Still Across the Hudson… but with a new address

I’m now writing and documenting our life Across the Hudson… but my address has changed!

Come visit me at at TheDailyLil.wordpress.com, where you’ll see The Brit, Mutt… and our new addition, baby Lil.

Imposter

I am in my 8th month of pregnancy… swelled in belly and in gratitude for the little girl we’ll meet so soon.  In some ways, the interesting bits and fascinating j0ys of pregnancy have taken up space in my psyche, pushing aside (but not away) memories of our experience with infertility.

But then, just yesterday, something occured that made those memories push back and fight for their dominating space. 

I had my doctor’s appointment yesterday — they are weekly now, heralding the last few miles of the pregnancy and escorting me across the finish line.  My OB/GYN shares an office with my RE.  There are two waiting rooms divided by a screen — one for those under the care of the reproductive endocrinologist, and one for those seeing the OB/GYN practice.

I was grateful for this division when I was on the “other side” of the screen.  On my worst days sitting in that waiting room, I would have burst out in tears at the sight of a pregnant woman reading a back issue of American Baby as she yapped on her cell phone about her due date and morning sickness.  Because of the screen, I could be protected from my own bitterness.

Now, I walk quickly past that first waiting room, check in and quietly take my seat on the other side of the screen.  The first visit, I actually felt like a traitor — a grateful traitor, but a traitor nonetheless. 

But the one flawed design in the office is the shared bathroom… hey, you can’t have everything.  And in that shared bathroom, I was reminded: I am an Infertile Myrtle in a pregnant body.

After checking in at reception, I proceeded with the routine as I’ve come to know it… starting with a quick trip to the bathroom for a urine sample.  As I was in a stall, the door to the bathroom burst open and the sound of choking tears echoed off the tiles. 

“It’s not fair!  Another cycle… I know!  But now I have a cyst, and so there’s goes another cycle.  I can’t take it anymore… it’s not working…  this is our 6th fucking cycle…” 

She sobbed and cried into her cell phone… clearly, whoever was on the other end was trying to calm her down.  It wasn’t working. 

I froze… did she see my feet?  Did she know I was there?  How could I possibly walk out of this stall and face this woman.  Avoiding eye contact wouldn’t be enough… my belly would do the talking for me and it would say to this woman what I felt pregnant bellies always said to me when I was the one in her place: “Me.  Others.  But not you.  Not you.”

I cleared my throat… hoping she’d realize someone else was there, perhaps go into a stall so I could make a graceful and sensitive escape.  But either she didn’t hear me or didn’t care; though by now her tears weren’t coming with as much force and bitterness, just the slow weep of familiar sorrow.

I had no choice.  I flushed the toilet, clearing my throat again and shuffling my feet a bit to announce my exit, and opened the door.  I averted my eyes and approached the sink just as she flipped her cell phone closed.  I could feel her red eyes on me, and glanced up.

“Oh, sorry about that,” she said awkwardly. “Rough morning.”

I was shocked she acknowledged me at all.  I smiled slightly and said, “Don’t apologize, I understand.”

It just came out.  As soon as I said that last phrase, I regretted it… I watched the cast of “Fuck you, you understand” spread across her puffy face.  Under her breath came a response, “Yeah, right.”

It is exactly how I would have responded.  I looked away as I dried my hands and reached for the door.  And then I stopped and, with my back still to her, words escaped my mouth all by themselves.  Quietly they said, “I’ve sat on the other side of the waiting room and cried in this very same bathroom.  I know it doesn’t make you feel any better, but…” and the words just trailed off, not knowing how to finish what they started.

I heard a footstep toward me and she said, “You’re one of us?”

I looked at her and my own eyes filled with hot tears.  “Yes.”

She smiled at me and nodded. 

I smiled back and walked out… back to my side of the screen.

Disgraceful

mayor of hoboken… arrested on corruption charges… transcript from the FBI that reads straight out of the Sopranos… video and audio recordings of dirty deals going down at the Malibu Diner between said mayor and a “developer” — who was actually FBI.

Less than three weeks in office — and he’s starring in a perp walk.  SO proud.

Less than 24 hours after said arrest — back at City Hall, making statements about being innocent, and declaring no intention to resign.

I believe in due process… but for the sake of our city, step aside — even if only until you vindicate yourself (holding breath, right?)… allow someone who is beyond reproach run the city while you, ahem, “clear your name.”

If he digs in his heels and refuses to resign, he is making a mockery of his own office, and coloring himself as the biggest hypocrite in town.  You see, it was probably a week ago that Mayor Cammerano made the following statement regarding Hoboken Housing Authority guy Hector Claveria, who was arrested on bribery charges:

 “This Administration has a clear-cut, zero tolerance policy against any violation of the public trust and I am calling for Housing Authority Commissioner Claveria to resign his position with the Hoboken Housing Authority immediately. Should he refuse to resign, I am demanding that the City Council President immediately begin proceedings for his removal pursuant to New Jersey State statute 40A:12A-17.”

If you are entitled to the innocent until proven guilty halo and feel you have no obligation to resign… well, then I’d like to ask you — what changed?  What is the difference between Claveria’s situation and your own?  Resign, resign, resign — if for no other reason than to show that you are a man of your word and consistently apply your principles to all scenarios, regardless of who is in the hot seat.  THAT is zero tolerance.

Mayor Cammerano, How much do I need to place in an envelope to get you to do the right thing?

You Know You’ve Missed Mutt, Too!

And let me tell you… he has missed having his mug on here with some frequency. 

All that rain we were having?  Here’s what Mutt did through most of it…

And of course, what can make a rainy day mo’ better than the company of a friend, in this case, my parent’s dog, Maggie.  Here is her best “Kilroy” pose…

And finally — the wide shot showing a shared mood and a shared pillow.  THANK GOD the sun has returned to summer!

Hanging Head in Shame

Bad blogger!  Bad! 

I can’t believe how far I’ve let this little blog slip — and I have no excuse, either.  I mean, I’m growing another human and all that and so that keeps me busy; but not too busy to make some time to write down my thoughts and document our little life so that ALL YOU INTERESTED AND LOYAL READERS (ahem) can get your fix. 

So here I am… in my 7th month of pregnancy, still feeling great and still having a hard time believing this is actually happening — to US this time. 

This past weekend we took a big step in Operation Get Ready For Bambina — we held a sidewalk sale to get rid of oodles of stuff that was preventing us from actually having room for a baby.  We spent the last few weeks (oh, wait, really I spent the last few weeks because let’s talk turkey here and admit that The Brit didn’t help much at all since it’s baseball season after all)… anyway, I spent the last few weeks cleaning out closets, drawers, cabinets, storage areas… deciding what is staying and what is going… all in an effort to arrive at a perfectly empty second bedroom.  The goal was a blank canvas on which to build a lovely nursery.

Some dusty work, time spent with flourescent dot stickers and a sharpie, some tough decisions (and some really easy ones!)… a trip to the copy shop and a long walk to post flyers around Hoboken… and two-and-a-half hours spent out in front of our building yeilded $260 and a room so empty it now echoes.  Woot!

Things I learned at my gate sale:

• Two grown, I’m sure otherwise mature, women will indeed fight over a set of iced beverage glasses, and they will plead their case to me like I’m Judge Judy.  The glasses were $10 for a set of 12.  They were cheap crystal — an ill-informed, not-off-the-registry wedding gift — really, ladies — a gate sale brawl?
• Delivery seals the deal.  If I saw someone looking at one of the small pieces of furniture or bulkier items we had out there, a simple “If you take that, my husband will help you get it home” seemed to sealed the deal.  All small furniture items were GONE in the first 45 minutes — and with very little haggling thanks to The Brit’s delivery service.
• The point was to unload crap, not make a lot of cash… so we priced things to really move.  Barely anything was more than $5… but because we are apparently junk magnets we had enough that it really started to add up.  This is regardless of the fact that I was really ready to deal — if someone bought several items, I often gave them the last one free… a few bucks here and there, but most the crap I would have paid THEM to take off my hands!
• Nosy neighbors make great gate salers… one guy from a building across the street shouted out from his window while we were setting up — “Hey!  How much for the desk?”  We yelled up the price and he came down, paid and went on his way.  Awesome!

Anyway… we were done by 1pm, ready to enjoy the rest of our day.  Perfect for a few hours work. 

Next up — a closet redo from The Container Store (elfa rocks!) being installed next week, and a few coats of Benjamin Moore’s “Butter” on the walls.

And maybe… if some more blog posts to revive this sorry little site!

Love My Fridays

I’m blessed with a workplace that is extremely flexible — of course, being here for as long as I have, and reporting into the same boss that whole time helps, too. 

One of the ways that I benefit from that flexibility is a “work from home whenever you want to” edict.  Of course, you need to use good judgement on it, but typically, this means that on Fridays, I work from home.

And I do actually work.  I’m quite productive, in fact… being in the comfort of my own home (okay, and my PJs some days) allows me to write undistracted… to think creatively in whatever way works for me in the moment — whether sitting in my backyard staring at the clouds, laying on my couch with my legs slung over the top, or while absent-mindedly scratching Mutt’s belly.

But what Fridays at home really allow me is to carve out a little more time just for me — without a commute, I can spend part of my morning drinking coffee and eating eggs on toast at a local coffee shop (where I’m writing from right now); without having to brave lunch hour in Times Square, I can make a salad in my own kitchen, and then walk the dog to the park to eat it.

I’m not saying I do these things all the time… but I’m finding I’m motivated to cease the opportunities more and more.  And it doesn’t hurt that while on a conference call, I can throw in some laundry or declutter the top of my bureau.  Between my work from home Fridays and our hiring of a cleaner for the house, I feel like I’ve been gifted my free time (and my weekends back.)

Lucky, lucky, lucky me… but for now, it’s time to pay my little check and get back to my “Friday office” — Mutt’s belly is waiting.

36 years…

I turned 36 this week.

Three.  Six.

I am okay with it, really.  Although folks keep making jokes about being “29 — again” and “on the downslope to 40” and whatever…

I don’t really think I look 36 years old.  I know I don’t always act like i”m 36 years old.  I honestly feel like some of my very best years are within my reach just in front of me.

Am I kidding myself?  Please, dear readers… humor me if I am, okay?

***

In other news, I am about 24 weeks pregnant… and still feeling great.  I definitely have  a bump, but I’m actually loving it.  It’s funny how much I like my body pregnant, given that I’ve struggled with body image in the past.  But I have to say — I think I look pretty cute — bump and all!  And it doesn’t hurt that I’ve managed to find some stylish maternity clothes that still fit me here in the middle of the second trimester. 

But there’s always the third — and it both scares and thrilled me.

***

What about Mutt?  Yes, well, my dog is awesome.  I don’t mean to brag, but he just is.  He is my constant companion — where I go, he goes for the most part.  My neighbor saw me pull out of our garage the other day with Mutt perched atop the center console,  snout sticking out the sunroof, and said, “Simon’s like your co-pilot.”  I laughed in response, but then he said, “You and that dog are inseparable.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without him.”

Now that’s an exaggeration…  but it’s not far off enough to cross the line to ridiculous.

Worse things could be said, I think.

***

And The Brit… or Papa Bear as I’ve taken to calling him thanks to his growing paternal instinct.  His constant query of “How’re my girls?” and eagerness to rub my growing belly are sort of meltworthy… but his continuing insistence that perhaps my high heels aren’t practical anymore is growing annoying.  Let me enjoy them while I still can!  And while you’re at it — stop examining my hands every morning to determine if they’ve swelled.  Apparently, he read something that’s got him all freaked out.  No worries, dear — my rings still fit, my shoes still fit… I don’t appear to be swollen anywhere but my boobs and my belly. 

I’ve used the circumstances to my benefit, though; insisting that regular foot rubs are supposed to keep swelling and other maladies at bay.  Result?  Nightly foot massages — Woot!  This I could get used to!

Going for the Jugular: Rumble in the Park

My parents and my brother came for a visit and dinner yesterday.  It was an incredibly beautiful day, and so my brother suggested he take Mutt to the dog park around the corner from our place. 

Now, normally, I am a fan of dog parks.  But with a fairly long history of dealing with the Hoboken dog parks, I know the nuances of that microcosm.  One nuance being the “Here Comes the Sun” Rule.

The Here Comes the Sun Rule guarantees that after a spell of crappy weather, the first sunny and mild day will bring all sorts of asshats to the local dog parks, hoping to make up for the stretch of exercise-free days the weather has imposed on their charges.  So they show up all around the parks in town — dogs who have been cooped up without walking more than a one-block radius of their apartment… dogs who may not typically go to the off-leash parks and may not understand the “rules” or play well with others… owners with absolutely no clue about the benefits of exercising a hyper dog BEFORE making your way through the double gates.

The Here Comes the Sun Rule is the main reason I avoid the dog parks on days like yesterday, which was so lovely after such a rainy and gross week.

But I couldn’t say no to my brother… ever since he lost his dog, Rosie, among his favorite things to do when visiting is to adopt Mutt for a quick while and head to the park. 

So against my better judgement, off they went.

My brother returned, ashen… and Mutt returned, bleeding into the snow white fur of his throat.  I quickly cleaned him up — it looked worse than it was, and Mutt seemed non-plussed.  My brother gave me the play by play… large pit mix, harassing all the dogs at the park… most gave into it, but Mutt stood his ground and the dog attacked.  Fast.  And went right for Mutt’s throat!  The owner sauntered (yes, sauntered) over, chatting casually  into his cell phone, and helped my brother pry the dogs apart.

Simon immediately turned and ran for a ball someone had thrown — obviously, unbothered by the brawl.  The other dog’s owner simply left without a word.  But my brother said his adrenaline shot up and he called to Mutt and they came home.  It was only when he went to put on his leash that he realized there was blood… and he freaked, practically running the 4 blocks home.

Poor guy.  Poor Mutt. 

If you are a dog park regular, think about the Here Comes the Sun Rule next time you go… and maybe throw a ball in the yard instead.

The Verdict is In…

Girl! I am beyond thrilled and get more excited as it continues to sink in… Girl, Girl, Girl.

Let the shopping begin. If you notice a shortage of pink items in the tri-state area this weekend, you can blame me!

Boy or Girl? Let’s take a guess…

We have an ultrasound this week that will (hopefully) let us know whether we are having a boy or a girl.

I’m curious what my readers think I’m having… so far “in real life”, opinions have been very evenly split.  Although a family friend informed me “GIRL” as she dangled a wedding ring from a thread above my belly… and said that Italians were never wrong.  What say you dear readers?

Lots of people ask me if I have a “feeling” either way, and to that I really don’t have a concrete answer.  Sometimes I do find myself slipping and using the pronoun “he” by default — is this a sign?

I don’t feel like I am looking my best these days… so that by old wive’s tale lore would mean that a girl is “stealing my beauty.” 

I had no morning sickness… which legend says “boy.”  That Chinese Gender Predictor says “boy” too…

But then I had a dream a few nights ago that I was strolling about Hoboken with a mini-me — a girl.

So who knows?  I’m curious as all hell, and can’t wait to find out.  Let’s hope this thing cooperates when given the chance, shall we?

After all, there is shopping to commence ASAP.  So what do your guts tell you, will I be buying pink or blue?