Livingston, I Presume

Nope, not yet

For those of you getting alarmed at the near single-digit-ness of the pregnancy counter to the right, rest assured that I haven't gone off to give birth or anything. I'd say that I'll post when I do, but it turns out that the hospital beams its sturdy wi-fi signal into exactly two places in the hospital, neither of which are near the patient rooms. Which makes sense not at all, but who am I to judge? I mean, it's not like I was planning to live-blog the event, but I had had plans to send out an email or two afterwards.

I'm still not too crabby (I think, but ask Chip to be sure) but I am pretty tired a lot of the time. It's such a cruel joke that in these last few weeks of peaceful nighttimes a pregnant woman is denied good sleep. By all that's right and good, we should be able (and encouraged) to sleep 10 hours a night for the last month of pregnancy, given that in just a little while sleep will elude us for weeks on end. It further proves that there is a God but that he's a white, male Republican with a bad sense of humor.

Artifacts

As part of our recently unveiled "Oh, shit, the baby's coming imminently and we're never going to have time to clean/organize for years and years" campaign, we've been going through boxes that have accumulated since we moved or, indeed, were never cleaned out in the first place. Chief among those are boxes containing nothing but unfiled paper--old bills, cards, and other detritus of the so-called paperless age. (I think sometimes that I am madder about the complete lack of fulfillment of the paperless age than I am about the no flying cars thing. Toss-up.)

Mostly, this has involved a lot of separating the stuff that can be thrown away from the stuff that must be kept and from the stuff that must not be thrown away but shredded. Really fun. Every so often, though, we come across something that we have been holding onto that makes the process momentarily enjoyable. We recently found a note from our cats (ghost-written by Dan and Audrey, we suspect) in that category.

We used to have two cats in Prague, and friends like Dan and Audrey used to help us take care of them when we would go out of town. This was one of the cats:

This was Bean. What can I say about Bean that this photo doesn't illustrate? He was, to put it simply, crazy. As it turned out, he had a real medical problem that caused him to be crazy, but that didn't really make him any less weird.

Our other cat was, and is, Sotek. She came back with us from Prague, and she has continued to be the world's most agreeable cat. She's shy but friendly and demands very little (except in the way of preventative dental care). We got her first in Prague and thought that all cats would be like her. We were so wrong.

We got Bean from an American and his Czech girlfriend who lived in rural Czech Republic. We took the train out to get him and met the American at the station. We learned that the two of them had adopted a stray and had been feeding her, only to discover one morning that she was not so much a fluffy kitty as a very pregnant momma cat. Along the way he disclosed to us that the two of them were vegans and so the cat and kittens had become vegan as well. Somehow, we surmised that the felines probably didn't have a choice on that score, what with their built-to-rip-flesh teeth and all. Still, we met the kittens, decided that Bean should come home with us, and home we went.

He was far friendlier than Sotek--who was not at all pleased to see him--and wanted to be with us pretty much 24 hours a day. Including in bed. Under the covers. And he would eat anything that wasn't nailed down. At the time, we thought he was probably malnourished from the whole vegan cat lifestyle.

It was impossible to cook with Bean in the kitchen. Turn your back for a second and he would have started to devour the onions you'd just chopped or--in the case of our cleaning lady--the bread roll you left out on the counter for your lunch. Leave the kitchen and you could be sure to smell burning whiskers or a flank afire because he liked to curl up next to the open flame on the gas stove. One time he ate most of the fake fur off a Russian guest's coat that was lying in our bedroom. That was hard to explain.

Did I mention that he drooled like a St. Bernard?

When we got home from one trip, the cats had left us a note to tell us about their time with Dan and Audrey. Here's Sotek's:

(Just in case it's not clear on your screen, here's the text:

Dear Mom & Dad,

Dan & Audrey were great. They came by, reminded me to eat, and gave me some good lovin'. Hope you had a good trip.

Love,

Sotek)

And here's Bean's:

Mom Dad---

I MADE BIG MESS, ATE LOTS, DROOLED, AND WALKED ON KITCHEN COUNTER ALL DAY

LOVE,
BEAN

Fantastic

Got the Monday morning blues? Go read this post  on Shakesville.

Here's a sampling from "More and More Americans Going to Hell Despite Faith-Based Programs":

Many believed that the emergence of "Faith-Based" programs, as instituted by U.S. President George W. Bush, would eventually slow entrances to Hell to a crawl. Instead, it's been a virtual stampede. Some experts have claimed, however, that such a result was easy to predict.

"Let's see, No Child Left Behind leaves behind children, the $6-billion Reading First program has left more children unable to read, abstinence-only programs have led to higher teen pregnancy rates, etc., etc.," said a despondent Jesus Christ from a bar in Sacramento, Calif. "I'm pretty sure if the Bush Administration started a 'Nipple Protection' program, the U.S. would be a nipple-less society inside of six months."

Brilliant.

Getting Austria

I have a soft spot for Austria. When I was 18, I spent an academic term there as part of the University of Montana's Vienna Experience program. It was mind-blowing. I had been to Europe the summer before as part of the Montana Youth Choir, and I knew I wanted to go back more than anything. When I got into Chamber Chorale (at that time UM's top choir and the only way you could go on the program), I was ecstatic.

I'm pretty sure I packed more into that three months of living abroad than I have at any time before or since. We sang in the Musikverein about four days after we landed. We did homestays and a great concert in Hungary. We went to Poland. I returned to Prague. And, of course, we lived in Vienna--about a ten-minute walk from the Schoenbrunn Castle--and studied German, music, and art. As introductions to the great capitals of the world go, it was a pretty sweet one.

Even with my time in Austria--an eyeblink, really, in the scheme of things, although I have been back numerous times since--I never felt that I got a great handle on the character of its people. Austrians--and especially Viennese, it seems--are very reserved. While I had more conversations than I can count with random Czechs over my time in Prague--on subways, in squares, at market stalls--I can remember only a handful of such encounters with Austrians.

All of which is a long-winded way of introducing a link to a really interesting New York Times op-ed this morning. "Dungeons and Austrians" explores the idea that perhaps there is something more than coincidence to the fact that two horrifying cases of abduction, rape, and imprisonment have come to light in this small Alpine nation. Or perhaps not. Either way, it's an interesting read.

A kinder, gentler dentist

So we took Connery to the dentist yesterday and had an unexpected milestone. While I knew that they were going to try to clean his teeth (all his other appointments had involved little more than meeting the dentist and getting a free toothbrush), I had no idea they were going to clean them without me.

Is it pathetic that I was sad when he trundled back with the hygienist, happy as a clam and ready to enter the realm of real dental care? Maybe, but I will cop to it. I have never given him over to a healthcare provider before, in part because I imagine him deciding his own answers to pertinent questions like, "How often do you brush your teeth?" in a way that would not be, shall we say, accurate. What if he said that we never brush his teeth and feed him candy all day long? I mean, this is the same kid who told his whole Kindermusik class that we have a puppy and told his daycare that I had a baby in my tummy long before I was pregnant. Would I end up having to fight social services for my son by the end of this appointment, even though we not only brush but floss the child's teeth every night?

Luckily, he seemed to be in an honest sort of mood and apparently told the doctor that we were not subsisting on bottles full of Hi-C or something. Moreover, he allowed the hygienist to clean his teeth, once he had been properly introduced to Mr. Thirsty, Mr. Sprayer, and Mr. Tooth-Tickler. Myself, I've never met Mr. Tooth-Tickler. Mr. Scrape-My-Teeth-Until-They-Ache, yes. Him, I know.

Anyway, Connery was thrilled to get a new toothbrush, two kinds of floss, stickers, and a squishy worm. He told everyone else that we saw yesterday about his trip to the dentist. I like that pediatric dental practices have made the prospect of going to the dentist much less stressful for kids. I'm sure that cynics would say that I'm just falling for some clever marketing, but as a parent, I appreciate that he doesn't have to be dragged back to the exam room, kicking (me) and screaming. I appreciate that the hygienists squat down so that they can talk to my child face-to-face about the coming procedures. In fact, if they'd let me, I'd go see Dr. Todd for my appointments.

I'd like to meet this Tooth Tickler guy.

Not the kind with Sarah Michelle Gellar

Chip called me out recently over a grudge that he thought I had against someone. His feeling was that the incidents about which I might have been holding the grudge did not remotely merit the grudginess. He seemed particularly aggrieved that I could have been holding this grudge for nearly two years.

I didn't say it at the time, but what I was thinking was (1) I didn't really have a grudge against this person, which was actually pretty generous considering that the grudgeworthy event had happened not just once but twice, and (2) two years? really? Is that a long time to hold a grudge? Because I have grudges that predate not only meeting Chip (note, when I was a mere child of 19) but, indeed, that correlate roughly with the Carter administration. I can barely remember the Carter administration, but I remember the actions of girls called Heather and Stacy. And not in a good way.

Does that mean if I ran into them in the street that I would go all nuts and start airing my grievances? No, of course not. It did mean that for the rest of our childhoods, I viewed them with suspicion that kept them at arm's length, and as it turned out, that was not a bad thing. Whether because of my preconceived notions or because perhaps they were miserable little heifers not worth my time anyway, they seemed to act in ways that only confirmed my original judgment.

I often find that others have the same reaction that Chip does about the grudge issue. There's a reason that "forgive and forget" is a cliche, after all. But within my family of origin--at least those of us who grew up under the loving influence of the Montana towns of Butte and Anaconda--I never have to explain. It's the flip side of another trait that many people prize: loyalty. It's not just grudges I have from 1978 but friends. Good friends. People I went to kindergarten with or, in one case, met for the first time when I was just nine days old.

I suppose that there are probably a lot of people out there--better people than I, apparently--who have memories as long and clear as that but have managed only to hold on to only the good things about the people they've met on the journey. Maybe my life would be better if I did that. In the meantime, I'm not going to apologize. It's who I am. My name is Nicole, and I hold grudges. And there are worse things.

Did you say something?

As I've mentioned, I've been weathering the pregnancy pretty well. Well enough that one fellow pregger I see often probably wants to kill me, based on her incredulity when I insist that I still feel good. The one thing that's really taken a hit is my ability to concentrate. Like, I can't. At all.

Let's take today as an example. I was proud of myself for remembering that there is a retirement party this afternoon for one of Connery's former teachers at his old childcare facility. I was doubly proud of myself for remembering this in time to bake something to bring with me. My pride vanished when I realized that the brownies I had just baked were smothered on top with peanut butter--an absolute no-no at that childcare due to one of its charge's severe peanut allergy. Sure, I could still bring them, but I'd have to invite people back to the mini-van to actually have a bite, like some kind of pusher. (Pssst, wanna go back to my van? Duncan Hines, man. The good shit. It'll rock your world.)

I remember this happening with Connery toward the last month or so as well. Luckily, working in the Czech Republic, I was required to go on maternity leave a full six weeks before my due date (being an American, I fudged it to four weeks, but still). That meant only a week or so of my sitting at a hellfire hot desk in Zizkov, trying valiantly to concentrate on the finer points of European integration and non-native English and Central Asian dictators before I could say my goodbyes and go be flaky in the privacy of my own home. This time, I'm planning--in the great spirit of America--to work up until I actually go into labor, possibly through the first few hours, assuming it's not too messy or loud. (See "Loudest woman ever gives birth at Bulovka Hospital" for an idea of how likely that is.) Here in the land of no maternity leave, it's what one does.

In the meantime, I'm trying to keep myself on task. Lists help. The Internet decidedly does not. Deadlines help. Understanding editors and bosses do not. (Why are you all so nice?) In a clear act of desperation, I resurrected my Palm Pilot this morning. Of course I haven't had the concentration necessary to do anything more than charge and sync it, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Don't bother answering that. I'm already thinking about something else.