Tuesday, November 25, 2008



Meet Sweet, the pig-nosed, meatball-cheeked, apple of my focus for the last 34 weeks. I love this little worm nestled contentedly on the right side of my belly, poking at my bladder and jabbing at my ribcage.

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.

Sunday, November 23, 2008


I read about the latest blogger happy hour in my former city and my appetite was whet again. I didn’t mean to stop writing. I can’t say it was an accident, really. By “not actively preventing”, my husband and I conceived within 5 days of my last post (educated guess and women’s intuition being the pinpoints). Since then, I have carried my developing baby genius 120,000 miles around the country in 7 months for work and the sheer exhaustion has limited my creative juices. In fact, my imagination is still barricaded by the perpetual distraction of consulting and the little one doing somersaults in my now enormous tummy. I did, however, finally fly my last flight before the birth of my first bundle of joy. I have not entered an airport in 10 days; a bittersweet reminder that life as I once knew it is on the brink of phenomenal overhaul. There was precious little that I had to give up to move to Las Vegas, but without doctor-permitted access to the friendly skies and weekly visits east I am now obligated to forge my desert living and reminisce about what I have really left behind.