks to be rain coming a goodly part of the day.

My Beloved & I had a quiet, relaxing fourth of July celebration at home -- I arrived back at our lovely nest to a hand-wrought Welcome Home sign on our front door, complete with my Beloved's renderings of fireworks and flags; most endearingly, he'd used my metalic and decorative markers and told me had he known where the sidewalk chalk was, he'd have made a more public greeting, even. We listened to lots of American composers, the Beloved Mister read Mark Twain short stories to me (and Ziggy), we visited a bit with our neighbors (we are blessed with good folks all around us), and he and I prepared a festive meal together. Grilled chicken, made some delicious deviled eggs, German potato salad, fruit tea, the inaugural batch of peach ice cream (the dasher didn't consistently turn as we had a tough time getting the ice balance just right; it was delicious and special nonetheless). We'll have holiday food to eat through the week. Mmm.

Our Bert didn't much care for the all the fireworks going on all through the evening and well into night; he spent much of the evening heavily snoozing and sighing on the sofa.... we opted to stay home cozied in rather than fight the crowds to see the city fireworks. Me and the Mister, we supped, delighted in our first batch of homemade ice cream and watched Mystic River at long last; I'm still thinking about it, though I didn't just love it. I was ultimately too sleepy for the planned game of Scrabble, despite having napped for a brief while yesterday afternoon after a delicious welcome home romp with my yummy Mister. No matter.


This afternoon I'll go see my midwife and have blood drawn for the glucose tolerance test. I'm feeling so good still, just a bit more challenged with regard to comfort and movement, and needing more downtime. I am grateful for the body's way of slowing me down when needed. I reckon after this monthly visit, I'll be upped to twice a month. Amazing I'm already this far along as it all feels whirlwindy fast, in some ways....


This day of days, I wish you each peace and the pursuit of happiness (follow your bliss!) in this time of freedom (relatively speaking). I wish you each health and home, hope, hello, for I have found it and it is Good.