According to my due date, I will be a mother in exactly one month

And I have the body to prove it.  For those of you who have asked for more prego shots, I apologize for the wait, but seriously – can’t you just IMAGINE me rounder in all areas?
p.s. the baby just did a dramatic shift to belly right, as if to say she’s chic-er than just round, she can make me bulge asymetrically

My dear friend Hollie seems to have taken the only photos of me pregnant.  First the beach nap capture from the previous post, and now these gems.  She asked if she could practice maternity shots on little (cough) ol’ me, and knowing that was her sweet way of taking hours to document my pregnancy, I’m ever so grateful for her sharing of talent.

 

  

Baby Bump

I thought I would religiously stand in front of the same doorway every week.  Same black shirt, same sideways pose (the only time in one’s life you choose this pose I’d imagine), perhaps a piece of fruit relating to the size of my blueberry/apple/banana/mango held up.   But no.  I’m 26 weeks and not an intentional doorway photo to show for it.  So few photos period in fact, that I’m starting to worry it will look like I’m not excited, or worse, that I CARE that my body resembles (as my classmate so kindly pointed out) “a house”. 

A few of you found this tell-tale photo on Jocelyn’s blog… so I digress and put it on mine as one of the only pictures I have of me pregnant (taken while Paul and I napped on the Outer Banks of NC during our Labor Day trip together). 

We did take a few this weekend when we went apple picking – where I’m wearing more clothes and not showing you my gleaming white thighs.  I’ll  put up when we re-discover our camera, which is in one of the many boxes we’ll be moving this weekend.  Yes, we’re finally moving up to the astute world of 2-bedroom living quarters.  It’s a big deal.

I might be jealous at my funeral

On The Day, I thought much about when I’d see so many wonderful people in one place again.  So many favorites in so few square feet – the kindreds, the family, the dearly loved ones.  I knew it then, and Rebecca said it well:  not until my funeral, at which point I’ll be a ‘remote’ participant.  But maybe then I’ll hear more of the conversations… be more privy to surveying it all… get to oohhh and ahhh at how everyone’s kids have grown without them hearing me and rolling their eyes.  Maybe, other than really wanting to touch everyone, it will be one of the best days of my (life isn’t the right word, is it?)…
Or maybe I’ll be really jealous that I’m not technically in attendance.   These people all in one place? 

 

 

 

Everyone’s invited, not for the viewing because I think I’d rather people remember me before the false eyelashes.  But because if I die first Paul might trade his Levi funeral song for mine (would you honey, really?), and you would really really like the people there.

Registering Thursday’s Complaints

Dear Taker of Complaints.

I have a complaint.  Actually, today I have had many of them.  Today I am frustrated, and you’re the outlet.  I believe that my frustration = one part pregnancy swing + one part waking up too early (this constant bathroom visiting thing, seriously) + one part work/expenses/being far away/blepharitis/apt. hunting/the unknown/dogs.   Just so you know where I’m coming from.

 - Generally I like work.  I’ve been very lucky in this dept.  But this week has been full of details relating to a grant application that requires sealing the deal on about 20 partnerships in a 2 week period.  Seriously, these phone calls are painful,  and the rest of my work is suffering – let it end.

 - I also generally like our cars.  But when they cost money, I temporarily hate them.  Today I hate Paul’s car for needing new rotors and new tires.  Never EVER buy a car that can only use ‘performance’ tires.  They cost more than a very lovely vacation.  Or a couch.  Or 4 front row seats to see Federer play.

- As I near the point of being a stay-at-home, I realize that so many of my favorite stay-at-homes that I could finally stay-at-home with are far far away.  Luckily there are some lovely souls here, but sigh to the kindreds I miss. 

 - Blepharitis.  Ew.  I dislike your ugly name.  I dislike that you make me look like I have a drug habit, or have been crying for 6 hours straight, or sprayed AquaNet in my eyes.  I dislike that you sound like a disease about lying.  I dislike how fickle you are.  But at least red (the color of my ‘whites’) is opposite green (the color of my eyes) on the color wheel; a real stand-out.  At least there’s that.

 - I really dislike moving (unlike the .001% of the population who thinks it’s a great time).  I dislike finding boxes.  I dislike filling boxes.  I think unpacking them after going through the trouble of the first two is cruel.  Can’t we just live out of boxes?  Let’s paint them bright colors and call it art-deco living.  I also don’t like that I can’t picture where our boxes will reside.  In 4 weeks we have to move and the ‘where’ is a mystery.

 - I actually really like dogs.  Not Chows so much, or Pit Bulls… but in general I’m canine friendly.  Why do Paul and I not have a dog right now?  Because they’re a lot of work, and we both see a city dog (complete with poop clean-up) as a nightmarish idea.  So when I find myself dog-sitting for the 3rd time in a month (including poop pick-up), I’m irked.   I might not be were it not for the proximity we have to drive to pick up after the creature, but that combined with my heightened sense of smell and difficult to bend body… I’ll get a dog when I’m ready, thank you. 

 - Courtney’s moving in a week.  She’s one of my favorites and I’ll miss her like mad. 

On a positive note, we caught the mouse we’ve been diligently chasing for about 2 months.  I was going to put that on the complaint list (coming home to dead mouse), but thought it was actually quite a victory.  Little mouse, your death represents the turn of events – it’s all up and up from here.  So Mr. Complaint-Taker, I’m not sure how you got this job (or who you complain to), but thanks for letting me get this off my chest.  I’ll be a little lark next time.

Furrowed brow starting to turn already,
SAS

The Year

About a month ago Paul and I celebrated our anniversary.  One year.  I was astounded, happy, and a little sad.  There’s something fantastic about being in the first minutia of something that will last forever.  How long have you been together?  people ask.  Oh, 3 months.  6 months.  8 months.  You know, just long enough to be holding hands as tightly as children hold balloon strings, yet already knowing some of the ‘does he like pickles on his hamburger’ questions they ask in immigration interviews.  Then again, I can’t wait to get to the 50th anniversary.  See?  Yes, same man.  It’s wonderful, thank you.  I  still (after the children, gray hair, loss of any muscle tone, multiple moves, and making every major decision in tandem) highly recommend it.

The anniversary fell during our vacation to see family – it started in Idaho Falls, where Paul woke me up with flowers and one of his thoughtfully written cards; and ended up in Salt Lake City, where he pulled out a beautiful silver bracelet he had had made weeks before our vacation (this is why I’m a bad wife, I was ordering his gift online FROM our vacation).  He’s the kind who puts confetti in my gifts because he knows I like it - one of the umpteen reasons I can’t live without him.   As we sat at dinner and talked about the memorable milestones and surprises of the year, I was so grateful that we were only on chapter one.  Please, let’s not rush this life thing along, I’m rather enjoying myself.

 Of course the anniversary made me think back on The Day.  Truly, with  no regard to cliche, the best day of my life.  Best people in the world smiling at me all day, and making every inch of me smile back.  My best person really taking me to be his.  It was the day I couldn’t wait to come, and I hoped would never end.  I have forgotten, though I’ve begged my mind not to, many of the little details.  But I’ll never forget how I felt walking into that sealing room, sunlight streaming into that sacred place, as if light were a marker of absolute rightness.  I was elatedly sure this was where I was meant to be, by the side of this person I would have to stretch to deserve, watching glistening faces of friends and family who knew too.   It’s a wonderful thing to be sure, something I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel.

And now, here we are, 4.5 months with child and hunting for a 2 bedroom apartment.  We look at each other and comment (with wonder) that we don’t tire of each other, that there’s never enough time to be together, that we can go to the grocery store more than any other activity and find joy in life.  I felt lousy yesterday post-church, so Paul showed his empathy by watching Anne of Green Gables with me (you heard it here folks).  Not only did I love him for the mere tolerance of the most chicky of all the flicks, but even more for his laughing at Anne’s huffiness, and looking at me with an indignant tear in his eye, “I didn’t know Matthew was going to die!” 

I was too tired to put the clean sheets on the bed last night, and flopped down face-first on the fitted sheet Paul had put on while I brushed my teeth.  I woke up still-clothed, tucked into a bed that had been made around me while I slept, next to the man I love most.

He is many things to list on paper, but there is just a way about Paul that I’ll never describe.  He has a manner, an approach, a gentle kindness that moves me and makes me grateful that every illness and tragedy and thrill will have him in it.   He makes me better.  He makes me happier than ever before. 

One year – here’s to a million more.  I pray they linger.

Sugar and Spice

Our rascally little bird, she nearly forced us into name considerations like Pat and Kelly and Elliot so reticent was she to be gendered.  Dubbed ‘a sonographer’s nightmare’, missy sat at the bottom of my uterus, Indian style, and moved everything but her backside for about 45 minutes. Luckily, I was just as interested in if she had hands and feet, and was mesmerized by the little blips of human features that popped up on the usually impossible to decipher screen.  It wasn’t until the woman said, “Looks like it’s going to be impossible to tell the gender unless that baby moves,” that I realized it might be a yellow summer.  I had really been looking forward to blue or pink.  My disappointment must have happened upon my face because she went to get the radiologist to have him ‘look things over’, and instructed me to walk around a bit while she was gone.  Walk?  And risk the creature staying put?  Nay.  The door clicked shut and I was on my feet: jumping, stretching, wiggling, dancing, and shimmying while Paul laughed and my hospital robe threatened indecency.

The radiologist walked in, re-gelled the belly, and immediately said as if it were common knowledge, “Oh, it’s a girl.” 
“It’s a girl!” I gushed. 
“Yes, and here is her femur… “
“It’s a girl!” I whispered loudly to Paul no less than 8 times
“She’s got her hand up by her face,” he narrated.
(“It’s a girl!”)
“Look she’s yawning.”
All pause to see the miracle of such a small thing doing something so big. 
It nearly took my breath away.

It’s a girl.

Which shoe will fit?

 - or -

?

Of all of the posts I thought I’d write, it would be the one about The Pending Baby.  I’d planned a rousing lecture on how no one REALLY warned me about morning sickness (ok Pierce you did, but you’re right, I just didn’t GET it then), searched months ago for the clip of Jim finding out Pam was pregnant on The Office since it reminded me of Paul finding out (minus volleyball… and the hospital.. but the hugging and surprised excitement and lack of words…. that part), and considered creating another of my terrible poems that tried to relay how I felt at the news:  giddy, relieved, amazed, so ready, totally unprepared, grateful, really-9-months-starting-NOW-? shock.

But then came the nausea, 17 weeks of it.  And my only activity became listening to the tv from the couch.  Plus I wanted to call, you know, and then there was the fact that we didn’t tell our parents until we were 3 months along.  So here we are, I’m 18.5 weeks into the 40, and we find out on Friday if the little one will wear pink or blue (or in this case yellow and red birdies or black topsiders).  I have to ask, even before the bullets of last post are addressed:

Do you think tiny Mickelsen (now the size of a bell pepper) is a BOY or GIRL?

p.s. since I’ve always loved baby shoes, I thought it appropriate to use these as voting sticks.  But there were SO MANY adorable little feet covers that I have to show a few more:

Adorable, no?

Much love and many kisses,

Sarah, the rotund.

I wonder what constitues a valid excuse for not blogging for months

If one exists, I’m not privy to it, nor deserving. I think I’m just summer lazy. And when I get time for blogging, I still prefer reading yours to writing mine. A little travel here and there, sure, but it’s not like we’re backpacking Brazil. Since we’re running out the door (airport departure in 32 minutes), I’ll do what I do best: make myself a list for later. Off the top of my head, things I should expand on:
– The Earth Day surprise
– Vegas & Carruth the angel
– Amy’s fabulous visit
– The reunion gathering that became…
– The birth! Sara Pratt Henriod’s beautiful Claire Elizabeth born mid-sleepover
– Turning 29, married
– July 4th
– Tom’s return from Guatemala

Paul and I are headed West for 2 weeks – greeting/meeting (Paul and Tom have never met!), Utah and Idaho visiting. Enjoying dry air and cool canyons. I miss you all, and can’t wait to see some of you, and catch up with the rest soon.

Eat some shaved ice, float the nearest river, enjoy summer!

xo’s
Sarah

In 24 hours

I’ll officially be done with my first year of grad school. They give you a lot of false ends to the year:
Last day of class
Last day of reading
Last day to turn in papers
Last day of finals..

But after all these lasts, they throw a day of comprehensive exams at you. Six hours of testing covering everything you’ve been taught for the year (this is after the finals we just took last week). I’m just saying, I’m really ready for a The End to come up on the red curtain… 
Tomorrow testing, then hello summer.

One year down, 4+ to go.

Happy Birthday Mr. Mickelsen

Paul & his best friend Mike

Paul turned 32 yesterday.  My little brother Tom called from Guatemala (because he could, Mother’s Day), and said ‘Woah!  He’s an old man!’  Now now Tom, just because you’re 21, doesn’t mean Paul is old, he’s just wise… with a few gray hairs.

Last year, we were in Cabo for Paul’s birthday, celebrating with a cake shaped like a fish and a pinata on the veranda.  This year, we took a little road trip to Philly.  Not quite as warm/glamorous/exciting, but we did get to sleep in really late on Saturday morning AND ate a Bob Evans breakfast.  My favorite part?  Watching a whole episode of American Gladiators (circa 1989), just because we could.  Conclusions – Malibu has the world’s raddest hair, there is NO way Nitro got a job post-Gladiators, and the debate rages on about Storm’s true gender (I still say there’s no way that’s a woman).  We did see some sights – the Franklin Institute, Love Park, the Reading Terminal Market, and the kind of cheesesteak that doesn’t let you down.  But mostly we just ’got away’ – from books, and papers, and work, and our subsequently neglected apartment.  Road trips when you’re dating are fun because you finally get concentrated time together.  But when you’re married, you realize that at the end of the GPS trail is home, to both of you. Even better.

I am so grateful for this man.  If I had to boil the nebulous cloud of love and admiration to 10 thoughts today, they would be:

1 – He is good to me every single day.  Not good like cordial, or civil, or nice.  But really, really good.  Kind.  Selfless.  Loving.

2 – He is one of the few people I like to hear talk politics.  In this city, I tire quickly of rantings and ravings on both sides of the party lines.  But Paul is politically savvy, conscious of laws and the Constitution, my kind of conservative, and really smart.  Vote Paul, 2012. 

3 – The other day I woke Paul up with tossings and turnings, and instead of the “Could you please stop wiggling” I would have given him, he said sleepily, “Can I get you anything?”  Even half asleep he’s serving.

4 – He’s at mutual every Wednesday night hanging out with the young men of our ward.  They look up to him, wear his ties, and are better for the things he shares with them.

5 – He proof-read my 25 page paper at midnight last night.  Even though I argue over semantics and pshaw over grammatical corrections.  Bless him (I was 10x’s more confident turning it in).

6 – He has the best smile lines I’ve ever seen.

7 – He prays for my friends.

8 – He always tries to insist that I drive the air conditioned car, even though his head touches the roof in mine.

9 – He makes a mean pot roast and the world’s best mashed potatoes.  He cooked for me before I’d ever cooked for him. 

10 – He’s Idaho farm boy, meets bi-lingual Argentine/Columbian/Bolivian, meets well-versed Washington attorney.  Recipe for perfection.

Happy Birthday, Love.  You’re my favorite.

In honor of Paul sharing his birthday with Mother’s Day. 
She’s worthy of the adoration.