2:45 a.m. I think that’s suppose to be followed by something like, “And all is well,” however, all is not well as is evidenced by the time I’m writing this. Where shall we begin our tour of whine country?

Let’s start with the most obvious. I’m not sleeping. I rarely sleep anymore, and when I do sleep I don’t sleep well. Bedtime has become a series of rituals – prenatal vitamin with a few sips of water so I don’t pee all night, Native American flute music (Robert Tree Cody being my favorite) on the iPod, Adam rubbing my back until I drift off. Sadly, I don’t drift long. I usually wake in time to hear him begin snoring in time to Cody’s last chant. Eventually, I find a rhythm in Adam’s snoring and the stillness of the night and drift some more. Before long, though, I have to get up to pee. This usually continues about every hour on the hour until 4 a.m. when I finally fall asleep until around 8 a.m. Adam asks hopefully each morning, “Did you sleep?” :::sigh:::

Then there are nights like tonight when I can’t bear to stay in bed. Some times I take a warm shower. Other times I rock in the living room recliner until I start to nod. I woke Adam up while ago because I was scared and felt alone. He’s such a trooper. A slight nudge from me and he was on his feet, getting me a glass of water, holding and consoling me. He made a weird face, and I inquired. Still in a fog, he said, “I’m just trying to stay awake and be here for you as much as I can.” The man makes me cry almost every day. He doesn’t mean to, but his sweetness, compassion and caring can be so overwhelming. Like another friend of mine, I wonder what I did to deserve this and how I got so damn lucky. Anyway, this is about whine, not cheese. After a while, we lay back down. Adam quickly went back to snoring, but I was at a loss so I’m trying something new tonight – writing.

Most nights, there’s nothing particular on my mind. I think about the baby, of course, but only random half-thoughts. Other nights, I’m plagued by images and ideas I’d rather not visit.

You see, people and life have this nasty, nasty, nasty habit of reminding you of the bad. Today, for example, I visited the diabetes education counselor at Lexington Medical Center. She was nice, full of information and materials. She was also full of stories of everything that can go wrong, especially now that I have gestational diabetes.

I took my first glucose test at my OB’s office several weeks ago. (That was another night of sleeplessness, and another story for another time.) The cut off was 135; I scored 165. I had to return for a second, longer glucose test. The nurse called a few days later and told me some of my numbers were okay, some were bad, so I need to see a dietitian about checking my blood sugar levels and changing them through diet. Today, on the other hand, I learn I’m not seeing a dietitian so much as I’m seeing a diabetes counselor. And my numbers weren’t off; I in fact have gestational diabetes.

Now I have a little blood sugar monitor I have to use four times a day. I cried in her office when I tried to use it for the first time. I mean, come on, everything in your head says, “Don’t poke yourself with sharp objects,” and here’s there’s sharp object you’re suppose to use to make yourself intentionally bleed. I also have a big packet of information staring me in the face about blood sugar, diabetes, carbohydrates and plenty of notes about what gestational diabetes can do to my unborn child. (Never mind the picture she drew of a fat baby boy in a circle with a list of possible complications.)

On top of that, I have a tooth throbbing tonight. I don’t think it’s any secret I have really bad teeth. My mother has them, too. Teeth that are very susceptible to cavities and breaking. Teeth that are prone to cause you a world of hurt at the drop of a hat. This one, tonight, feels as though I decided to take an ice pick and ram it into my jaw. Take something for pain? Think not. Pregnant women are allowed Tylenol. Two of the extra strength variety. In moderation. What I’d really like to do right now is crush an entire bottle of Tylenol and cram the powder into every nook and cranny of my mouth. Get help for the tooth you say? Sure. Find me a dentist who will take Medicaid or allow me to make payments. Find me a dentist who’s willing to do work on a pregnant woman. I’ll be the first in the line.

But because that’s not enough, let’s throw in the dancing heads. The dancing heads? Yep. These are the heads of all of the people who have lovely little pregnancy horror stories to tell. “I knew a woman who…” “My best friend’s aunt’s daughter had the worst…” I would love to know the psychology behind these stories. Why do people want to tell a pregnant woman about bad things happening? How about something happy people???

Still not enough to keep you up at night? Well, there’s the never ending list of things I need to do. There’s the baby stuff like start packing a bag for hospital, finish writing the birth plan and shop for needed items (with what money I don’t know). And there’s the usual stuff like do the laundry, clean the house and balance the checkbook (Oh, look, honey! We have four dollars!).

And there’s the stuff no one wants to imagine. My four-year-old cousin, Katie, died two weeks ago. She had a rare form of childhood liver cancer, which she fought for almost a year. Adam and I went to the wake because I wanted to be there for my family, especially Katie’s mother. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around what she must be going through. But since then, every night, I can’t help but see Katie’s sweet face in that little white and pink coffin. It’s such a cliché, but it is every parent’s worst nightmare – the loss of a child. Even now, I can’t help but put my hands on my belly and weep.

So, no, I’m not sleeping. And let me offer up a big “fuck you” to the first person who says, “Oh you might as well get use to it!” I’m sick of hearing that particular phrase every time I can’t sleep, have a headache or am unusually tired. I’m also sick of hearing things like, “You look like you’re about to pop!” and “Time just flies, doesn’t it?” and “Don’t you just love being pregnant?” and “June 6 will be here before you know it.” Cram it, sisters.

It’s 3:37 a.m. now. Even the damn cats are sleeping. This is such a lonely time. Everything is at rest. In front of my house, Highway 6, usually a buzzing four-lane highway, is quiet. My mother’s dogs are quiet. The Mexicans who live behind us are quiet. There’s not even anyone logged in on Facebook. Everything is still except me and the baby. He’s kicking harder these days, and you can see my belly move. I have nothing else to say, no one to talk to, so I’m going to go curl up next to Adam and listen to him breathe. With any luck, it will lull me into the sleep I so desperately crave.

Here’s a handy tip for fellow bloggers.  Enjoy your blog, but want to spread the word on Facebook, too?

Go to your “Notes” section. Somewhere on that page find the link “Notes About You.” I don’t know why, but it’s the only place I stumbled across the link to sync. In the column on the right, there’s a section called “Notes Settings.” There, you should be able to just put in your blog link, and Facebook handles the rest.

It imported my old posts, and says it will keep it current as I post new ones. I’m trying it out now!

Enjoy!

Junonia
Attn: Anne Kelly, Founder & Chair
125 3rd Street
Dassel MN 55325

Dear Ms. Kelly:

I’m back. I didn’t fall in a hole or off a cliff or lose my mind or anything of the sort. Adam had a delightful four-week vacation from school. (He’s working on his Mechanical Engineering degree — starting at Midlands Technical College and eventually transferring to the University of South Carolina.) We warded off friends and family alike in an attempt to start preparing ourselves for the baby. We cleaned out our storage space, cleaned out every cabinet, closet and drawer in the house, rearranged furniture, bolted bookshelves and other easily climbable and toppable things to the wall, washed walls… We even took time to register at Babies R Us and Target.  The time together was delightful, and it felt good to get that ol’ proverbial ball rolling. Too often we’re distracted by other things and neglect things we need to do for ourselves. I’m sure there’s quite a few people irritated by our disappearing act, but it was best for us. Now, we feel better prepared for the baby and won’t have to deal with a lot of this leg work while Adam’s in school.

We had our “big” ultrasound last week. How amazing, breathtaking, awe-inspiring… Our baby is now close to 10 ounces, and about the length of a banana. Yet, we could see his kidneys, his spine, his ribs, all four chambers of his heart beating, details in his brain, his fingers and toes. And, yes, I’m saying his because we saw his winkie, too! Everything in the ultrasound looked normal, and we see the OB again this Friday.

Adam and I have begun discussing names. The baby will have Adam’s last name, and we’ve settled on Louis as the middle name. My great-grandfather was named Louis, and Adam’s grandfather was also named Louis.  The first name we’re still debating. What do you think?

My pregnancy is becoming easier in some ways, more difficult in others. I’m not nearly as nauseaus or tired, but getting up, down and around is proving harder. Regardless, I’m trying to enjoy every minute of it as much as I can.

Adam is just amazing. He’s entertained crack-of-dawn trips to Bojangle’s for country ham and egg biscuits and late night runs to the convenience store for strawberry ice cream and Fritos. He’s gotten up in the middle of the night to refill my glass, check on me, rub my back. He’s helped move everything around in the house. And while he should do all of these things, he’s done them with no complaints and without even really having to be asked. I say, “Mmmm… a biscuit would be good.” And before I know what’s happening he’s dressed and out the door. He even makes me laugh during hormonal crying fits. Lol. I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend. I can’t wait to see him in his new role as daddy. Granted, I saw his with his 13-year-old son, Teddy, this past summer. But that’s different than the daily ins and outs of a baby. I think he’s going to be great. I think we both are.

Well, as much I could sit here and wax poetic about my great little life all day, I am horribly behind on e-mails, Web site updates and other daily life stuff.  I’ll write again soon! Happy new year!

The First

I only vaguely remember my first cigarette, stolen from my mother’s generic pack lying on the kitchen table. She and my father had always smoked – in the house, in the car, wherever and whenever the mood struck. It was summer, and my grandmother was staying with me at our house in Gilbert while my parents went about their daily jobs. After they left for work, I snuck outside and around the far side of the wood shed. I don’t know how much I inhaled, how much I coughed or even what it tasted like. I’m not sure if it was the nicotine from the cigarette or the thrill of doing something I shouldn’t be doing, but I had to have more. And, so, at age 13 I became a smoker.

In those early years I didn’t smoke much. It was a cigarette here, a cigarette there — whenever I could pilfer one from a pack around the house that wouldn’t be missed. I rolled my eyes in health class when presented with pictures of black lungs. I smiled and nodded when I was told smoking was bad. I had a dirty little secret, and I liked it.

Brand Experiments

Five years later, I started college. I wasn’t smoking a whole lot, but it certainly picked up especially now that I could buy my own cigarettes — smokes that said something about me. For a while, I loved to pick up packs of Djarum cloves from the tobacco shop at the mall where I worked part time. I loved the exotic smell and taste. I soon found American Spirits, and boasted they were “natural” and “better.” Lucky Strikes were a brand of choice for a while, too, though I have no idea why.

Then, I discovered the selection of cigarettes at Intermezzo, an alternative bookstore/tobacco shop/newsstand that once adjoined Goatfeather’s in Five Points. My favorite brand quickly became Nat Sherman Fantasia Lights – cigarettes with colored paper wrappings like red, blue, green and pink with gold leaf charcoal filters. They were beautiful and happy. And because I didn’t smoke much, it didn’t matter they were more than $5.00 per pack.

Soon, I met Rachel. Rachel smoked Mores – a 120 with a dark brown wrapper. I was intrigued and before long, I began to smoke Mores, too. Now and then, especially if I was going clubbing, I’d swap my Mores for Nat Sherman Black and Golds, which had a chocolate-like brown wrapper and gold leaf charcoal filter. They reeked of sophistication, I thought.

Emergency Room Adventures

My smoking slowly increased over the years. In the late 1990s, I found myself in the emergency room with bronchitis. It was so bad, I was turning blue and they had to give me multiple breathing treatments to get my oxygen levels back up. As I lay in the hospital bed with a mask across my face a nurse came in and kindly asked, “Can I get your anything dear?” I smiled, pulled the mask to one side and said, “A cigarette?” She laughed and walked away, but I wanted my damn smoke.

A few years ago, my mother took me to the emergency room for stomach pain. It was excruciating. Ultimately they would send me for more tests elsewhere, but during this trip they gave me several shots of morphine. My mother stopped smoking when I left for college, diagnosed with adult onset asthma. But after hours in the emergency room, all I wanted was a smoke. She finally agreed to pull the car over so I could get out and have a cigarette. I stood on the side on Highway 378, high as the proverbial kite, gripping someone’s wooden fence and sucking on that cigarette like it would give me the meaning of life. My mother watched from her pink Tracker, and now and again honked the horn, but nothing was going to tear me away from this little minute of heaven.

Heavenly Moments

It’s odd, but there are certain cigarettes I can never forget. The first one, the last one. That one on the side of Highway 378. The first time I smoked in front of my parents…

It was Thanksgiving, and I was home on break from college. We had Thanksgiving dinner at Ryan’s with several of their friends. After the meal, cigarettes began glowing around the table. I thought I would explode, so I slowly began to pull one from the pack in my purse. I sat with it in my lap for a few moments, and then went for it. I put it to my lips and lit it, inhaling slowly and waiting for the wrath. My mother shrieked across the table, “Toni Melinda Turbeville! What are you doing?!” “Smoking,” I replied. My father jumped to my defense, “What did you expect, Linda? She’s been around smoking her whole life.” The conversation ended, but through the years my mother would constantly remind me how bad smoking is.

I remember being wrapped in a blanket with Sanders, sitting outside on his back porch, looking up at the stars on a cold December night. Smoke and breath white and thick in the air. Talking about who knows what nonsense and sipping vodka from plastic cups.

And I remember that night. That last night he came to me. We sat on the edge of my bed, his white t-shirt smelling of grass and curry. He talked, I listened, and we smoked cigarette after cigarette.

I remember standing on the porch of Caughman Harmon Funeral Home with Shanna, John and Erica, slowly breathing in the smoke and exhaling pain and frustration.

I remember my first date with Adam. We had dinner at Gilligan’s. He with his Camel Lights, me with my Camel Turkish Golds. We both had salads, and though neither of us drinks very much, we each had a couple of drinks to ease the nervousness. We talked, laughed, shared stories and began out relationship in the smoking section.

Quitting

Oh, sure, I’ve tried various times over the years to quit. I’ve tried cold turkey, nicotine gum, nicotine patches, Wellbutrin, Zyban, Chantix. In the end nothing worked because I didn’t want it to. Knowing you should quit and wanting to quit are two different beasts – lest we forget smoking is, in fact, an addiction.

And what a divine addiction it is, especially for someone with anxiety problems. Not only does the nicotine calm me down, but the pack, the individual cigarettes, the lighter, the ashtray… they all give me something to fidget with. I don’t feel so nervous and insecure with my trusty Zippo and Camel Turkish Golds (my current brand) in hand. Cigarettes were a great break from work, too. When the day seemed to drag, when things got too harried, when I was fresh out of ideas, I could step outside, have a smoke and return to work feeling refreshed. What better accessory for writing than a cigarette dangling from the corner of your mouth? What better after dinner activity than enjoying a smoke in the crisp night air? Over the years, cigarettes became a part of my daily life, and I had no desire to quit.

To be truthful, I still have no desire to quit. Oh, I know, what an awful thing for an expecting mother to say. Get over it. When I learned of my pregnancy, I was smoking two packs of cigarettes per day – that’s 40 individual cigarettes. The next day, I barely smoked three cigarettes, and made myself sick. The following day, I bumped it back up to about one pack (20 cigarettes) and felt somewhat better. The plan was for me to wean myself off them completely, and for Adam to take his smoking outdoors. Well, several weeks later I still hadn’t weaned and Adam was still smiling at me from his side of the bed with a cigarette in hand. Don’t misunderstand. Adam and I both know smoking is bad for us, bad for the baby and something we must stop. Several people have told me, “You’ve never had such great motivation to quit!” They say that smiling, like it’s a good thing. Yes, I want my baby to be okay and healthy, but, no, I don’t want to quit smoking. I can’t have both, so I know I must quit, but I still don’t want to. Beginning to see the difference?

In any case, Adam made a sweeping proclamation this past weekend. As of Monday, November 17, 2008, we will no longer be smokers. We. As in he intends to quit smoking, too. He says he knows it will be easier for me and better for us and the baby in the long run. I cried. Hands down one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. He bought us each one pack of cigarettes on Sunday morning. By Monday morning we each had about six smokes left. I’ve never had any self-control, so by 10:30 a.m. I was sitting on the edge of the bed smoking my last cigarette. I savored the smell and taste, and watched as the letters “TURKISH GOLD” slowly disappeared into ash. By 7:00 or so, Adam and I were both ready to climb the walls. He went to the gas station and bought one pack. He rationed out the cigarettes, and we each smoked our last this morning.

A headache is setting in, and I feel as though I could bite the heads off chickens. In the end, this is the best thing for my family, and that’s the most important thing. Just keep me away from the poultry.

For the most part, I try not to flaunt my redneck self too often. I know some of my views, thoughts and opinions run counter to those of my liberal friends, and I’ve learned over the years it’s easier to leave things unsaid than start unfinishable (and unwinnable) arguments. (On the same note, I sometimes leave liberal things unsaid amongst my conservative friends.) But every now and again something really chaps my ass and I can’t leave it alone no matter how hard I try.

Over the weekend, Adam and I went to the grocery store. Among the items on the list were shampoo and conditioner for my crazy, curly, bushwoman hair. Last time I bought Sunsilk shampoo and conditioner for curly hair, and it worked okay so I looked for it again among the Sunsilk products. In my search, there were several bottles I couldn’t easily identify, and I picked them up for closer inspection. The bottles — front and back — were completely in Spanish.  Suddenly, my redneck began showing, and Avenue Q’s “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist Sometimes” began playing in my head.

While I don’t have all of the issues many people do, insisting everyone should speak nothing but English in our country, as it turns out I do have an issue with things being completely in a different language. To become a citizen in the United States, you must have a certain level of English profiency. Maybe you’re learning, and having something — like a bottle of shampoo — with both languages may help you learn. But what is something completely in a foreign language teaching anyone? What is it encouraging? Come to America and never bother to learn its official language! Never mind that pesky citizenship test, we’ll cater to you anyway! Would I feel the same if the shoe was on the other foot? Maybe, maybe not. But it still irks me.

When foreigners first came to this country, Native Americans were quickly herded unto reservations and forced into English schools to learn not only the customs, but also the language. They were forced to cut their hair, leave behind their tribal dress, and, soon, forget their native tongue. Many of those languages were lost, and with them many stories. While I don’t wish to see immigrants — legal or illegal — treated this way, I do think there should be an attempt to teach them the languages and customs of this country. It is possible to respect and celebrate both.

I put the bottles back on the shelf, and purchased a different company’s products.

A new day… in so many ways. A new president for our struggling country. A black man in the White House. No, I haven’t blogged or said much about this election. I made a concentrated effort to stay away from the election hype, learning just enough to make an educated decision to cast my vote. So much energy — too much energy in my opinion — was wasted watching, twittering, social networking, talking, e-mailing and so on about this election. Important election, yes. Important to understand what’s going on, yes. Important to vote, yes. But why spend so much of your time and energy feeding the media machine? I dunno. It’s lost on me.

Yesterday was historical to me, personally, as well. Adam and I had our first trip to our obstetrician. I had been looking so forward to the visit, and needed the comfort of knowing my baby was okay. I have a friend who had an ectopic pregnancy, and the memory of it had haunted me. We arrived early, and I eyed the women with their protruding bellies with curiosity and fascination. Adam and I both tried not to stare at the woman who arrived with seven children of various ages in tow, and her belly announcing an eighth — one more and she has a softball team.

The nurse called us back, and we began talking in her office. The person who made my appointment made a mistake. New OB visits are usually scheduled on Wednesdays; they didn’t have a record that I was pregnant. I almost started crying. “No, no, no!” I thought. You can’t make me wait longer. Fortunately, the nurse was very kind and professional and worked me into their schedule with no problems, though she said we were doing things a bit out of order.

First, pee in the cup, which always makes me wish it was easier to aim with my equipment. Next, the ultrasound. I had the image of the tech smearing my belly with jelly and glowing like those girls in movies as she waved her magic wand and my baby’s picture appeared. No, no. I had my arse hanging off the table with my feet in stirrups as she slipped an ultrasound device inside me. It was an odd sensation, especially since I hadn’t known what to expect. But within moments, there he/she was.

I cannot even begin to describe the feeling of seeing this tiny little thing on the screen and knowing that it’s growing inside. And just as I was adjusting to seeing him/her for the first time, the tech pushed a button and the room was filled with his/her heartbeat. 170 beats per minute. My hand tightened around Adam’s, and I looked up at him to see his eyes grow moist and a smile spread across his face. I was overwhelmed.

The nurse took us back to her office for complete medical histories, a few lessons in what I should/should not be doing, introductions to the various services they offer and more. She answered all of my odd questions, and then walked us to the lab where they took ALOT of blood. We return on November 21 to meet with the doctor, have more tests completed and discuss the results of the tests we had yesterday.

We stopped at the pancake house for lunch, and were overjoyed to know that our baby is exactly where he/she should be, is the right size and has a strong heartbeat. And, of course, we’re still scared shitless.

Our first baby picture!

Election Day and my first OB appointment are a week away. I’ve never looked so forward to a doctor’s appointment, especially one that involved stirrups. However, all I know at present is that I’m pregnant. I have no idea how the baby is doing, how I’m doing, if everything is proceeding as it should… I want and need answers, and it seems that first appointment will never get here. I believe the reality of the pregnancy is finally starting to sink in a bit. The other night when I should have been sleeping, I was rearranging furniture in my head, trying to decide what will stay and what will go. The big debate is over my piano.

My grandparents purchased the piano in the 1950s, my mother learned to play on it, I learned to play it. When I first moved into my own apartment, my grandmother gave me the piano, and I’ve moved it around with me since. There are scars — a cigarette burn from when my dad was dating my mom, a broken (but repaired) leg when the piano was moved back to my grandmother’s house which I lived in for a spell, candle wax from a party. The piano wasn’t an especially expensive or even good sounding instrument, and is still horribly out of tune. I rarely play anymore because other things always seem to occupy my time.  And it takes up a lot of valuable space. Some of my friends and family insist I can’t get rid of it because I could teach the baby to play. Others think it’s no big deal.

Regardless, in thinking about the piano and trying to make a decision, something snapped. Reality decided to step out of the closet and smack me on the head. Your life is not your own anymore, it said. Decisions will now be based on what is best for the baby. Your time will be spent caring for the baby. None of this is bad, or even new news. It just is what it is. But as reality sank in, sleep flitted away. How many other ways will our lives change? For the better? For the worse? Of all the women with children I’ve spoken to, only one has admitted that she would not have children if she could do it over again. The rest insist no matter what, it is absolutely worth it. I tend to agree, but still don’t know what to do with the damn piano.

I’m still nauseous, though I’ve been fortunate and not had any vomiting. The dizziness seems less. My hair has become that of an uncultured bush woman. My boobs are growing ever larger, and I’m scared they may suffocate me in my sleep. My belly is pushing out of my formerly comfortable pants. I pee, drink and eat all day long. And I want to bite people’s heads clean off for no known reason. Apparently all of this is normal.

Yes, the rumors are true — Adam and I are having a baby. Several weeks ago, I started not feeling so well — a little nauseous, a little light headed, a little tired. Around the time I should have gotten my period, I felt the usual swell of crankies and slightly swollen, slightly sore breasts. None of this was overwhelming, so I ignored it.

The subject of one day having children worked it’s way into our conversation one night when I realized my period was late, and I decided to do some research on vasectomy reversals. In his early twenties, Adam had a vasectomy. He had a child, Teddy, with his high-school sweetheart, and then they parted ways. He didn’t want to have any more children until he found the woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with. At the time, the doctor had indicated the vasectomy was reversible. During my research, however, I learned that reversals can cost upwards of $25,000, and only work about 3% of the time. In addition, only about 1 in 250,000 vasectomies heal themselves, and that’s usually in the first few months. I was devastated. While I understood and respected Adam’s decision to have the procedure, I felt the chances of us ever starting a family of our own was slim to none.  For two days, I cried and nursed a broken heart.

I confided in a friend, who asked, “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” Adam had the car and was in class, so I had no way to go to a drug store, besides, I was quite sure I wasn’t pregnant. Then, I remembered an E.P.T. home pregnancy test in the back of the bathroom cabinet. I pulled it out, checked the expiration date and decided to give it a whirl. I barely peed on the stick, and the little blue plus sign popped up in the window. I was shocked; that had never happened before. I frantically called a friend, who suggested I make a doctor’s appointment right away for confirmation. He could see me that afternoon, but it meant borrowing my dad’s truck to get there. I called Adam while he was at school and simply said, “I’m going to the doctor.” Fortunately, his eight years with the Army instilled don’t ask, don’t tell, so he didn’t ask any questions.

My family physician is a wonderful doctor, and I’ve seen him for years. The nurse took what she needed, and left me twiddling my thumbs over five year old issues of Country Living. Dr. Fravel finally came in and said, “You’re pregnant!” He began listing off things — see an OB around the tenth week, you’re due June 5, take your prenatal vitamin every day. My head swirled. Holy crap. I really am pregnant.

I drove home, and Adam greeted me in the living room. He kept asking, “What did the doctor say? Is everything okay?” All I could say was, “Well…” Finally, he started to glaze over like the proverbial deer in headlights asking, “You’re pregnant aren’t you?”

We’re both thrilled, excited, happy and scared shitless, which seems about right. Adam had a child before, but because of his time in the Army, wasn’t there for everything. And this is my first pregnancy. So we’re completely new to this, though we are convinced that we’re going to be great parents.

We told my dad first. He was thrilled, but asked that I hold the baby in until June 13, his birthday. My strange little mother congratulated us, and then quipped, “Better hope Adam doesn’t leave now!” Adam calmly replied, “I’m not going anywhere, Linda.” I love that he handles her the way he does. We told his mother; she was so happy, and politely requested a girl. A visit to his grandmother’s was next. She congratulated us, but wondered, “When are those bells going to ring?” And then we broke the news to his aunts and close family friend, who, let’s face it, is really his sister. They were excited, too, and were filled with stories, advice, wisdom and support. I couldn’t ask for a better family.

And, yes, Adam and I have discussed marriage. I was ready months ago, but Adam needed time to work through some things. After the visit to his grandmother’s, I told him again that I would love to spend the rest of my life with him, but I need to know when he asks the question, he’s asking because he wants to spend the rest of his life with me, too, and not just because I’m pregnant. It can’t be about the baby, it has to be about us.

So we’re settling into the idea of being parents. I’ve bought a few books, some really comfy stretchy pants and lots of saltines. I’m working on quitting smoking, and Adam has cut way back, too. We’re discussing rearranging the house, cleaning the walls and the carpet. Baby names are sputtered like Tourettes. And I see the OB on election day. I’m nervous and scared, but this is the most thrilling thing I’ve done to date.

Yay, fall! The weather turns cooler, and it’s as though my spirits are lifted and carried with the tumbling leaves. I noticed the dogwood tree in our yard is starting to turn red; it’s always the first to go, the first to remind me that fall is here.

I have lots of things I need to be doing right now – a new Web site client, art submissions for several upcoming shows, articles for several upcoming deadlines. Spooky, the new kitten, is crying from her playpen – the over-sized garden tub in the bedroom. Adam is in class, and won’t be home until around three. Pork tenderloin is unthawing for dinner. Good jazz is floating from the stereo.

There are so many good events coming up – the Unearth festival thingy at Saluda Shoals Park, The Return (a Beatles’ tribute band) playing at Art in the Garden in Lexington, Shakefest (a Shakespearian festival) in Winnsboro and, of course, my favorite holiday of them all… Halloween. AND on top of all that, several friends are in town in the coming weeks, and I get to see them, too.

My parents leave this weekend for a week-long camping trip to Cades Cove, Tennessee. I’m happy they get to get away, but I’m jealous, too. What I wouldn’t give for a week long camping trip in the mountains right now… I also get the pleasure of babysitting Shorty, my mother’s newest dog. Dad decided he was NOT going to take five dogs camping. I would point out that he has bigger problems, but he knows.

Life is good.

PLEASE NOTE: Blog entries dated Thursday, September 11, 2008 back to Friday, August 4, 2006 can still be viewed by visiting my MySpace blog. Thank you!