Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Sweet, the day after he was born.
What I do instead of blogging - watch my son sleep.
Sweet, snuggling with Mommy.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
And so…I wait. For an overcommitted work-a-holic, it is a rare occurrence to wake up with little more to do than anticipate my first contraction. Over a candlelit birthday dinner my husband and I smiled at each other adoringly and breathed in our last savory moments of silence.
Monday, December 29, 2008
In a room full of slender, pompous 20-somethings, I can only imagine the sneers my buxom, 9-months-pregnant belly must have garnered. In fact, as I pushed Sweet awkwardly through crowds of drunken, dancing suits, the bouncer not-so-kindly denied my request to leave through a roped-off exit (I feigned discomfort in an attempt to break the rules) saying "maybe you shouldn't be here." He was right - not because my unborn child and I couldn't handle the multitude of people or the body-vibrating bass, but because one should never have to stomach such a pretentious scene on orange juice and water alone.
Regardless, it will make a good story to tell the little one when I'm in dire need of "rock star" points, because Lord knows I tossed my cool out the window somewhere along Route 40.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
And just as I ascend to the pinnacle of turmoil in advance of our baby's birth (transitioning work; year-end deliverables; prenatal classes; gift-buying; and preparation for all our relatives arriving for the holidays on the doorstep of our tornado of a half-painted and woefully disarranged house), our ages old backyard tree collapsed into our pool under the weight of the powdery goodness that Las Vegas is not particularly well-designed to handle.
Regardless, I say God bless the snow. In all it's infinite chaos, it will still never fail to calm me. I think I'll make some hot chocolate for Sweet.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Mothers-to-be, carrying carbonated orange juice and a bandeau-covered, oversized belly through a casino are quite the attention grabber. It’s as unlikely an image as Grandma Hazel clinging to a walker and an IV pole, rolling dice at a craps table full of cowboys. I will not lie and say I don’t enjoy the attention, particularly the googly-eyed, approving smiles of gambling fathers. In my state of natural obesity, it’s nice to be appreciated.
Las Vegas residents do not typically rush to the Strip for entertainment; there is plenty to be found elsewhere without the insufferable crowds (or obnoxious drink prices, if you’re able). But local-discount (or free – courtesy of generous concierge-friends with strings) shows are still a draw, as is the intensity of a solid power-hour of…bingo. If you enjoy a $15 diversion, but still want to socialize with your companions, don’t purchase the “rainbow pack”. My teal-hued dauber saw more action in sixty minutes than a low-rent call girl does in a week. Empty-handed, save some aquamarine ink stains on my hand, I still left the casino bingo hall feeling a satisfaction that no money-sucking blackjack table can bestow. Gambling without breaking the bank and a free hot chocolate in the belly I share with my Sweet. This may become a Thursday evening habit.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
With only 6 more weeks to go, I find myself reminiscing fondly about these last 7 ½ months and thanking the wrinkly little alien for being so kind to his/her work-a-holic of a mother. Save a 24 hour cold, I never got sick (I’m thankful for good vitamins, strong genes, or perhaps both). Save the pre-programmed exhaustion of my first trimester, I managed to survive my work weeks often on limited amounts of red-eye-induced sleep and forever changing time zones. Save an instant thickening of my once curvaceous waist, to the untrained eye my pregnancy was well concealed until my 5th month and my ankles have yet to swell (I still sport 4 inch heels to social events). Save a vivid dream or two that were the likely result of internal activity, I have never been awakened by the baby’s movements; never felt pain, discomfort or nausea; rarely had to get up in the middle of the night for a desperate pee; and never been want for assistance. Sweet has breezed past velvet ropes and slumbered while I shook my expanding hips on more than one hot night club dance floor; trucked along quietly on hikes through Red Rock Canyon (the last of which, although brief, was three days ago); listened patiently and attentively to my never-ending conference calls; and darted agreeably by my side through airport after airport; rental car after rental car; city after city. For the last 7 ½ months it has been tranquil baby, me and a suitcase against the world. I am a very, very lucky woman.
And now, here I am; home at last, nesting - washing gender-neutral jumpers, hooded towels, bibs, wash cloths and booties no bigger than my finger; preparing my home for the entry of a child who is already, quite possibly, an angel.