I think Charlotte got the memo that she's going to be a big sister, and therefore a big girl, around these parts, because she's suddenly acting like such an imaginative toddler instead of a baby.

She just walked up to me holding a little bag over her arm, and said, "Okay, I go bye-bye now!"

"Where are you going?" I responded.

"Mmm...the grocery store," she said.

"What will you get at the store?"

"Some groceries!" (Duh.)

Then a minute later I heard her murmer to herself, "Don't forget the grocery list!" She grabbed a crayon and some paper and began to "write" down her list. "Some oranges...some bananas...some yogurt." Then she put the paper in her bag and repeated the first part of our conversation.

So, how am I feeling?

Does it answer your question to know I've been googling hyperemesis gravidarum?

Yeah, not so good.

This is going to be rough.

Those of you who knew me when I was pregnant with Charlotte know I had a rough go of it the first couple of months. Severe nausea and exhaustion plagued me from week seven until at least week fourteen. I remember not being completely nausea-free until mid-January, about week sixteen.

On Friday, I was fit as a fiddle. No real pregnancy symptoms except sore boobs (sorry, guys) and a voracious appetite. Saturday morning I woke up with that distinct sensation: weird, dryish mouth, unsettled stomach, shaky all over.

Each day since then has gotten progressively worse. It's not even been a week and I'm already wishing there was some way I could bypass eating for a couple of months. Just hook me up to a feeding tube or something. Wake me up in August.

Monday, I could walk down Court Street past all the restaurants without much fear of the cooking scents making me ill. Today, the faint whiff of stir-fry from neighboring apartment sent me running for the bathroom.

And the whole world stinks. Yes, even you. Smells I never noticed before, like the overwhelmingly putrid odor of the refridgerator, are suddenly my cues to begin deep breathing and walking slowly toward the toilet. Poor Jeff eats a slice of onion for lunch, and I can't get within a yard of him later that night.

When I was pregnant with Charlotte and the nausea first set in, I had only a couple weeks of school left before the winter break. I spent almost the entire break from mid-November until mid-December lounging in bed. I had a bell to ring to summon Jeff when I felt well enough to take sustenance. He would bring me oatmeal, or popcorn, or grapefruit procured at midnight from Wal-Mart. The world was our oyster.

I remember wondering at the time how on earth I would ever manage the second time around. How would I deal with the crippling nausea and debilitating exhaustion when I had a toddler to chase around?

Well, the answer is: not well.

Jeff deserves a lot of praise already for stepping up to the extra duties required when caring for a toddler and a sick pregnant wife. Normally, he's on Charlotte duty until I get home from school. But this whole week, I've dragged myself over the threshold and made a beeline for the bed. "I just need to rest a little," I explain each time. My normal school day, which is typically pretty tiring, is now completely draining. To his credit, he hasn't complained at all. He also hasn't gotten many breaks. That might work for a week, maybe two. But eight? Or (gulp) even more, if my nausea lasts longer this time?

I haven't had my first prenatal appointment yet. I have different medical coverage this time, so I'm hoping this time I can afford to get some kind of anti-nausea miracle pill. We'll see.

Until then, if you need me, I'll be hunched over the toilet.

Man, what a week. First there were the 60 papers to grade. And lessons to plan. Essays to read. Oh, and then we're in the middle of looking for a place to live in Kansas. Ugh, what a nightmare. And Charlotte hasn't been sleeping that well. And there was something else, too...what was it? Oh, yeah:

In case you don't know what you're looking at here, this is my fridge. There's my spring schedule, up at the top. There's a cute little magnet with a martini glass on it. Oh, and there's my doctor's confirmation of my pregnancy.

Here's a close-up:

So, yep. Busy week.

By the way, what are you doing on or around January 11, 2009? Maybe...coming to my house in Kansas to do some of my laundry?

More prayers

Charlotte: Thank you for the day. Thank you for the tree. Thank you for hiding unda the tree. Thank you for having a picnic. Thank you for chocolate.

A bit later....

Charlotte: Thank you for the day. Thank you for orange juice. Thank you for beans. Thank you for Charlotte's business. Thank you for dada bald head.

Happy Mother's Day!

What better way to celebrate Mother's Day than with matching mother-daughter Hawaiian dresses?

I don't know whose brilliant idea it was that I should teach three classes this quarter, but whoever it is needs some sort of psychiatric evaluation. Oh, that's right...it was me. I clearly remember ASKING for a third class right before spring break. "The extra money will be nice," I mused. "If I teach two sections of the same course, the only extra work will be grading! No problem!"


I got my third course, another 308j (junior comp). And right now is that horrible vortex time in my syllabus that I couldn't avoid when I was putting the schedule together. I have papers from all of my classes. All 60 of my students. Forty papers on the American Dream. Twenty on consumer culture. And I need to grade all of them in the next five days.

This is depressing. How about a picture?



Ahhh, that's better. Charlotte with the poppies. Ooh, and how about a story?

Two years ago, when I was starting to become enormously pregnant, and I had a new digital camera that I wanted to take for a test drive before using it to take pictures of my newborn, I noticed a gorgeous row of poppies against a weathered fence a few blocks away. I waddled over with my camera and took a bunch of pictures, the first I took with my Nikon D70s.


Two years later, I am much more adept with my camera, and the poppies are back. I forced Charlotte to once again pose with flowers ("More tulips," she sighed, resigned). The above picture is my favorite from the set.

Prayer

Charlotte: "Thank you for mamas and dadas. Thank you for shopping things. Thank you for apples. Thank you for Berenstain Bears. Amen."

Tulip Time

Last weekend we traveled to Iowa (via Kansas City and Lawrence) to celebrate Tulip Time. This was Charlotte's first, as we were unable to travel out last year. But being almost two, this year Charlotte was really able to appreciate all the bands and "floaps" and tulips.

On Thursday, we marched in the baby parade. I was decked out in my Aunt Sylvia's old costume with my grandma's old hat (mixing provinces! For shame!). Charlotte was wearing my cousin Amy's old costume. At one time my mom and I had similar costumes in blue, but they've gone missing, apparently.

Jeff also got into the spirit, wearing a costume complete with klompen and marching along.

We had a great time visiting my family. I noticed their moods were in general perky and optimistic...perhaps related to the fact that in a few months we'll be moving just a few hours' drive away from them. :)

Transcript

10:06 PM
Scott: so, this is our first 'internet' chat big step for us
me: Is it appropriate to talk about poop? Because Charlotte took a HUGE crap in her diaper tonight.
Scott: in our family? It is a necessity
me: And we were on a walk and I didn't have an extra.
Scott: how huge?
me: Small grapefruit.
Scott: like that round? ??? Like a grapefruit?
me: Once it was compressed in her little diap, it was rotund. Globular.
Scott: dear lord
me: I had to scoop it out with paper towels and then bathe her buns in the bathroom sink. Then while I was washing my hands, she peed on the floor.
Scott: awesome
me: Then a student walked in (this was in the student center in town).
Scott: that is just awesome
me: There was a dirty diaper on the counter, a puddle of urine on the floor, and a half-clothed baby running around. Not to mention a fog of fecal smell in the bathroom so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Scott: MOTHER OF THE YEAR!
me: Speaking of which, did I tell you about how I put her in a tree to take her picture and then she fell while I was snapping away?
Scott: how could you?!?!?!
me: I managed to scoop her up and evade child protective services that time. They've been tracking me. The branch was only about a foot and a half off the ground, but seriously
Scott: that girl needs balance
me: what kind of idiotic person puts a baby in a tree and walks away? I kind of leaned her back against the trunk, and thought, "That should do it!" Next thing I know, baby on the ground.
Scott: did you tell her to sit still?
me: Yep. She's disobedient.
Scott: and did she cry?
me: Yeah, a lot. She was unscathed, but scared.
Scott: thats what she gets for disobeying. and did you give her chocolate?
me: We had no chocolate, only hot dogs.
Scott: chocolate hot dogs?
me: Now when she tells the story, she's like, "Mama and Dada eat hot dogs by the river! Charlotte fell outta da tree, BOOM!" It makes it sound like we were having a private picnic while we left our baby in the tree, precariously perched and starving for some hot dogs.
Scott: You didn't?
me: Well, I gave her a chunk of hot dog to eat while in the tree. So not exactly.

The picture above is from this past weekend, which we spent with Papa and Nana Tig. We had a great weekend, with beautiful weather despite the rain forecasted. Let's hope the same will happen during our visit to Iowa this coming week.

I hope to post more about our weekend soon, but as I have 40 student essays to grade, you might have to wait. For now, this photo of Charlotte blowing "fuzzy dandelions" with Nana will have to suffice.

Karma Chameleon

We went to an eighties party this Saturday night. At first I was worried. Where would I find a crinoline and bustle at this late hour? Then I realized they meant the 1980s, not the 1880s. No problem.

First, we got Charlotte ready.

As you can see, her ensemble is an homage to Rainbow Brite. I started off with just the hot pink leggings (barely visible here) and the tank top. But then I just started adding more and more. "Legwarmers on the arms? WHY NOT!" I bellowed. I was clearly drunk off the power of eighties fashion. What you can't see in this picture is her side ponytail. She didn't have quite enough hair to pull it off, so it's more like an off-center pony.

Then it was time for me to get ready. I pulled my cut-off jean skirt out of the bucket of bleach in which it had been soaking all day, donned my legwarmers, and then got out the most powerful weapon in my arsenal: my aerosol hairspray:

That's me on the left, with my friend Heather. What you can't see are Heather's totally awesome Bon Jovi and Warrant pins. And I'm proud to say that's all my own hair. I also do my own stunts, like dancing to HammerTime (not pictured).

Things were going really well at the party until this really creepy Astros fan showed up. We were all uncomfortable and just tried to avoid looking at him:

What's a little scary is that I had to buy things for my costume. Jeff already owned everything he's wearing above. Other parts of the wardrobe required slight modification:

That's right: Jeff has lines shaved into his hair. I'm the luckiest woman alive.

Ph.D. Fight Recap

Four doctoral programs and two alternates showed up to the ring this season. The contenders were varied, ranging from the slightly strange Salukis to the decidedly un-picturable Cornhuskers (huh?). What began as an almost certain victory for Sam, the breeches-clad Minuteman, turned into a brutal battle between the jaunty Jayhawk and bowlegged Bulldog.

Round 1: Salukis vs. Jayhawks

The first contenders in the ring were the bizzare, greyhound-like canine from Southern Illinois and the brightly hued avian fighter from Kansas. While early reports favored the Saluki for obvious reasons (he has teeth, for one), in the end the Jayhawk won out, stomping on the pooch's permed ear before finishing him off with a series of well-aimed pecks. But it was the audience's amused hooting that finally sent the bedraggled mutt from the ring in shame. Who can blame them? That's one weird-looking dog. Result: Kansas Jayhawk

Round 2: Minutemen vs. Bulldogs

While Sam the Minuteman was widely believed to be the top contender in the doctoral division, it became obvious early in the second round that the Massachusetts patriot would have more of a fight on his hands than he had anticipated. The first blow to the buckle-shoed biped was the removal of his weaponry--no guns in the ring, house rules. Without his trusty musket, Sam was left with only his fists to protect him, and those puny defenses proved less than worthy against the snarling, salivating "Dawg" from Georgia. Result: Georgia Bulldog

On the Sidelines: Cornhuskers vs. Boilermakers

It's worth mentioning our two alternates before moving on to the final round. Though neither fighter made it into actual competition due to lack of funding, both the Nebraska seedcorn farmer and the Purdue mixed drink/steel craftsman warranted serious attention. Though many would likely weigh the match in favor of the steel-wielding, muscle-bound worker from Indiana, analysts felt the strapping, corn-fed Husker would prove a difficult opponent. Sadly, we'll never know the result of this match-up. Result: Unknown

Round 3: Bulldogs vs. Jayhawks

Not many foresaw these two fighters facing off in the final round here at Tig Arena. Certainly the stocky southern Dawg, a late addition to the tournament, and the cartoonish Hawk weren't favored early on, but their constant efforts to train for the match demonstrated their commitment to the cause. The fight was down to the wire, the Dawg occasionally gaining ground before being bested once again by the blue bird's brilliant beak. At times it was difficult to see what was going on, let alone predict an outcome: the ring was a mess of blue and red feathers, scraps of crimson t-shirt and bits of buff fur. But as the air cleared, the Dawg lay exhausted, panting and henpecked. The Kansas Jayhawk was lightly chewed but victorious. Result: Kansas Jayhawk

April 15

April 15 is not just tax day--it's also decision day for Ph.D. applicants.

So, wondering where I'll be going to grad school? Click here to find out.

More later.

Some recent Charlotte-isms:

While running around in her bedroom before bed:
"Charlotte is busy."
"Kitty lives in the office."
"Charlotte has a diaper...cover her business."
"Mama did a turtle yesterday...big, big turtle.*"
"Remember Meisha ate the cups? No, no, Meisha."

The recent trend for Charlotte is to add her favorite words to a sentence: anymore, already, all by myself (all by-self), tomorrow/pretty soon, yesterday. Sometimes these modifications won't make sense, as in "Tomorrow Charlotte saw a kitty already!" But other times she's right on, as in: "Charlotte go up-a stairs all by-self."

She has an amazing memory for certain things that have made a strong impression upon her (see the quote above re: Meisha and the cups). She'll bring up things from months ago (lately she's been asking to go see the dolphins at the aquarium, from our Chicago trip in early February), recalling a surprising amount of detail.

She knows our family members and friends by name from meetings with them, but also from another of her favorite activities: watching the slideshow screensaver on my computer. It can keep her occupied for several minutes, and she'll often run a commentary whilst watching. "Oh, there's baby Charlotte! There's Uncle Awesome! Papa read a book to Charlotte! There's mama and Charlotte! Ooh, funny Nana! Uncle Mark and Aunt Katie (whose engagement photos are among Charlotte's favorites)! Charlotte and Aunt Mindi watching dolphins! Uncle Steve and Charlotte in-a swing!"

She makes up little songs to describe her current or anticipated activities, as though living in a musical. In a little sing-songy voice, she'll sing "mama gett-a Charlotte in-a morning...go downstairs...eat-a breakfast." It's rather sweet.

Every night before bed we say a little prayer, and then I say "Now we'll cuddle and Mama will sing to you, and then Charlotte will fall asleep and sleep all night in her own bed, until the morning when mama comes to get you." This is as much a prayer (a hopeful, wishful prayer), but it's also become a kind of litany that she repeats to herself in a content little whisper.

Pictures coming soon. Spring has sprung and we were out enjoying it yesterday and today, with photographic evidence.

*Not true. It was a moderately sized turtle.

Dear New Neighbor,

Welcome! When our long-time neighbor moved out, a nice single man in his 60s, we wondered who would take his place. So when your UHaul showed up last week, backed up onto our lawn (oops! I'm sure that was an accident!) and you and your friends began unloading, I started spying. I did so under the premise that my baby wanted to look at the "huge truck," but in reality I was scoping you out. Hope you don't mind! Anyway, you have some nice stuff. I also noticed you have a kid, or at least the trappings of a child, maybe even two. Siderail for a kid's bed, various children's toys, etc. "How nice!" I thought. "Perhaps a new friend for Charlotte!"

So, anyway, welcome to the neighborhood. I just have a couple of questions:

1. Why so stompy? Are you sending us some sort of coded message? Are you spelling out "I need a babysitter" in morse code as you clomp up and down your stairs in what seems like an endless cycle of climb and descent? Or maybe, "Send me takeout?" Because I can tell you are frustrated with cooking, which leads me to

2. Why so slammy? I have a secret for you: the cabinet doors and drawers will stay closed even if you don't slam them shut. I KNOW! It takes some people years to find this out, but because I care about you, new neighbor, I wanted you to know right away. Also, pans will stay on the stove even if you don't bang them down onto the burners. It's called gravity!

3. Why is your child still up so late at night? I hear him, shrieking and carrying on at all hours. Perhaps, new neighbor, he's acting out because he's tired because he never sleeps! I especially enjoy hearing him clatter about in his bedroom as I'm trying to put our own daughter to bed at the relatively normal baby-sleeping time of 8 p.m. Fun, fun times! Thanks, new neighbor!

Well, just wanted to welcome you, and let you know how happy I am we're moving out this summer...I mean, how happy I am to have you next door! Really, really happy! WELCOME!

Hugs and kisses,

Your friend next door

This morning, when I went to get Charlotte out of her bed, she was repeating to herself, "No more mama in Columbus. No more mama on a plane anymore. No more mama in Columbus, etc." I think she's glad I'm home.

Me, too.

I used to love flying. Since I didn't take my first flight until I was in high school, it had, by that time, come to represent something exotic and elusive, some kind of fancy big-city thing that other people did, but not me. It says something about the amount of flying I've done since then that I can't remember exactly what my first flight was--it was either to Colorado with my family for vacation, or to San Diego for a church convention. What I do remember is the feeling that most of us have experienced: the slow, plodding movements of the airplane as it taxies to the runway, followed by that unbelievable, rattling, rushing burst of speed. And then the moment of lift-off, a sudden, nearly imperceptable lightness of being.

Following that first flight (whenever it was), I was hooked. I wanted to fly everywhere, whether I needed to be there or not. I even remember researching the role of an air courier, but nothing came of that. I was, alas, on a college student's budget, so my dreams of ceaseless flight were not to be. But I made up in distance what I lacked in frequency, flying to Honduras, the Philippines (oh, the agony of the trans-Pacific flight!), England (twice) and California (twice, too) during my college years. And after college I flew a few times as well--to Seattle, from San Francisco (days after September 11), to and from Ireland, New York City.

I remember details from flights. My first big trip, over to England to visit Jeff when he was studying in Oxford, had the drama of a passenger fainting mid-flight. The "whump" of his belly-flop onto the carpeted aisle woke me from an already troubled sleep. He was fine, but the wheeled out the O2 tanks, just in case. I didn't sleep after that.

The flight to the Philippines was epic. Chicago to San Francisco, then San Fran to Taipei, then finally to Manila. Over 20 hours total. At one point I bargained with my seatmates in the five-seat center-plane section to allow me to lay on the floor under our seats. "You can put your feet on me. I don't care. I just need to lay prone," I begged. It didn't help much, since I was just a little too tall. I could choose which portion of my anatomy would be whacked by the passing drinks cart: top of my head, or my feet.

I spent much of the return flight devouring an enormous package of dried mango I'd purchased in the airport in Manila, not really thinking about the effects such mass quantities of dried fruit would have on my digestive system. Fortunately, I wasn't bothered by the return of the mango until we landed.

The flight from San Francisco on September 17, 2001 was strange. We had originally been scheduled to fly out on the 14th; fortunately my cousin Lisa and her husband, who lived in the Bay Area, were kind enough to let us stay with them when our free trip accomodations ran out. When our flight was finally rescheduled, the line to get through security wrapped around the check-in area. But no one cared. Everyone was respectful, quiet, reverent. People made eye contact and smiled just a little. On the airplane, the captain made a brief announcement before taking off, encouraging us to turn to our seatmates and introduce ourselves. I felt like I was in church.

No matter the flight or the destination, I loved the whole experience. I loved checking my bags, scanning my carry-ons, buying airport coffee, walking through the terminals. I loved the little plastic cups for beverages, the in-flight movies, even the in-flight magazines. I especially loved when we touched down, knowing I had covered such distance and was now someplace new, where no one knew me. An adventure awaited.

But somewhere along the line, that changed. Really, it's not that vague--I know exactly when it changed.

The first flight I took after I found out I was going to be a mother was in March 2006, from Columbus to Des Moines to visit my family in Iowa. I was almost seven months pregnant, just large enough to be uncomfortable, but not quite big enough that people knew I was gestating. Something was different on that flight. All the ingredients were in place: the bustling terminal, the airport bookstores, the jostling acceleration of the plane. But something else was in place, too: Charlotte.

I suddenly became one of those sitcom characters who grip the armrests, close their eyes, and wish away the flop sweat. My heart began racing when the plane began taxiing, and didn't stop until I deplaned. Charlotte flipped and swirled and kicked in my belly, and I had Braxton-Hicks contractions more fierce and un-ignorable than before. On the flight back, I swear she rotated from head-up to -down. Something dramatic happened, anyway--and boy, was I uncomfortable.

Then there was the first flight after Charlotte made her out-of-womb debut, again from Columbus to Des Moines, this time for my cousin's wedding. Jeff and I were the classic fumbling new parents. Underestimating the time it would take us to get ourselves plus a suckling infant into the car, to the airport, parked, checked in, and through security, we managed to miss our plane. That caused us to miss our connection in Chicago, putting us in Des Moines hours after our original arrival time. Charlotte didn't care, and was fantastic the entire flight. She was more than happy to nurse on every take-off and landing ("What's this? A nipple? Again? Why, certainly!") to help pop her ears. But I was a mess. Every little bump and shift of the plane convinced me we were doomed. We landed safely, but I had a tension headache for days.

Just weeks after that flight, I came home from school and listened to a strange-sounding message on the answering machine from my mom. She wanted me to call her at work. Before I did that, I went upstairs to change clothes, telling Jeff how weird it was that my mom wanted me to call her at the library in the middle of the day. Jeff told me on the stairs: "Carrie called this morning. Leslie Van Hemert died last night."

When my friend Leslie Van Hemert O'Bannon died in a small plane crash in Indiana, she left behind her husband, John, and their baby daughter, Ellie. That horrible, tragic accident cemented my perhaps fears: flying was dangerous. And now that I had someone other than myself to live for, someone counting on me for so many reasons, I wasn't interested in any danger.

Tomorrow I fly to Kansas to visit the university--by myself. I have never slept a night without Charlotte within a fifteen-foot radius. The longest I have been apart from her is probably eight hours. It goes without saying that I am nervous and worried. When I put Charlotte to bed tonight, I spent several minutes just rocking her after she fell asleep. It still takes a while to persuade her to sleep, but when she finally drops off, you know. Her round little face smooshes up against my shoulder. Her hand holding the stuffed animal du jour relaxes. Her chubby legs stop fidgeting and just rest.

I think that's what I'll imagine if I get nervous on the flight: that compact, rounded form, those softly closed eyes and slightly open mouth, the sweet curling blonde hair. I think holding her is actually the closest I've gotten to flying.

New Charlotte Video

Lest you think things are always puppy dogs and rainbows in our house, here's video evidence of the anarchy that lurks just beneath the surface: Charlotte LOVES Chocolate.

So my dad "tagged" me to post six weird things about myself. Let's see...

1. I have to sleep with two pillows--one under my head, and one to grasp in a firm, yet not unaffectionate, embrace. In hotels with only a single pillow, I sometimes have to make do with a balled up sweater.

2. I have vivid dreams, and I almost always remember them, and remember most of the details about them. And then I bore my husband by telling him all about them.

3. I have an excellent memory for song lyrics. I only have to hear a song once or twice before I'll know most of the words. It appears Charlotte is inheriting this talent, as she is already able to sing many of her favorite songs verbatim (albeit in slightly adapted baby-talk).

4. I used to have only two foods/food groups I hated: melon (such as cantalope or honeydew) and bell peppers (any color). But after I had Charlotte, my aversion to these foods subsided. I have both cantalope and red bells in my fridge as I type.

5. I get into a zone when I read. If you try to talk to me while I'm reading, I probably won't hear you. This drives Jeff crazy.

6. I'm terrible at remembering names. I've tried all the tricks those books suggest, but inevitably I will forget your name within seconds of meeting you. Then I'll either figure it out later on my own, or go through life too embarrassed to admit that I can't remember your name. This makes introductions terrible. Usually, I'll just say, "This is my husband, Jeff," and hope you'll introduce yourself. So that I can forget your name again in thirty seconds.

Okay, Scott. Your turn. And how about you, Mark?