Pink Prickly Pear

When the mouse is away...

Mini-pear is off at the Magic Kingdom with her Aunt and Uncle, so mama gets the day off.  I would have slept in but, as usual, my stomach dictated what time I woke up.  Bah.

I did take advantage of my rapidly dwindling kid-free time to go shopping for some maternity clothes, having popped out very suddenly over the last week or so.  We're also experiencing a little heat wave so my droopy yoga pants were not going to cut it.  Not that I really found much of anything.  Old Navy's theme for spring appears to be sort of inspired by Mexico.  I don't mind blousy embroidered peasant tops, but given my shape (and the shape of most pregnant ladies) at the moment, it made me look as if I'd hastily stitched a mumu out of a vintage tablecloth.  Not a good look for anyone.  I bought 2 black t-shirts and a pair of black linen capris that may or may not last as long as I need them to. 

And now I'm experiencing buyer's remorse because what person in their right mind buys an entirely black wardrobe when they live somewhere as sunny as this?  It's going to get real sweaty around here.

My efforts at meeting Mr. Pear for lunch were thwarted by a very long business meeting.  I resisted the temptation to eat out on my own, opting to make a very large salad and a smoothie once I got back to the house. 

Now that the mail finally arrived, I'm patting myself on the back for having saved my lunch money, as it appears we have started receiving medical bills related to my being great with child and all.  Adding these bills onto those related to our family's love affair with the dentist was enough to make me wish I'd pulled all my teeth out long ago and taken a vow of chastity. 

I don't have anything exciting for you.  Not much happens when you make great efforts to slow everything down and maintain a low profile.  I could tell you about how much really bad television I'm streaming off the internets, but that would be divulging far too much.

In which she is too clever by far...

PPP:  Want to finish up that Pompeii book?

Mini-P mumbles something non-committal, possibly "Nah".

PPP:  I really want to find out what happens!

Mini-P [with dramatic eye roll and dead pan delivery]: The volcano explodes.  Everybody dies.

PPP:  I guess that's a no, huh?

Mini-P heads out of the kitchen shaking her head.

My balloon is bigger than your balloon

Despite how often they thwart our nudist tendencies by flying over the back garden at dinner time, we've never actually seen the hot air balloons take off.  The location varies, depending on wind conditions.  This weekend, coming home from our reconnaissance mission to the local BMX track (Mini-pear has her eye on another hobby, while Mr. Pear dreams of reliving his glory days), we happened upon a launch just down the road from us. 

After a wobbly start in which impossibly skinny little beach bum kids attempted to guide its progress without getting catapulted into the air by guide ropes themselves, the wicker baskets were eventually righted, their middle aged cargo given a hand in scrambling over the edge, and they were off - in completely different directions.

It's not her birthday yet!

In spite of this, my mama opened her birthday giftie! 

No more surprises, so I can post a pic;)  It's mini-pear modeling, so the actual shawl is not quite so big.  I think it would be nice if it was big, though.  I think this would be really snuggly knit on much bigger needles with fat slubby handspun, but I also like this smaller, delicate version.

I had some fun with this as, over the years, I've discovered I quite enjoy knitting lace, although I'm still not sure if I'd be so enamored with it as a garment if not for the technical and rhythmical process of knitting lace.  Maybe lace is just not quite my style...yet.  I think I'd wear this though - with a little t-shirt and jeans, or with a little elegant shoulder-less dress.  At any rate, what I am most proud of is that I made a few mistakes knitting this project, yet I did not have to rip it all out and start all over again.  In fact, I think one would be hard pressed to find the (now corrected) mistakes.  It was tricky and shoulder-clenchy and I made much use of my crochet needle in the correcting, but this project (and the corrections in particular) have left me feeling like I can knit anything.  Even if I have never made a hat, or the blanket I had in my head when I first approached little Australian Alice at the knitting shop in Chapel Hill and asked her if she  gave lessons.

Ahhh... Eh.

The other morning I called to Mr. Pear from the kitchen, "You can't stay in bed all morning!"

The fact that I was already up and in the kitchen before he got out of bed is noteworthy in and of itself.  Close readers know that this teenage mommy does not get out of bed until Mr. Pear brings her a hot cup of something.  However, I was feeling extraordinarily well rested and therefore, rose quite cheerily and made my own hot cup of tea and hot buttered crumpets (I brave the Trader Joes parking lot for these and these alone).

"Oi!  Pear!!!" I called a little louder.

"It's not going to give me bedsores!"

It's true.  We have a new bed and, among other things, the new bed is engineered not to give one bedsores.  We could lay in it all day long, every day, if we wanted to, to no ill effect.

It is not organic.  Nor is it a futon.  Nor is it king-sized, but it is some ultra-cushy Swedish memory foam that makes me conk out practically the minute my head hits the pillow (which is also new and made of that cushy Swedish memory foam).

However, I think it might be too comfortable.  I fall asleep immediately and don't move for hours.  This makes my muscles feel a bit funny when I do get up.  And usually, I get up because my bladder is bursting because I haven't tossed and turned and gotten up to empty it before the bursting point.  Then I have to hobble to the toilet and hobbling makes me feel old and decrepit.  The new bed is also, we have discovered, not very conducive to cuddling.  Our fancy Swedish memory foam pillows are quite heavy, so I can't tuck my arm under them when I am the cuddler.  I have to lay with my arm sort of mushed in between my burgeoning torso and Mr. Pear's back.  It is clearly to one's advantage to be the cuddlee in this situation.  I can't lay all the blame on the pillows (especially when they cradle my head so gently and require no nocturnal punching and rearranging).  When we had our other bed, we would take advantage of the inevitable tossing and turning and switching sides to cuddle back in.  There is no tossing and turning in this bed, so no opportunities to cuddle back in.  Therefore, I wake up feeling...well, feeling not very cuddled.

And, even worse than the cuddling (is it?  the lack of cuddling is pretty bad), I think it may be too soft.  A familiar backache has reintroduced itself.  It is the same backache I get after sleeping for more than a couple of nights on the expensive cushy mattress at my parent's house, and the expensive cushy mattress at my father in law's house, and yikes!  the expensive cushy mattress I slept on when I lived with The Fridge many, many years ago and basically all the beds I ever slept on until I met Mr. Pear and his very firm futon. 

Or it could be the unfamiliar backache of a lady with a big expanding belly falling asleep on her back and crushing everything in between.  Yeah, it could be that.  Or it could be something else...

Bad time to buy a bed, I think.  I mean, it's a good time, because I really needed it and could not sleep on the crappy futon anymore, but a bad time, because what if this ultra comfortable bed is the right bed for me, but I just don't know it because my body is in a transitional phase at the moment and therefore, unable to judge my new bed.  What if????

We have 120 days to change our minds.  There was a bed just like this one at the friendly Swedish bed shop, but a little less cushy.  I think that one might be the perfect bed.  Or maybe it would be for a pregnant lady, but not so for a no longer pregnant lady.

The anguish.

ETA:  Duh!  Swiss, not Swedish!

I know I didn't put Batman Begins on our Netflix queue.

Let me count the ways...

It didn't snow, but look!  Mr. Pear's beard is so neatly trimmed!

This morning he had a little remnant of his breakfast caught in there - nothing slimy or gross - a mere crumb. 

He leaned in for a kiss, "Ack!  There's something in your beard!"

He gives it a swipe.  Wrong side.

"Just get it for me!"

"You get..." I reach over and flick it off.  It's all I can do for the man who recently picked the sodden tissue remains of a toilet seat cover off my arse.  Yeah.  It's like that.  He made no comment, just gently supported me with one arm, while reaching around and unpeeling the offending bits of paper with the other.  Don't worry, I don't generally require such assistance - this was post-surgery a few weeks, me tottering around at the hospital not quite myself.

Just one of the reasons he makes me a very happy lady;) 

Mmmm, Greek yogurt!

I had my first pre-natal appointment where I've actually gained weight!  I'm still not where I was when I started, but we're on the up and up;) 

And I had my cerclage (cervix stitched closed) a couple of weeks ago.  I think I chose not to bore you with the gory details.  Anyway, at my appointment today everything looked fine and dandy and I got congratulated for my red meat consumption and rosy cheeks and low blood pressure and healed cervix.  I don't have to go back for 4 weeks!  Yee-haw!  I know every 4 weeks is normal for most pregnant ladies, but as you all know, I am far from normal on most fronts and this pregnancy has been no different.  Of course, once I do go back, it will be for my first progesterone shot and thereafter I will need to go every single damned week for a deep tissue injection in my rear.  Let's hope for a slow 4 weeks, shall we?

We are getting a good start with regard to slow weeks.  It appears to be spring break around here, so some classes are canceled and yesterday we thoroughly enjoyed the boredom of a day at home.  I holed up with my sewing machine and mini-pear worked through her boredom to the point where she broke out the work activity books.  I think "working through boredom" is a pillar of my personal parenting philosophy.  No, I'm not kidding.  It's all part of my whole hearted support for "time to day dream".  Mini-pear did need to make up a karate class late in the afternoon - one of the many marathons run in our area blocked passage to the dojo over the weekend - and a good thing she did too, as she received an invitation to test for her orange belt.  She is hugely excited over this and we are, naturally, very proud of her hard work.

Oral (not Roberts)

We made fudge!  Very easy fudge!  I would add "Tasty Fudge!", but as soon as I tasted a chunk I remembered that, despite loving practically all forms of chocolate, I'm just not a fan of chocolate fudge.  So Mr. Pear took a generous little box of it off to share at work and the rest has sat in our fridge for far longer than anything with any cocoa content has ever before.  Mini-pear must have forgotten all about it.   

Still, it was easy enough, so I think my next stop on the home-made candy train is going to be some very un-chocolatey, traditional English fudge.  Maybe I'll make that just before my mama und papa arrive next month, because otherwise I know I will eat the entire batch.  Given my incredible shrinking woman status, this might not be such a bad thing, except I worry that I might eat a ton in one go and lose my taste for it.  This would be tragic.

*

In other food news, I have completely given myself over to the dark side omnivorism.  Meat I can eat!  Broccoli sits in the crisper drawer of the fridge until it turns yellow and limp, but I've always got an appetite for burgers from In-N-Out.  It might not even be the burgers themselves (why no ketchup and pickles, In-N-Out?), but the sheer efficiency of it.  The menu is an exercise in simplicity -hamburger, cheese burger, or double cheeseburger - the fresh cut fries come in one size only.  The staff are unfailingly polite and earnest in their long red aprons secured with giant safety pins.  It's also fastidiously clean and bright.

I hadn't eaten at a regular fast food place in a couple of years now, and even then it was a once-a-year, stuck-in-the-boonies-with-nothing-else-for-miles-around-scenario.  Without fail I left feeling as dirty as if I'd just been caught exiting a suburban titty bar (don't they always look drastically seedier than those tucked into a city block?).  I'd try and avoid looking at who might be assembling my meal - impossible with the ever popular open kitchens.  Inevitably some Neanderthal would absentmindedly rub a boil on the side of his neck before slapping a limp slice of grey tomato on my sandwich - gag.   My fellow customers weren't much better - a sad display of humanity - who couldn't help but feel dragged down by them?  Not so at your friendly neighborhood In-N-Out!  Their demographic appears to include just about everyone - okay, maybe only those everyones [sic] who eat dead cows, but an adequate sampling of society in general.  Mmmmm...come to SoCal.  We'll eat some burgers together.

*

I'm not up for eating much right now though, given my afternoon visit to our dental dominatrix, Miss Kimberley (actually she is very nice and, like my dentist, gives a running play by play of events which I find helps keep the anxiety and pain to a minimum).  Got my roots planed.  Lots of deep digging with various implements, lots of suctioning of blood from the mouth.  Lots of icky tasting something or other during the "irrigation" portion of the proceedings.  I get to go again next Monday to do the other half of my mouth!  I can think of about a hundred things I'd rather spend $800 on, but I suppose nipping periodontal disease in the bud must take priority.  Sigh.

*

Here's an image to help you sleep - a black widow we found lurking in the garage last week.  Last year, when Mini-Pear's little friend announced we had "lots of black widow egg sacks" at our house, I thought he was being a scare-mongering little know-it-all.  You know how those home schooled kids can be!  Damn it if he wasn't right!  Mr. Pear and Mini-Pear promptly christened her Hermione and installed her in an allegedly maximum security spider facility on the kitchen counter.  Apparently she likes earwigs, but not grubs from the vermicomposting bin.  I'll be very happy when this particular little science project goes away.

Spring is as good a time as any to discuss the birds and the bees.

Thanks to a set of high flyin' truck nuts on the highway this evening, mini-pear and I got a jump on the ever procrastinated sexual education discussion.  BTW, if you didn't follow the first link, I must insist you follow the second one - it illustrates just one of the myriad of reasons why we're pretty confident we're not going to f**k the kid up for life by not sending her to state sponsored schools.

Just the high-lights (I dunno, maybe they're low-lights)...my innermost thoughts in italics.

MINI-P: Woah!  Did you see those testicles dangling from the back of that truck?!?!
PPP: How does she know they're testicles? Uh...no, I didn't.
MINI-P:  Wait, they really are testicles?  If you didn't see them, how come you believe that they're really testicles?
PPP: I've, uh, seen them before...

She is silent for a while.  The wheels are turning.

MINI-P:  Why do people put them on there?  Don't they know that they might offend...
PPP: ...old ladies and small children?
MINI-P: ...men?
PPP:  Men?  Do you think a woman was driving that truck?
MINI-P:  Of course!  Why would a man put them on there?  A woman might though.
PPP:  Really?
MINI-P:  If she wanted to tease a man.
PPP Obviously she means "tease" in the primary school sense of the word.
MINI-P:  It would make fun of them.  But that would maybe offend some men.  It might hurt their feelings.

I will have to paraphrase the next few bits.  I was laughing so hard, I could hardly drive.  The ever sensible Mini-pear noted that another good reason not to hang truck nuts from your rear bumper would be to not distract drivers like myself.  We might laugh and drive off the road.

Somehow she introduces the term "sexy".  I take a moment to point out the difference between organs which aid in the mechanics of sex and the term "sexy".  We both agree that testicles, in and of themselves, are not sexy, although they are intrinsic to procreation.  And this leads us directly to the nuts and bolts - sex as it relates to peopling the earth, as opposed to sex as it relates to just having fun with someone you care about.

Sex for fun inevitably leads our discussion on birth control...

PPP: Well, the man can wear something on his penis to stop the sperm from even entering the vagina.
MINI-P:  What?
PPP:  It's sort of like...a sock.
MINI-P [uncontrollably giggling]: That sounds awful!
PPP [considering, revising]: It's made out of the same material as a balloon.
MINI-P [getting down to important business]:  Do they come in all different colors?

Okay, so yes, they do but we talk about how really, you just want the thing to work.  It's kind of like how a sensible person wouldn't buy a car just because they liked the color.  You don't want to get stuck on the side of the highway, and you certainly don't want that condom to break.

MINI-P:  So what color are most of them, then?
PPP:  I guess they're this kind of see through-ish creamy color.  Like a clear band-aid.
MINI-P:  Really?  I just thought the regular ones would be black!
PPP: Uh, well, I suppose since they come in many colors, some would come in black, but for the most part, they seem to want to just blend in with the penis...
PPP [inserts foot in mouth]...as opposed to this big black penis coming at you...
MINI-P [oblivious to my faux pas]:  Well, yeah, but what about that big white penis coming at you?  [affects a big growly voice]  Big white penis comin' atcha!  Big white penis comin' atcha!  That would be crazy!!
PPP:  Indeed.

Yikes.  I suppose that's just the way it goes.  By the time we reached the house and settled in on the big lurid duvet to finish the conversation we were earnestly discussing the germ theory of disease (yet again!) and what kinds of bodily fluids carry disease, etc.

And now, I do not want to even talk about sex or testicles (shudder) with anyone for quite some time.  Hopefully, she won't either.