Mele Kalikimaka 2006

Fabulously, I had the entire week of Christmas off as did Shane! As I pushed for Christmas in Paris, utilizing our accumulated miles on Capital One, we settled for a quiet Christmas at home. It was more of his idea. I figured since this would be our last hurrah before entering the world of parenthood, we might as well go out with a romantic bang.

Since the first week of December, presents skirted our tree. The first time we were on top of Christmas. It was hard to imagine as I've always enjoyed the thrill of last minute shopping. Oddly enough, I am -hopefully soon to be former- a procrastinator. It felt brilliant to be steps ahead of the Christmas holidays. I wanted to savor this holiday as much as possible.

Meanwhile in Christmasland...Christmas as a Cadelinia was usually filled with sugar filled nieces and nephews drowning in unappreciated gifts meanwhile I partake in holiday gluttony. I forgot to mention the secret santa for the adults which really wasn't much of a secret, because I could always figure out the culprit behind my gift. Most of the time, I just chocked it down to the mission of regifting. This is not to be mistaken with my childhood as a Cadelinia which you can take up with my former therapist. Giggle. Let's just say Santa never showed much interest in the Cadelinia household when it came to gifts. What we didn't have in gifts was made up in the union of family. Yes, try to explain that to a six year old.

Although Shane's childhood Christmas was filled with christmas cookies and gifts galore. A sparkle gleams in his eye everytime he reaches into his Catskill Christmas past. I must admit I experience a mild singe of jealousy everytime he indulges in his childhood. Since we're embarking the shores of familyhood, Shane advised that we reinstate the Kitchen ritual. Huh, dear mom would suffer a cardiac, if she overheard our conversation. You see in Hawaii, family is number one. Family does not consist of simply siblings and parents. Family in the islands includes cousins, uncles, aunts and other straggling relatives, a form of coming together to celebrate the spirit and love of our ancestors.

The Kitchen's Christmas(s) were spent strictly with siblings and parents. It made sense, although mom would have a Filipino fit. It's different when you come from a family the size of the Roman army where the meaning of peaceful silence never resembled a sound. After a couple minutes of collaborating, we established that Christmas Eve would be spent with the Cadelinia clan. No harm and no foul. Everyone was happy!

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2006 our last Christmas as non-parents. We were lavishly selfish. Christmas morning came as rapid as the growth of my belly. Considering I tried my hardest to sleep in, although my REM process does not exceed 800am. Dilemma at hand, I laid in bed flipping through channels trying to catch a holiday film, besides a Christmas story, but to no avail. Shane, on the other hand, was better at sleeping in. A smile came to my face as I imagined other adults having miserably attempting to fulfill a family agenda.

We eventually peeled ourselves from bed. We made a fire and lit the pillar candles as holiday music filled our home. We prepared breakfast and baked Christmas cookies. It was a jolly good time. Heck, even Chloe had her own stocking filled with chewing toys. I know, ring the alarm, weird pet people! Honestly, I am very nostalgic, thus I put off unwrapping gifts like Fidel Castro and Cuba. In my world, once the gifts are unwrapped, hence the holiday comes to an end. 2:30pm rolled around, and I attempted to stall the beauty of this holiday like no other by pushing the gift exchange to follow dinner. Shane nodded in agreement, but his facial expression said different. It was time for the selfless part of me to take hold. The unraveling of the gifts would pursue in thirty minutes and counting.

Here we are in the midst of Christmas. It was delightful to be spending this beautiful day with my lovely husband. All the Christmas gifts under the tree could not surpass the mirth. We were in our beautiful home overlooking the bay in our pajamas and sitting by the fire with Chloe at our side as little Kitchstar begins to kick in light tantrums in the warmth of my belly. To make matters more frilly, I am in love with my husband, no words can describe the depths and degree of my adoration for this sweet man. It was in this moment, this day, that I hold special in my heart. It was bliss. It was radiant. It was Christmas.

Kick Ass!

As I sat at my desk, flutter, flutter, flutter went the inside of my stomach. "Hmmm," I thought to myself, "could that have been?" Laurie, my sister has been hounding me about Kitchstar's first kick. I was told that it should start as a flutter like butterflies in your stomach or gas, but everyone knows that I don't get gas. I'm super human. I felt it again. My heart raced, but it also could be the gurgling of my empty stomach. It could also be the anger of Kitchstar begging for some food.

My appetite has been far from gorging. Although my recent doctor's appointment, I was a whopping ten pounds from the month before. I've never broken the 130 pound barrier, I have four more months to endure. I said to the nurse, "That can't be healthy," she shrugged and readjusted the scale. Probably pegged for an eating disorder victim. As Sue McDonald went through her five month synopsis, I blurted, "Now, I gained ten pounds, since last month. Should I be concerned? I'm concerned. I've been really good with my diet and I'm not hoarding on mounds of sweets or transfats or preservatives," I blabbed, " What's going on doc?" She assured us that there was nothing to worry about, considering that I gained twelve pounds throughout the pregnancy is nothing to shudder about. Kitchstar is growing at bullet speed so that is normal. If I keep gaining ten pounds in the upcoming months, than the guile will have to come down.

Shellie's Proverb: A person that can never see the big picture is near sighted.

I can't believe we're at the five month mark! I can't. Time is traveling at the speed of light. My stomach is it's own entity, refusing to slow the pace down just a bit. Surreal. Just four more months to go and wham! New chapter of diapers, lack of sleep, postpartum depression, stretch marks, breast feeding, and possible hemorrhoids and private part cosmetic issues. Nonetheless, we'll have a Kitchstar!

As we prepared for work this morning hugs, kisses, and a wagging marshmallow fluff of a dog jumped around the bed. All of this was a blatant reminder that we have it good and it was all about to morph. Extinct. There will be an Kitchen addition with a never-ending need to want. A beautiful addition nonetheless, and that's the reality. I don't mind the tragic change, but I savored that moment just as well, "Do you know that we'll be sleep deprived and grumpy four months from now?" I gestured to Shane as I slipped my suit jacket on, "It's simple. Kissing. Hugging, playing with Chloe. It'll all be different." Shane shrugged, "It'll be different, but it will be better."

I admired his spunk. I relished his outlook. As I am one hundred percent of a realist, he neutralizes my outlook. As long as we are prepared for the quake of happenings that Kitchstar will bring, than we'll be okay.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper that doesn't swim should never cross the path of the water.

Grrrrrin and Bear it

It's been a difficult night. My hormone monster has reared it's wretched head and is causing all sorts of havoc in this peaceful home. In the middle of our discussion of our holiday party, I blew up like Mt. Vesuvius when Shane's definition of semi-formal was jeans and a nice shirt. I quickly developed two new personalities: Psycho and Crazy Killah. To add salt to wound, his reoccuring is really getting on my nerves. The fact that he can never recall our previous discussions has become a point of contention. I mean one day he likes George Michael and the next he's appalled by the mere mention of the man behind the Jitterbug. These ridiculous conversations develop into an exclusive explosion. He, like the true husband, ignores me by watching the basketball game. As my anger brews and manifests, he washes me out.

His definition of semi-formal churned in my head like cement setting in. I recalled our conversation weeks ago. It was his idea! It was him that thought it would be a great idea to give a reason for friends and family to dress up. Not mine. I know it sounds like a woman was behind the idea such as Lady Macbeth, but not me. My thoughts began to turn dark, "My god, he doesn't listen to me! Why am I here? This marriage sucks! He sucks! Marriage sucks. I can't believe it." I cried. I got angry. I wept. My anger steeped into furious. I sobbed. I pictured biting his head clear off, blood squirting from his neck. It was all the normal estrogen filled manic thoughts that was the prelude to a magma molten melt down.

Shellie's Proverb: A man that marries a woman that nags is a fool.

As he slept in bed, I went out for a drive trying to save Shane from my wrath. A walk would've been beneficial, but the chill was unfriendly. I had the music blaring as it always does me good. I attempted to put my hormones to rest. There was no reason to expose Shane to my madness. It was not fair to him. I knew I was being irrational. I was aware of my explosion. I just needed to be. Was I being utterly ridiculous? Have I gone past ridiculous? I just want to be heard. How could a symphony of anger be orchestrated by one absolute semi-formal note?

Gladly, there's always a new morning to envelope me into a new day. A clean slate. A fresh start. I held no grudges. The depression was still there, but I needed to let it go. Let it all go. My disagreement wasn't important. My happiness was important. My husband was important. I know you fellow preggers and naturally premenstrual females can't feel me on this one. It is difficult to practice self control. It's so easy to fly off the handle like a witch on a broom on Hollows eve, but I did it. As I know of legendary excuses due to pregnancy, I was not going to use my hormones as a cop out. I was not going to be that person, that screams and throws tantrums just to get their way. I am not a bitch. I mean, I am, but I choose my battles and this was not worth whetting my sword. The morning greeted me with a beautiful sunrise. In the sunrise, I discovered that there was room for forgiveness and understanding in my heart, because Shane is who he is and that is why I love him.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must understand that the art of battle is gauging conflict.

Dudes of Hazard

As the holiday festivities ensue, so the cupeth overfloweth. As of last Thursday, Shane has been on a mild bender mixed with his buds and beers. Bait, hook, and sinker. My fellow has been consuming alcohol like a mad fish. It's been comedy.

Although on a dark day Sunday, the day of the 49ers and Packers game, was the venom of all fangs. He left the house approximately nine thirty in the am dressed for an ice fishing expedition. His gaggle of buds met at Blooms as they had a bus scheduled to take them to Candlestick Park to begin their tail gating fiesta. Did I forget to mention there were still exuding vapors from the Christmas party from the night before? There's something about a pack of dudes that just scares the white cells out of me. Nonetheless, a pack of Packer fans or any football fan makes me want to crawl underneath my bed.

Breakfast at Zazies, house chores, Christmas shopping, wrapping Christmas gifts, grocery shopping, and a home made lasagna later, my husband was as absent as a blonde on a full moon. Typical. Needless to say, the Packers won and so the tirade of drinking commenced into the evening. Damn them boys! Men are always boys when around other males, slapping each others butts, farting, and drinking till they puke. Typically normal, yet strange.

It was time for me to place that "get your ass home now" phone call. As I viewed my beautiful culinary art work of a lasagna cooling on the counter, there was no hesitation whatsoever.

"What are you doing? It's almost eight o'clock. Get your ass home now." I did not permit any room for response.
"Hi Hon!" He excitedly blurted.
"Listen, I don't care what your doing, but you need to get your ass home, it's almost eight."
"Alright, I was waiting to catch a ride to the house."
"Where are you?"
"At Blooms."
"Huh, okay you get your lazy ass up those two blocks, you little turd! Now."
I could not believe the audacity of this monkey. It was Sunday night. Any other night was fine, but on a Sunday! Apparently, a delay to Shane's arrival was due to a friend's mishap, the accident will proceed as unrecorded. Honestly, after boys’ night out, golf tournament, dueling Christmas parties, and flippin’ Packer day, all I sought was to unwind with him on Sunday night. It was ritual.
Shellie’s Proverb: A donkey that pulls the cart with no driver drives like a jackass.
Even in my free spirit ways, I have my limits. It's called a harness. Let him know who is boss. I mean, everyone knows he wears the pants in this marriage, the pant-ies that is. Surely, I jest. What can I say, except that it all comes down to the fact that I missed him. I did. What bites is when these boys gather for their monkey convention, it’s all or nothing. It's chaos and injury all wrapped in a sweaty jock strap of male bonding. Ah, the criminy. All in all, my life could be worse and in the end life is beautiful.

Lesson: A whip smart Grasshopper must always look on the bright side of the conflict.

Reindeer Games

As the billowing of my belly increases, so the social aspect of my life begins to dawdle. How I got here, I can simply assess. Could it be the marathon of naps that left friends drowning in my drool? Could it be my vim less disposition? Perhaps, it is the abstinence from alcohol, without alcohol my alter ego subsides in the death valley of my boredom.

Today, I woke with an urge to mingle with the outside world. I sat upright in bed. It's been awhile, since I've had a girls dinner. I know. I know that the world does not spin on my axis. Although Angela was stopping by anyway, as her website needed tweaking, so why not lasso a few other women into the picture. My need to bond with my gals was like threading a needle blind. I know, as water equals urine, that most my chicas calendars were booked.

Shellie's Proverb: An ostrich that buries it's head in the sand is only ostracizing oneself.

I've always marveled at the camaraderie between mothers versus singletons. I was never convinced until now. It is so intresting when moms feel the need to join the other army of mothers, clucking about their experiences with their children and the new dog tricks they can do. Certainly, there are a few that have the luxury to graze on lavishly green pastures of cocktails and dancing. I would like to be included in that percentile, but one never knows. Surely, there is a middle. I guess it all comes down to one's interest. Who wants to listen to some whiny endless woes of a pregnant woman? Not me! I could switch it up to the adaptation on sex while pregnant. Now, there's a subject that's always captivating.

In any words, the storm is calm as I'm in the prime of my pregnancy and it's astonishing to see my environment transform before me. Not on purpose. Nonetheless, changes occurred. I admit making remarks like, "I'm pregnant, I can't go out drinking." or "I can't go dancing, I'm pregnant." It's comments like these that has set my precedence. Ugh, why can't a pregnant woman hang out with her friends on girls' night out? Duh, on a pogo stick! What is my damage? I guess my nesting moments heavily overshadowed the social aspect of my life. Mostly, watching a movie and cuddling with my nice cashmere throw seemed riveting at the time. Now that I'm temporarily over my nesting, so my social life is an empty parking lot. Ironic.

Please don't feel sorry for me Argenta. All is not awry. So I've missed a night of bowling, Mos Def at the Mezzanine, a couple girls night out. It's not the end of the world. All could turn on a dime like switching back to nesting mode. God forbid. God, please forbid. Smile. I must find my happy medium. On a happier note, my husband is having a great time. I can revel in his delight. It's so beautiful to see him tickled with life.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must find time to play to achieve the fortune in the cookie that is life.

Fa la la la la la la la la

I absolutely adore the holiday season! Mistletoe, wreaths, Christmas cookies, noble fir, tree decorating, Christmas music and caroling, holiday parties, special moments with friends and family. In lonely years past, Christmas was more of a forlornness. An emptiness in my gut that I was certain could never be filled. Certainly, I had family and friends, but it was still vacuous. A wintry moment of my existence, until my Shane enters stage right.

I thought this year we'd punctually receive the holiday season. It was the first weekend of December and we're up at seven thirty am. Well, I was up at seven o'clock, but that doesn't count, because I'm just one hundred percent strange. We quickly scarfed a bowl of cereal and we made haste to Home Depot to purchase our Christmas tree. Home Depot you ask? Yes, Home Depot, you minions. Why pay startling prices for trees that are just as beautiful for a price that doesn't give you irritable bowel syndrome. As we rolled into the parking lot, it seemed many others had the same genius idea as we did. The wrath of impatience rumbled the honking of horns as experienced oblivious car drivers, Asians, drove with such cluelessness. Shane, who usually possesses the patience of a tortoise, began to squib such harsh words towards the preceding driver. I, on the other hand, was filled with the holiday spirit, scolded him to embrace the holiday kindness. He would not have any of my holiday blurb. The curse of scrooge had taken over my sweet husband of mine.

Shellie's Proverb: An ox that pulls a heavy cart always gets a good nights sleep.

Shane had derived some deviant plan to get us in and out quickly, "Now remember quickly head towards the nobles, grab the one we want and head for the cashier line. Make it quick honey don't get distracted. We're going to bypass all those suckers who are getting the bottoms of the trees trimmed." Shane was proud that he had a chainsaw in our garage, therefore saving us the headache of the suckers who didn't have one at home. There in the far right aisle of all the madness stood this majestic nine feet whopper all by it's lonesome. That was it. That was the one. That was our baby. I made way to it's green magnetism luring me into it's sweet song. "Honey, that is way too big for our living room! There would be no room for the star." Shane shook me out of my daze and walked right past it towards the seven to eight feet firs. The smell of Christmas trees was nostalgic. It's magical. It's enlightening. Shane grabbed a tree that was wound up with string, "This is the one." His hands steady and sure. I, on the other hand, did not have the foresight for something wrapped tight. We cut the string in MacGyver fashion with our car keys. There it stood perfect full from bottom to top. I smiled and nodded my head, "Now your going to have to steer me in the right direction, because I can't see anything." He placed the vast monster on his shoulders. Personally, I don't like being responsible for another's sight or direction. Basically, I prefer not to be accountable, if possible.

"When's junior due?" The cashier inquired with his gray crow bar moustache.
"May 9th." I smiled, but I deliberately worn a large baby doll blouse to conceal Kitchstar from the world. No such luck.
"Boy or girl?" He stared at Shane and me.
"We're going old school sir, we're not finding out." I was proud to reveal that some people still believe in Santa Clause.
"Well, that's the way it ought to be. Good luck to little junior and have a happy holiday." The gentle moustache friend wished us adieu.

We walked towards the truck as the nostalgic fragrance of yesterday faded the closer we got to our truck. My heart oozed warmth as we embraced the holidays in an early fashion. For the first time, Kitchstar was evident and I could care less about my bloated condition. This was a very memorable holiday season. I'm about to embark on a life time adventure with Shane and Kitchstar. That is what holidays are all about. Family.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must remember that pork dumpling do not grow on trees.

No!!!!

I am trying my best not to convert to the week system as I am more of a month person myself, "I'm 4.5 months!" I mean if a friend asks, why get technical? It's so frustrating for someone outside of the pregnant world to convert weeks into months. As I understand the theory behind the "week" system, I would rather be polite to friends and family and bust out, "I'm 4.5 months pregnant! Rather than I'm 17 weeks, 2 days and 1,100 seconds and counting." Nerd alert!

Three significant hormonal breakdowns later, and I'm halfway through my pregnancy. I can't believe it! I'm definitely starting to show now and so the jig is up. I'm still rocking my low waisted jeans. As you can see, I'm still in denial. Just a wee bit. I haven't really gained any weight. According to my last doctor's appointment, I gained one pound since my last appointment. I've gained five pounds all together. Mom's concerned with my lack of appetite. My cravings have gone dormant and I'm back to my usual appetite. Wullaby yogurt and seasonal fruits in the morning, one slice of flax seed bread topped with organic peanut butter and blueberry jam, a healthy portion of salad and protein for lunch, cottage cheese w/honey and fruits for snack, and protein and vegetables for dinner. I apologize for providing my diet intake. I mean really should I indulge in my bathroom time as well? Good god!

Shellie's Proverb: A dog that runs with the pack cannot think for himself.

This morning, there's been a slight pain in my lower abdomen. Madam Uterus is pulling a fast one on me. Kitchstar is making it's way from the south side into the deluxe abdomen in the sky. A rare occurrence of pulling and pinching originating from my abdomen region. Not very comfortable. In medical term, the uterus is moving upwards. In order for that to happen, cramping is a must. As I awoke to the pinching, I assumed that it was normal. Growing pains, if you will. Until I'm curled up on the dusty floor begging and foaming at the mouth mercifully and squeamishly begging for my mommy, this cookie will not crumble.

Besides my ever-changing body, there has been another irritant. Thongs. As I have always found them absently comfortable, suddenly it's like paper cut! Well, surely I exaggerate a little, but seriously, it's like a razor running from vertically. Please lord don't make me switch to granny panties. That really bites. I must do a little investigation to see if some little ditty has come up with an innovative underwear for preggers that is still tasteful without thinking grandma. Not that there's anything wrong with full undies, I just loathe panty lines like lint in navel. Otherwise, life is still a garden of flowers.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must select the path that is long and difficult to relish simplicity.