Wow, Time Flies

Ahh, I used to love to blog regularly.  And I still would, if only I could clone myself.  There’s so much that hasn’t appeared on this site that I wanted to put here as a record of our life.  So is life, I guess.  Now like the start of a Blog Neglecters Anonymous meeting:

Hello.  It’s been four months since my last post.  
On Valentine’s Day at Mt. Baker, I thought I was nursing a hangover from two PBRs – cold ones toasted the evening of my last poetry reading.  The reading was great, but the ill feelings were so bad, I thought I must be allergic to alcohol.  Yet as the prior post shows, we all had fun making turns that day, regardless.  What’s that saying?  Oh, a bad day on the mountain is better than no day.
By the first week of March, I was still feeling hung over.  My jeans weren’t fitting, I took really long naps and ate strange things like bowls of plain yogurt and drank lemon juice.  I even ran, to ward off the pounds.  The fertility drugs I had taken in our two previous previous pregnancies lead me to believe I must have some terminal illness and, certainly couldn’t be pregnant like baby-mama-group buddy Natalia suggested on day.  
I’ll remember the nine o’clock pink plus sign for the rest of my life; images of three children under five years old flashed before my eyes, myself in curlers (wait, I don’t even wear those!), and piles of laundry on the couch hiding nautical charts and ski gear flashed before my eyes in a sweaty panic.  But wait, I tried to tell myself.  Hadn’t I always wanted this?  Through dozens of past fertility pills I had dreamed of casually finding out I was pregnant, instead of making it so in a doctor’s office.  The grass is always greener, I supposed.  
Instantly, my body remembered where it had been before.  None of my favorite fancy jeans would button, so I was sure I was further along than the 5 1/2 weeks our initial ultrasound showed.  My thyroid levels quickly bottomed out, and I threw up, on average, of ten times a day for three solid months.  It made me lose all personality, and break down in places like the grocery store when someone would ask how I was doing.  Betty’s book-on-tape addiction grew to phenomenal heights, and she and Lucy would listen to book after book from the library while I traveled from couch to bathroom.  Even the mama-dolly in their doll house was positioned next to its tiny wooden potty.  
I lost thirteen pounds.  I even traveled to Florida for a wonderful three week vacation with the ladies for a Grandparent Beck visit.  The beach and rest was just what our midwife ordered, and the sunshine had us aglow with daily swims, lizard sightings and dolphin views.  But, man, did we miss daddy when we traveled back home.  I’m sure strangers still talk about the pregnant lady with two small kids who held a gallon Ziplock to her chin at all times through the terminal and on the airplane.  Or, hopefully, they talk of the big sister that fed her little sister on the plane, tucked her in to her seat and read her nap stories on our thirteen hour journey home.  
I’m 18 1/2 weeks now.  No more sickness, just insatiable hunger.  My body looks six months pregnant, but hey, I hear a basketball under your t-shirt is the new fashion accessory of the summer.  I can feel the avocado-sized human doing back flips at night; butterfly flutters abound. We have a midwife but, sadly, will have to deliver at the mainland’s hospital as home birth on the islands is a scarce practice.  At least we got to have that magical experience with Lucy May. So, we have a pilot-pal who will fly us to Orcas to pick up our midwife & doula, then to the hospital when the time arrives.  Our due date is November 11, but I’m saying Halloween because no baby (unscheduled) arrives on their due date.   Plus, I love little goblins…
The sailboat is in the water, the flowers are growing in the island sunshine and our ladies are incredible.
Luke is the universe’s best daddy and is quickly becoming a true man of the sea.

He rises with the sun before work and drifts on the swells and goes for what’s in season.  For a while it was the incredibly delicious spot prawn (oh, man) and now it is the ugly Ling Cod.  He also fly fishes for bass in one of the island’s lakes. He’s building me a sweet garden shed and plans to put that old farmhouse sink we used to have in our rainy kitchen at our old victorian.  He finished the rad playhouse for the ladies, and makes his lovely pregnant starving wife hot fudge sundaes, grilled cheese and tomato or anything else the little womb-munchkin craves, whatever the time of day/night.  He even plays beauty shop with the girls.  Ahhh.
Betty is 4 1/2.  
We had a beach picnic the other day to celebrate her half birthday, and just might have to make it a tradition.  She ended her school year at Children’s House Montessori Preschool in an amazing place, developmentally.  Stacks of paper show her pages of invented-spelling lists and letters, family portraits in colored pencil and abstract chicken-bird paintings.  She became quite a woodworker, and has glued, screwed and drilled a ferry boat, helicopter and working car.  She enjoys the ‘volcano work’ the best and loves to see the red frothy lava over-spill.  She has about fifteen words she can write perfectly, and even more words she can read aloud.  But that isn’t what impresses us.  She peels and cuts carrots, makes toast with butter, helps her little sister get dressed, feeds out pets, brings me ice water, does magic tricks, tells silly jokes and puts on the best interpretive spur-of-the-moment dance shows with her pig, Wilbur.  She also spends a lot of time telling Lucy May how to be a big sister, how to fold cloth diapers and how to swaddle her baby dolls.  
Lucy is 2 1/4.  
We want to make her a t-shirt with a Nike swoosh that says, “I Do It” because it is her mantra, screamed at high decibels.   She’s proud to be daytime (not sleep time) potty trained kiddo wearing big girl panties – did I mention she wears the same size undies as big sister?  What a cute little thick Hungarian Gypsy-bloodied baby.  She signs about twenty animals and even more foods and general things like window or driveway, all thanks to her sign language teacher, Betty.  She counts to ten, omitting 4-7, sings Itsy Bitsy Spider, does somersaults, swims like a maniac in goggles, draws faces in crayon and can put on her own shoes.  She’s is such a sweet little lady, who loves her big sister dearly.  We think she’ll be a vet, with her love of animals, especially chickens.  If only Mama hadn’t been attackted by that Montana parrot and Betty wasn’t allergic to eggs and Daddy loved other farm animals than just steak-producing cows, we might get an urban coup.  Oh well.  

One Comment

  • Katie says:

    I love when you write about your sweet fam. We miss you lots 🙂 And you have such an enlightened side when it comes to birth~I don't think a hospital can touch that for you this time…

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