2009 Report on My Balls

Okay, I admit: I totally neglected this blog for five months. I kept thinking how I really ought to post things, and then I never did, and I really have no excuse for leaving you, dear reader, high and dry for so long--

--except that in the meantime I've been running after a 1-year-old (who is newly walking!), getting dressed up three times a week like a therapist again and being paid nicely for it besides, and finding myself trapped in the time-sucking vortex that is Facebook. Yes, despite my insistence that it would be bad for me professionally to be on any social networking sites, I signed up for Facebook. (And I play a mean game of Scramble, if I do say so myself.)

But this evening I decided it really was time to rejuvenate this blog. And what better subject than my balls?

As previously reported, my balls continue to be quite the awesome delicacy. This year, my balls are more dense than fluffy, although they are by no means cannon shot. The broth is half vegetable, half chicken, and is accented with slices of carrot. I'm proud to report that Tovah is a big fan of my balls.

On that note, Mrs. Gerbil and I realized that this is really the last year that we can talk about my balls. We fear that Tovah (who is already frighteningly intelligent and possessed of a weird sense of humor) will tell her preschool teachers that her favorite food is Mommy's balls. So, starting next year, we will be having plain old matzo balls on Passover. But this year I shall feel free to wax especially rhapsodic about my balls--at least until the leftovers are gone.

Fight the future

1998:
"ZOMG, the X-Files movie comes out tomorrow! We've got to go see it--tomorrow!"

2008:
"ZOMG, the X-Files movie comes out tomorrow! Oy, we'd need a babysitter... but Tovah's not taking a bottle regularly, and what if she doesn't behave herself, and what if we can't concentrate on the movie because we're worried about her, and... Oh well, guess we'll just wait till it comes out on DVD."

On postpartum adjustment

The other day I tried on a few pairs of pre-preggo pants. I've been wearing regular tops since coming home from the hospital on Friday, but pants are of course another story. (Come to think of it, pants are pretty much always another story.)

I know that one loses a significant amount of weight in the first week or so after delivery, but I'm a little weirded out by the fact that, six days after giving birth to cuteness, I could again wear a pair of pants I purchased in the girls' department at JC Penney.

Oh, and here is cuteness at 1 week old:

baby Tovah is born!

This is Mrs. Gerbil borrowing the mike to report some happy news.

The baby gerbil Tovah was born yesterday morning at 10:10.
Everyone's doing great! And Gerbil will surely be sharing more with you when she's able to come home and use the internet.

Here is Tovah:

Waiting

Mrs. Gerbil tells me I do not do sitting around on my butt very well. She is correct. I have been sitting around on my butt for a few weeks now, waiting for the gerb to arrive, and frankly, it's starting to get annoying.

For some reason, over the past few days I've been drawn to rehab movies. Last night we watched Postcards from the Edge, which wasn't all that interesting. I read the book (by none other than Carrie Fisher) several years ago--I recall the library's paperback copy had a hot pink cover--and didn't find it all that interesting either. Today we watched 28 Days, which was pretty interesting. According to the credits, the Betty Ford Center provided expert consultation for the film. How 'bout that?

(When I was still an insurance monkey, I would field a call about every three to four weeks from someone who wanted to know if Betty Ford was in network. Sadly, it's not. And oddly enough, none of the folks who wanted to go to Betty Ford had plans that included out-of-network benefits.)

Mrs. Gerbil and I have been talking to the gerb at length about all the wonderful things that exist in the outside world, although sometimes we get lazy and abbreviate this as "get born!" She has also taken to singing her own version of The Clash to my belly:

Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go, there will be breastmilk
If I stay, there will be no milk

I, on the other hand, do my best Gloria Gaynor:

Go on, now, go
Walk out the door
Just get born now
You're not welcome any more

With a week and a half before its due date, the gerb still seems perfectly content in there. Lately it's been throwing itself a whole slew of pre-release parties. Oh, little dude(tte), we will happily throw you a release party ourselves. Get born!

Nesting, part 2

I am doing some serious nesting these days. Having regained my sweet tooth as well as some of my energy, this is all a lot more fun.

In the middle of last week I made Irish potato candy, which actually has nothing to do with potatoes. Then, on Friday, I made a batch of hamantaschen. Our house is now officially fully stocked with a lot of sweet, fatty, carb-o-licious stuff.

Yesterday I started sewing a cute little baby outfit. I also washed all the gerb's clothes, diapers, and linens, and put the finishing touches on the setup of the gerb's room.

Today, in addition to my usual three loads of laundry, I cleaned the bathroom and vacuumed the house. Then I put up a whole bunch of framed pictures which had spent the past two months languishing in boxes in the closet. I wanted also to make a pitcher of nice decaffeinated iced tea, but there was a problem: we have no ice cube trays. (How did we manage to neglect to buy new ice cube trays after moving in?)

Meanwhile, the gerb is still flip-flopping away in there. I say it's high time for it to get to know the outside world, yo.

...and vice versa

Mrs. Gerbil, who is not Jewish, has taken to baking challah every Friday afternoon.

My mother, who is, spent this morning making hot cross buns.

And in other sociocultural/culinary news, I present yours truly, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen:

Walking the walk

The other morning I was driving through a rather un-scenic part of Springfield, Mass., looking in vain for my new allergist's office. Google Maps totally let me down on this one. A quick call to the office (from a gas station parking lot--I can't talk on the phone and drive stick at the same time) put me back on track, but I was fifteen minutes late and that made my punctual, detail-oriented self very sad.

While lost in Springfield for what seemed like forty days and forty nights, I noticed a young man clad in an oversized hoodie and pants so baggy that he had to hold them up as he walked--no, make that waddled--down the street.

I find this fashion trend very amusing. Mrs. Gerbil tells me that it began as a statement of solidarity with prisoners, who aren't allowed belts for their ill-fitting pants. But, dude. There's got to be ways to express your empathy that don't involve clutching your inseam to prevent spontaneous trou-dropping.

Nevertheless, I found myself in solidarity with this young man. No, my pants aren't in danger of falling down (far from it!)--but I'm also a waddler these days. I walk like a pregnant lady. It's a distinctive gait, like that of an Egyptian or of a psychiatrist.

Although pregnant ladies wobble but don't fall down, we sure have interesting ways of putting one foot in front of the other--especially when we can't see our feet anymore.

(BTW, the gerb is pretty much fully cooked at this point. Now we just have to wait around for it to pick a date for its debut!)

Assumptions, part deux

I thought that maybe, just maybe, folks in Massachusetts might assume that Mrs. Gerbil is my wife rather than my "special friend." In California, some admitted that they should know better than to assume that there is a Mr. Gerbil, but California does not have gay marriage. (Yet.)

But Massachusetts does have gay marriage. Mrs. Gerbil and I had a lovely Massachusetts wedding almost two and a half years ago. It is so nice finally to be in a place where our marriage is actually recognized; and in fact this was one of the major reasons for our move.

Unfortunately, it seems that my expectations were too high. Although same-sex couples have been happily (some might even say "gaily") getting hitched in Massachusetts for almost four years now, I guess changes in automatic thought processes take a little longer. (As a clinician, I should really know better, eh?)

Mrs. Gerbil and I have been attending classes at the hospital on childbirth and breastfeeding. We've also spent a few not-so-pleasant nights in the hospital when it looked like the gerb might make an early appearance. And we've had to explain our relationship a lot more often than I'd like.

At the hospital registration desk late one night, I indicated Mrs. Gerbil (who was sitting next to me) when asked for my emergency contact. "Oh," said the registration person, "is this your friend?"

"This is my wife," I said.

The registration person looked at me kind of blankly and said, "Okay, I'll type in 'cohabitant' for your relationship."

"No, she is not my cohabitant. She is my wife," I insisted.

"How about 'partner'?"

"We are legally married in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. If your system won't accept 'wife,' it should at least recognize 'spouse'."

Pause. "Oh," she said, "okay."

In our childbirth class, we are the only same-sex couple. Our instructor is very cool and makes an effort to say "partners" instead of "dads," and to correct herself when she does say "dads." But the instructor for our breastfeeding class was not so inclusive. It was "dads" this and "dads" that--even though we were not the only pair of women in attendance. Granted, some of those pairs were moms-to-be with grandmas-to-be. But there were three other pairs of women who were the same age. They may or may not have been couples; but in any case, I wasn't the only one there without a man.

We were greeted by the instructor at the door. "Hi, mom," she said to me, "what is your name?" I dutifully introduced myself. "And is this your friend?" she said of Mrs. Gerbil.

"No," I said, "this is my wife."

A pause, and then, "Oh. Well, that's all right then." (Jeez, I should hope so!)

So this is all very frustrating. Every so often I wonder whether I should be crass and say, "This is not my 'friend'; this is the person who knocked me up!" But perhaps this is not the way to win hearts.

The times, they are a-changin'

Mrs. Gerbil and I went out and bought a prodigious amount of essential baby gear yesterday. One of these essential items was a car seat.

Mrs. Gerbil decided that we should install the car seat right away, even though the gerb is not due for another five and a half weeks. (Of course, the gerb could really arrive any time.) I was tired and cranky from a lot of mall-walking in snow boots that really don't fit my swollen feet, so I said, "You're on your own!" and went inside to rest and grump about.

Installing a car seat is apparently very complicated, but the final score did turn out to be Mrs. Gerbil 1, car seat 0. So now we have a rear-facing infant seat in the car, but no infant as yet.

According to Click and Clack of Car Talk, the Subaru Outback is the ultimate lesbian car. We're now on our second Ultimate Lesbian Car, also known as the Bigger, Gayer Subaru.

I went out to Staples today to buy us a copy of TurboTax, and let me tell you, it was really strange to be driving a car with a car seat--even an empty one--in it. It was even stranger to know that said car is ours. Mrs. Gerbil, who had driven to and from Hartford earlier today, reported the same reaction.

The Bigger, Gayer Subaru has suddenly morphed into a Big Gay Family Car.

Oh my goodness.

And tango makes three

We have some designs on the gerb--namely, that it will be a musician. It probably doesn't matter whether musical aptitude is determined by nature or nurture (or some combination of both), as both of its mommies are musicians from musical families.

And already the gerb has definite preferences. It gets all excited when I break out the violin and play unaccompanied Bach, though it tends to sleep through the rest of my repertoire. It dances when Mrs. Gerbil plays this one tango by Albeñiz, but it stays quiet when she plays anything else. It slumbers through violin and piano duets, yet it totally partied when we went to hear the awesome Italian guitarist Roberto Dalla Vecchia a few months ago. But the rhythm that gets it going the most is still the tango.

Mrs. Gerbil likes to sing lullabies to it, a practice which looks to the untrained eye like her serenading my navel. (As the gerb reliably starts to stir when it is mommies' bedtime, I fear that it will start to associate lullabies with waking up!) Last night she decided to sing it some tangos.

Well, we only know two tangos with words ("Hernando's Hideaway" and "The Tango Maureen") so this was a short-lived activity. Neither of these songs is particularly appropriate for babies, but the gerb got down and boogied nonetheless.

What a sophisticated creature is the little gerb!

In other news, today is my 28th birthday. Daaaaaaaaaaaang.

Another fun pregnancy post: Things that make me happy

1. My new sock monkey slippers from Target. I prefer ballet slippers to scuffs, but my feet are starting to swell on account of the gerb; and so these (with their memory foam soles) are just plain awesome right now. For maximum sock-monkey-osity, I wear my sock monkey slippers with monkey socks.

2. Cocoa Creme Tums Smoothies. Okay, so I turned up my nose at vanilla chai deodorant. But since chocolate itself currently gives me heartburn (so tragic!), I think it's only fair that I have chocolate-flavored heartburn relief.

3. Seeing our little wiggler on ultrasound yesterday. It put on quite the show!

The hostess with the mostest

I want there to be Pineapple Upside-Down Minis at my (as yet unscheduled) baby shower.



As Mrs. Gerbil so eloquently put it, "How do you look at those and not see boobs?"

Nesting

Lea requested some fun pregnancy posts every once in a while. Well, ask and ye shall receive!

I have always been a baker, especially when under stress. I'm not terribly stressed at the moment--the second trimester indeed is better than the first, though I still have some nausea--but I've had a resurgence of desire to Bake Stuff.

First I decided to take up my mom's tradition of baking Halloween cupcakes. She has sent my dad to work with said cupcakes for several years now. So last weekend I whipped up three dozen adorable cupcakes for Mrs. Gerbil and her classmates. I hear they were very well-received.

Next I decided it was time to make persimmon pudding. Mrs. Gerbil had bought three persimmons without a specific use in mind for them. I am somewhat embarrassed to report that I haven't made the persimmon pudding yet. Anyone know how long persimmons will keep in the fridge?

And now I'm letting three dozen more cupcakes cool prior to icing them. We are having a little going-away party tomorrow for one of the supervisors. Natch, I volunteered to bring cupcakes.

Oddly enough, I've lost about 95% of my sweet tooth since becoming pregnant with the gerb. I don't even miss chocolate--it gives me heartburn these days. For whatever reason, all I want is salty stuff; and yet I go and bake 36 cupcakes on a whim.

In case you were wondering

I mentioned once that Mrs. Gerbil and I were thinking about parenthood.

Well, I suppose now would be a good time to announce that we are expecting a little gerb!

(Of course, dear reader, you are quite intelligent; and if I haven't already told you in real life, you probably would have surmised this from my newly belly-riffic avatar and the baby ticker.)

Hooray for little April gerbs!