Placid

Today, I had my follow up appointment regarding my diabetes. It's pouring rain in my soul. I walked from the hospital to the BART station in a slow motion haze. After spending an hour and fifteen minutes with the doctor going over my understanding of meal management and how to use a syringe, my heart could not take it anymore. I succeeded in managing to keep my blood glucose down with food, yet it my body is not producing enough insulin in my sleep. Therefore, I am urged to introduce insulin into my body before I go to bed by way of injection in the stomach. Sob. Not only am I on a restricted diet and having to prick my finger four times a day, but I have succumbed to a syringe filled with a light dose of insulin.

I am morosely moved by this news as I have tried my best to control this condition. Unfortunately, this is beyond my control. Sniffle. Such is life. In the flames of my hormones, I have to mortar myself together. It is in my nature to hastily becme numb, but the dreary weather is inducing me to crumble to my knees on this filthy sidewalk on Valencia and sob feverishly. I need to feel this sadness. It's normal. On a Friday, no less, I should be jumping for joy, because the weekend is at my feet. Not today.

Shellie's Proverb: A wet log can not make a fire.

I paid a phone call to mom to bear the bad news. Mom's not great at receiving bad news, as she quickly wished me good health and love and quickly got off the phone. That was her way of dealing with it. As I can wish as the rain does fall that she was in closer proximity than Hawaii, these are the times that I could use her arms for comfort. It could be worse. It could be detrimental. Think about the children in Africa and AIDS. Think about the women who are unable to bear children? Think about the families that have lost loved ones? All I can do is feel sorry for myself. I never do. Today, I am giving myself the opportunity to go through that process. I don't need a consolation prize. I'm just caught in the line of the hormonal cross fire and licking my wounds. Whatever it is, it still pangs me. I'm not receiving any phone calls today. I'm turning off my ringer. Tomorrow is a new day and it will all be better. Tonight I have a hot date with my husband, we're catching an early dinner and a movie. Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile. Tomorrow's a brand new day.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must learn to lose battles in order to win.

Stretch I'm Strong

I am a woman and more or less vain, therefore, I am fighting the good fight against pesky stretch marks. I've read that you could circle the moon backwards and hop on one foot and recite the constitution in mandarin, although it all simmers down to genetics. So I think to myself, "Self? Does mom have stretch marks?" She had ten kids, but I don't recall white claw marks on her belly. I don't recall, but I could ultimately be mistaken.

In the meantime, I drink at least 10 glasses of water, if not more, a day to keep my skin fluid. I grease myself with coconut oil, cocoa butter lotion, and other concoctions that lead to a stretch mark free body. I'm not going to sit back and take it. It's not inevidable. If I get stretch marks, I can honestly say that I've tried my darndest.

Shellie's Proverb: An ant at a picnic never goes hungry.

Furthermore, a gradual weight gain also helps in managing the minimal amount of stretching. Since I have to watch what I eat and stay fit, than I'm one foot ahead of the game. These are the things that keep me up at night. Not really, but it is a concern of mine as I am somewhat superficial. I admit it, I am a victim to hollywood and all those celebrities that bounce back hours later after getting a c-section. The pressure. Once again that's hollywood and I am far from a celebrity.

In a world of false perfection, I am truly far from perfect. In my practice to not become a full time schlump, you can stress my concern for stretch marks. Maybe the root of my problem is that I need to realize that it's not my exterior shell, but my interior that needs looking into.

Lesson: Grasshopper must possess goodness in order to fight evil.

Third Trimester

The big twenty seven! Twenty seven weeks that is. I am all belly, and I am entering the wide open field of the third trimester. Gulp. I am racing towards the finish line. As Kitchstar starts to make itself at home in my womb, I am thrilled to pieces. The kicking and bopping is getting stronger and I look forward to each movement. A homage to communication, between mother and child. It's a trip! I'll put Shane's hand on my belly, hoping he could feel it and experience my excitement, but an outsider couldn't fathom the alien pod experience. It could creep any normal person out, for a second. Shane tries to relate, but there's no way, but I appreciate his attempt. Smile.

In honor of my progress, my walk is beginning to transition into a waddle. You know that walk that pregnant women have to keep from tipping over. Sort of like a weeble wobble. It hasn't gotten to that point yet, but I'll be there soon enough. Believe me, I'm in no hurry to walk like a duck. As I have concealed my pregnancy with the color black, my waddle will soon give me away. On the upside, I have waddled my way up and down hills to contribute to a healthy pregnancy. In order to strap this diabetes down, I have become more restricted on my diet and more aggressive with my cardio. Of course pilates and yoga is fine, I feel that my body benefits further if I walked at least thirty minutes a day. It's tough trying to keep myself healthy. I'm finally taking responsibility for someone besides myself so being selfish doesn't have it's place, at present.

Shellie's Proverb: An apple is only as sweet as the person's palette.

As I was saying, I'm not sure what to expect in the next thirteen weeks except to get larger. Even though my diet has become the nucleus of my daily, to look on the bright side, I've lost a few pounds. Yipee! In the meantime, we have signed up for childbirth intensive two day series. Sue McDonald recommend that first time parents attend these classes to educate ourselves on birthing and parenthood. I'm sure Shane can't wait to sit there from 9:30am to 1:30pm for two days. He expressed his motivation by a ten second silence on the end of the line ending in, "Two days? On a weekend? Is it like lamaze? What is it?" "I'm not sure, it was expensive and we shall see," I responded.

I am hoping that the third tri will be as fly as my second. I know I am being utterly delusional, but it's good to dream. In the past few days, my energy level has dropped immensely, and I'm hoping the third tri doesn't toss me into the wind of regression. I am making an appointment with my acupuncturist to make sure my body energy is flowing correctly.

All in all, I have embraced pregnancy for what it is. Beauty, strength, love and change. The sight of my naked belly after a shower still baffles me, because from backside you wouldn't be able to tell and than wham! Yet, I am no different from any other pregnant women. It sounds a bit hippy sappy, but I am elated that I am harboring a wonderful being. Moreover, I am grateful that I share this sunshine with Shane. I can sleep well at night knowing I did not coerce him into a corner to have Kitchstar. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have found someone so golden. The countdown to meeting the little star begins. I'm so delighted. I can't wait.

Lesson: A Grasshopper who knows not how to eat with chopstick shall go hungry.

Sugar Baby

As the myriad of doctors appointments pile up, I'm thankful for having such outstanding medical benefits. As my gestational diabetes is being ruled by a strict thumb, so the need to skirt my diet is mandatory. I had an appointment with a dietician and diabetic counselor today. Formerly, a student of Nutrition 101, I never found the need to apply it to my life. Does anyone assimilate chemistry into their daily? Exactly.

In the depths of my mind, I was convinced my lab work was confused for another. I had a chip on my shoulder the size of Jupiter. I deserved an apology gosh darnit, for wasting my time. I couldn't have developed this condition, I have been actively fit and managed a fit diet. There goes the delusional part of me again. Who cares that my parents are diabetic?

Sylvia, diabetic counselor, reviewed the blood test and provided the numbers. The numbers which pertain to the time it takes for my body to process glucose within three hours. The numbers weren't gold medal, it was no medal. The chip on my shoulder was just crunched. "Any person could develop diabetes?" Sylvia went easy on my pride, but my pride had nothing to do with my health. I was predisposed.

We moved on to diet, I had no worries as I strived for excellence in that category. Organic, free range, cage free is the way of the Lord, but nutritional fact is holier than thou. I was in for a nutritional awakening. As I sat upright on my tall organic box, it was quickly kicked from under me when the truth was finally revealed. The vital ingredient to be weary of, regarding the nutritional fact, were carbohydrate and sugar. Funny, I was always steered towards the calories and the fat calories.

Basically, organic or non organic, carbohydrates is still Satan in my blood. I was further cultured on the daily food pyramid along with entails what to eat, per meal, per day. Shackle and chain, I'm now in a prison. No milk or fruit in the morning (it turns into sugar). Worse, no cereal. This is a travesty! My world is spinning backwards. I keep looking on the bright side of things, that's the only way I'll get through it. My meals, mainly lunch and dinner, incorporates fruit, bread/starch, carbohydrate, fat, milk, and protein. Apparently, when all these foods are introduced to my blood system, it takes awhile to breakdown as opposed to simply introducing just two food groups into the blood. It's a hemoglobin diversion. I assumed that carbohydrates would be omitted, but I was wrong...again. On top of everything else, I have 3 snacks that are wrenched into my meals. Phew, will my days compass my eating habit?

Shellie's Proverb: A hog that rules the trough is worth eating.

The big cherry, the sprinkle and the nuts, the dollop of whip cream and all the guck, is that I have to gauge my blood glucose four times a day by way of finger pricking. Four times! Pricking.....Painful.....Four Times! I loathe finger pricking! Eeeeek Gadz! Here I am face to face with a prick. First prick is taken before all meals and the rest are taken an hour after breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was provided with a kit with an electronic reader, blood strips, spiffy prick gadget, needles, and a container to dispose of my needles. High maintenance? Gulp. Exactly. The objective to this game is to score a glucose count of 130 and below.

Double gulp. She did the honors as I cringed like a kitten in a corner ready to pounce. She promised that it would be harmless, but so is a blood sucking tick. I gave into her prick, she inserted the blood onto the strip which read 148, the goal is to reach 130 or below. "Damn you whole wheat organic blueberry turd." I cursed under my breath. I was appalled. No, I was shocked! No, I was shockingly disappointed. How could this be? Shane and I had just gone shopping on Sunday and filled our pantry with organic goodness. The counselor advised that there's lots of sugar and high carbohydrate in everything. So I shouldn't be fooled with packaging and marketing. The only reassurance is the nutritional factoids. You'd be surprised as to how much carbohydrates and sugar are in yogurt, unless it's plain and even than. She kicked dirt in my face. I couldn't believe my ears. Here I was a high snooter with my nose in the know it all, only to find out I didn't know diddy. Damn you glucose. I curse you and that sugar coated cookie you rode on!

I went straight to Rainbow, hippie co-op, to carry out my duty to be healthy. There I was in the bread aisle reading the nutritional facts like a psychotic obsessed carbohydrate counter. I was consumed by labels of organic and quickly picked them up only to find that the carbohydrate count was astounding. Finally, after sorting through the entire bread section there it was the no wheat, no glucose, organic, and weighed like a brick with a perfect carbohydrate count of 13.5 grams. I was in heaven. Onto the yogurt, I perused each shelf reading the back of each container like a I was hooked on phonics. I was truly astonished by the nutritional fact and how much sugar and carbohydrates were in these yummers. Death defying. I had no idea. None in the world. I settled for the Saint Benoit plain Yogurt as the nutritional value was the best.

Between my soap box and the chip on my shoulder, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In a matter of a week, my eating lifestyle has been turned topsy turvy. I must make amends to make sure I don't endanger Kitchstar. I need to snip this at the stem. Cest la vie ice cream sundae. Whah. Sniffle. Sob. Maybe I'm too strict on myself. All in moderation I keep telling myself. But, could moderation possibly compromise the baby? For now, I'll be fighting this diabetes through my food intake.

Lesson: Grasshopper must lay gentle on the bed of nails to overcome all hostilities.

The Slip

In my black business suit and my black sneakers, I stepped out of the house at 630am to start my usual route to the bus stop. The sun hasn't peeked its head yet, and I am one step ahead of the day. In the eye of the hub, the cold air brushing my cheek as I briskly make my way to Third Street. It's Friday and I have no plans this weekend, except to spend it with Shane and Chloe. I have high hopes of catching Smoking Aces which opens in theatres today, but I'm better off catching a matinee this weekend.

It's been a long week and I look forward to spending time with Shane and taking Chloe for a walk at Crissy Fields, and enjoying brunch at Rose's Cafe tomorrow. Yes, it's the little things that make me happy. As I make my way towards the overpass, the repercussions of last nights work out heeds it's pain on my gluteus maximus. The rush of traffic below is thrilling as I witness the surge of man's invention at it's climax. Potrero Hill is at a standstill, except for the usual indolent dog walker. Northward the weeds of buildings and lights stand upright, and to think that I'll be in that financial jungle in thirty minutes.

Shellie's Proverb: Never stop to smell the flowers at a dog park.

Insignificant tasks effortlessly trickle in my head, "Researching strollers, changing tables, What am I preparing for the dinner party tomorrow? I didn't pack my lunch today, what am I going to eat? These shoes have no support, but they look better than my white sneakers. God, I'm hungry. Was that a kick? Baby never kicks as much as it should. Uh, it's so nice to be walking.." Like a faucet, I wish I could turn my thoughts off. The main purpose behind my foolish reprise of catching public transportation is to integrate a cardio workout into my day as sitting on my butt doesn't coincide with my fitness. It's Friday and I should be jumping for joy, because I'm eight hours away from freedom! I'll be happy once I'm off the San Francisco public transportation, a vessel for bacteria, psychotics, and bad manners. In the meantime, keep my chin up and paint a bright smile on my face. It's Friday!

Lesson: Grasshopper must remember that flatulence is a form of violence.

Hard to Fit Genes

As I have been peculiar about eating ridiculously healthy, despite the closet ice cream sundae that I have become accustomed to sneaking, I was just notified by Dr. Sue McDonald that I have developed gestational diabetes. After suffering from drinking that putrid orange glucose matter and giving blood on the hour for the next three hours, it never occurred to me that I could be victim to the medical condition. Apparently, it's common in the top 2 to 7 percentile of pregnant women. As I hectically browse through my books and google trying to resolve this condition, I realize that I am genetically screwed as both parents are diabetics.

The women on the other end of the line lectures me to steer clear of juices and sodas, I remind her that it is not part of my repertoire. She than tells me to refrain from fruit. That is a very vague generalization, "What kind of fruit?" As I enjoy my morning breakfast with strawberries, rasberries, blueberries, banana, apples. I mean she might as well advise me to stop breathing oxygen. What am I supposed to eat instead? I will have to wait till next week's appointment at the Diabetes center for the educational low down. I'll probably have to meet with a dietician which will be pretty nifty. I keep reminding myself that it could be worse. I could be in bed rest with a hemmeroid the size of a hibiscus. If I'm proactive and watch what I eat...whah... no more ice cream sundaes...and increase my exercise, I should be okay.

Shellie's Proverb: Constipation is all about diet over matter.

Thus far, my pregnancy has been darling. From the narcoleptic episodes to the discovery of Kitchstar's movements, I'm whizzing through my second trimester like a kid at an arcade. Although all good things must come to an end. As I blew my sciatica out from simply sneezing while standing up, it has taken my acupuncturist, yoga, pilates and masseuse to manage this monster. It's better loads now, but look where a simple sneeze will get you. No complaints from Mrs. Kitchen, but you may want to inquire with my better half. He may tell you otherwise. Smile.

Lesson: A grasshopper that accepts his flaws won't mind drinking cold tea.

Love and Marriage

As we delve into the open jaws of crib searching, I walk among the trap of sharp teeth vulnerable and alone. As my husband usually doesn't want anything to do with shopping and would prefer to spend his time on a golf course, I am left with the task by my buoyant lonesome. It may sound fun having full reign on the crib sector, woo hoo! Halt, as my husband is opinionated and will provide his two cents at the very tail of my decision. Truthfully, it upsets me that he has the audacity. Secondly, he, and every father to be, would rather put their kid in a dresser drawer or a cubby hole and call it a day and resume to their tee time. I can feel the searing eyes of the "I walked 20 miles to school everyday" generation shaking their heads at what today's parents find vital.

Shellie's Proverb: A wife with no husband is lucky.

Seriously! Big example, grocery shopping with Shane is like a blind man finding his sight for the first time and realizing that he's been having sexual relations with a trannie. He just goes on about the price of meat, produce, bar of soap, tooth paste, ice cream that it drives me batty. It's ridiculous. Resolution, designate him the official grocery shopper. We live in California, what do you expect in the state of gimmick? Despite his uproar, he'll still eat it the damn food.

His lack of interest in anything has got his head in the clouds. Why am I complaining? Well, this head in the cloud factor applies to every aspect of his existence which in turn triggers my failure to exist. This is my pain. This is the man I married. This is my life. I'm not grumbling, sigh, I am just venting. Where's the punching bag when I need it? Serenity now!

I invest a lot of time on research, and it takes ten seconds for him to retort on either the price or the look. Normally I can tolerate it, but today it's my bane. It's all coming to a head and I just want to be ready as possible, which is impossible, before my butterball butt explodes. To think that we still have to tackle the name game. Sob!

Lesson: Grasshopper must learn to co-exist with monkeys in order to evolve into the temple of Buddha.

Fade to Fad

It's the new world baby order. These days women nest. These days babies get their own room filled with toy debris. These days parents spoil their kids in attempts to fullfill the emptiness of their own childhood. Well, except for my husband, because he's had every toy made by mankind. In a world full of dizzying material pressure, when do I say, "stop!"

We, well more I, started browsing for baby essentials. I wanted to start now while I'm still mobile and patient. The online world is decadent and mischievous. In a world of material things, I realize that I am keeping up with the Jones(s). From the
Bugaboo stroller going for $800 and the endless baby crap, I begin to wonder, if it is all about me and less about Kitchstar. I grew up in the days where babies slept in dresser drawers stuffed with sheets for the first couple months. The fortunate ones with cribs well you were a rockstar. These days a baby in a dresser drawer would be considered child abuse. Damn you social services.

Besides the basic crib, changing table, and stroller, I'm being hit with a list of ridiculous absurdities. A must have list like diaper bags, gliders, bassinets, jogging stroller, swings, bouncers, baby bjorn, and play yards. It is all too much for me. Could it be that I'm suffering from a metropolitan syndrome called yuppie? Does the baby require all of this? I have become a victim to my own environment and I am embarassed. Damn you Potrero Hill! Sheesh, imagine if I lived in Noe Valley or the Marina,? I'd be in a world of hurt!

Shellie's Proverb: The Ford Pinto rocking the spinners is still a Pinto.
How did I get here? When did I transform into such a fluppie? The BMW X5 really doesn't help my image. Huff, I've worked hard to get where I am. There's nothing wrong with having nice things, especially when I've worked hard for it. Hence, I can spend it anyway I please. I think the same goes for anyone. I started from the bottom. The same goes for any hard working individual that started from the bottom and worked their way through.

If you possess the drive, than why not? In fact, slumming it in the kitchen for $8/hour after taking a $100K+ paycut surely transformed me into a humble person. It's not like I'm sitting at home plopping bond bonds, playing the Superlotto, and sucking the blood from my husband's income. Good grief, no! But, the idea sounds beautiful. Besides, there's nothing wrong with being a lazy turd. My envy goes out to you awesome turdies.

Suddenly, I was feverishly taken over...I apologize for the baby detour. It's more about the parent's attempt to ease the mind: translation: hmmm, what will keep this kid quiet? Parent's are willing to donate their liver to make sure their child is comfortable and healthy. Besides, babies sprout faster than weeds in the summer time, and in sprouting, these trendy gadgets become null.

It is our duty as parents to fulfill the safety and health of little Kitchstar. Simple and clean. The cost of a stroller or any newfangled gadget is indifferent when it all comes down to true purpose. I am a sucker for marketing. The first time I saw a bottle of Voss, I snagged that sucker regardless of the price. Who cares look at that fabulous bottle! That is me in a nut shell. I am a person that is susceptible to packaging. I am a marketer's wet dream. Now, that a child is on the way, I have to be extremely careful. I have to think of the child's benefit and forget about the dernier cri. It's a great plan. It's a start. It's a change.

Lesson: In order for wise grasshopper to achieve Nirvana, it must always write his name on his underwear.

Pregnancy Update

My weeks have been overlapped between doctors appointments, acupuncture, prenatal yoga and pilates, long walks, that I've neglected my will to write aka vent. I've promised mom in law pictures of my development, but I can't even find the time to upload pictures to Ofotos. What is my problem? I need to snap with it! Not to mention the holidays was just one long speed bump. So here I am trying to find my way through my jungle of excuses. I spend most of my days in front of the computer slaving for a private equity, work has been quite hectic like a rabid dog in heat. It's been difficult to motivate and exercise after work. The very thought of it sometimes can be silenced with a relaxing moment on the couch.

In the meantime, little Kitchstar is starting to kick and/or punch. It all started with subtle butterfly flutters and as the weeks proceed it's becom more apparent that this little tyke will be starting a riot soon. As I spend most of my days sitting in front of the computer, the punches and kicks become evident. Today, especially, I swear it was pounding on the walls of my body for food. Perhaps, I am neglecting Kitchstar. For Pete's sake I had a healthy bowl of fruit and cereal this morning topped off with a yogurt for my morning snack. It's eleven o'clock what more does it want? Honestly, it's so cool to feel this miracle growing. I absolutely love it! In fact, I'm kicking myself in the butt wishing that we had done this earlier.

Shellie's Proverb: A book with no words has no meaning.

Thus, I am trying not to find a reason to gorge my face with nonsensical food. As my visit from the doctors last Friday, I have broken the 140 weight barrier. One should never be concerned with one's weight, although it is pretty scary when I've never ventured in these scary dark woods before. In my attempts to eat healthy and simply be healthy it seems that Kitchstar is growing at an alarming rate. I have sixteen more weeks to go and my belly is growing faster than a bacteria performing in a petri dish parade! In fact, the 20 week ultrasound the head on Kitchstar was pretty big so as I laughed and joked with Shane. He had an gigantuous head as an infant. I mean this thing could have been in the Guiness Book of World Records...anyway as I harmlessly jest, Shane shrugs, "laugh it up, I'm not the one that'll have to push it out." Right than and there, the comedy came to a halt. My little frame, my little box will have to push this turkey out. Gulp. Double Gulp! Triple Double Gulp Skip Gulp.

It does make me feel better that people at work have only noticed my transformation recently. Women, just remember the color black does wonders to slim the body. Especially, if your at that stage where your feeling like a super blimp, a black shirt does wonders and will really make your day. Please don't get me wrong, I embrace my pregnancy wholeheartedly, but I would like to preserve my body as best I can. What's wrong with taking care of myself? In true relativity, I'm taking care of little Kitchstar too. I mean between the intake of probiotic, organic, free range and cage free to have chocolate is a true sin (as I stuff a caramel kiss into my mouth). I am enjoying my pregnancy while it lasts. In fact, I had a Mitchell's ice cream at 3 o'clock pm before consuming a Thai duck lunch plate. Living on the edge baby, living on the edge. I'm trying to have fun with this, because as we shoot to start the Kitchen clan which means rug rats galore, I will fight the elasticity, bloating, fat, and gravity off with a stick. That is why it is important to be proactive.

All in all, it's been busy and I can't fathom how hectic it will be at the end of nine months. I keep telling myself to enjoy this time. Really take it in. I know it's sounds hippie and granola, but it's true. I am in the eye of the storm. I could be whining and complaining and finding every reason to bite my man's nuts off, but I'm not. I'm better than that, besides life is too short for tantrums.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must slowly walk on hot coals to appreciate the air of life.

Happy Birthday, Shugah!

Ode to the man that stole my heart!

My sweet bee that coves in my honey
My sweet honey that coves in my hive
My hive that I hold in my heart
My heart, he is my heart.

2007

We greeted new years in our home surrounded by a few close friends. As the past two years we greeted the new year as intoxicatedly festive as possible. Instead, we took the quite route. A glass of champagne, for me, went a long way. By midnight, everyone had consumed enough alcohol to kill a baby pig. As I wanted to do the elderly thing, and have a boggle master tournament, the drinkers slurred instead. In the height of my sobriety, I reflected on 2006, a year of celebration and unforeseen events. It was a year of definite highs and lows.

Shellie's Proverb: A home with windows welcomes light.

It was the year of the Dog, and I could not get enough of snowboarding. In world sports, Italy took the World Cup. In July, my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. Simultaneously, a dear friend Johnny suffered a misfortunate accident. In August, Duke, Shane's dad, enjoyed his 60th birthday with a surprise from his children. Also, we celebrated our first year as the Kitchens followed with the conception of Kitchstar. In September, I celebrated the entry into the cougar world as I turned 35. In the meantime, we adopted our sweet bichon Chloe.

As most people don't believe in new years resolutions, I do. It's been three years, since I've had a cigarette. Cold turkey! Furthermore, I have achieved my past new years resolution. I thank my lucky stars that 2006 kept most of us safe from harm. In good thought, I hope 2007 will bring a fruitful and positive year for everyone, we all could use it. In my secret of secrets, I only wish absolute positivity for all. Moreover, 2007 will be a record year as we expect Kitchstar to make it's appearance in May. Finally, I hope Shane the success on his embarkment with his new business. 2007 brace yourself, because here we come with a vengeance for happiness and health.

Lesson: An unwise grasshopper does not believe in fortune cookies.

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!

__________________________________________

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.

Remember to be Thankful

I was nine in the winter of 1979, as Martial Law was in full flux. We rode on the back of a jeep on a dark dirt road on our way to Dad's home town. We brought over six large boxes, three which had gone missing at the airport, filled with endless supply of Tang, an array of candy, bottles of Sanka instant coffee, toilet paper, second hand clothes, shoes, and books. We made our trek from Hawaii to the province of Ilocos Norte in the Philippines to visit relatives.

As my parents found it important that we made a connection with our ethnicity, Dad wanted to make sure we met our Lola, grandmother, before she passed. Lola was in her eighties and slept in a cot in the kitchen. As much as I wanted to hug her and lay my head in her lap, her head was infested with lice. I was told it was normal. In the kitchen to the right a 20 x 20 concrete slab that stemmed water pump to bathe. To the left, sat a wood burning stove also used to generate hot water for the shower. The kitchen door opened to a jungle of a backyard that housed a deep hole in the ground that was the bathroom. Besides swatting the squad of flies as I squat, the fear of falling into the stench hole was a death defying fear. Nonetheless, the likeliness of venomous snakes taking a snip out of my bare bottom while going to the bathroom was 90/10. A half a mile down a river ran infested with crocodiles and pythons. That was usually where the laundry was done.

The relatives were ecstatic to finally meet their American relatives. We were treated like royalty. Cousins ceaselessly hugged and communicated with us, “Do you know Billy Joel? Do you have a television? A color one? Toilet? Do you have a toilet!” As Mom provided the gaggle of cousins with candy, clothing, and shoes, their eyes sparkled like Christmas morning. We were showered with further hugs and laughter. Dad along with uncles sat on the porch playing the accordion, acoustic guitar, saxophone. They created music that sounded like home.

Shellie's Proverb: A mouse that chases the cat is not using his head.

Every now and than when I feel like the world has dealt me a joker card, I think about that month long trip in the Philippines. The trip that opened my eyes to hard ships. A second in my existence, where Christmas was midnight mass and tinupig, sweet rice and coconut wrapped in banana leaves. A minute in my life, when we rang in New Year by dragging empty cans on the dirt road and dropping cherry bombs down the center of a hollow bamboo. A month in my life, when my cousins were content playing in the jungle, taunting the water buffalos, or swimming in the river. A memory when my uncles found enjoyment and laughter in their music and in each other. A thought when my aunt's were pleased to provide food on the table. This is an experience that will never be forgotten.

Being thankful should never be one day a year, but a way of thinking. I do my best to never take electricity, running water, plumbing, and health for granted. How my dad, who made a hundred fifty a week, managed to finance this trip along with supporting a family of ten, I will never know. I am truly grateful to my parents for opening my eyes to the world outside of our home. Because with out that enlightment, I would not have a scope on appreciation.

Lesson: A hungry grasshopper must use his chopsticks to find his way to the bottom of the bowl.

Gender Love

I've made it to 16 weeks! That's four months in human terms. Thriller! So far, so good! Knock on wood. According to the books, Kitchstar should be about the size of an avocado, 4.5 inches to be exact! In the next three weeks, Kitchstar should go through a tremendous growth spurt, doubling weight and adding inches to length. A possible kick is even possible at this point. Shane and I are totally enthralled! Every Sunday night before bed, we grab our week by week book and read up on the kid's weekly progress. I get all warm and fuzzy when Shane takes interest. It's the first time. He can't tell you who Donald Rumsfeld is, but he can tell you that unpasteurized cheese causes listeriosis.

Tomorrow, we're scheduled to see Dr. Sue McDonald. Unfortunately, Shane may not be able to attend as he may be stuck on a job. Nonetheless, the show must go on. At this point, the ultrasound will be able to indicate the gender. To add excitement to surprise, we will not be finding out the gender. We're going old school yo. We're living on the edge. We're just praying for a healthy Kitchstar. Otherwise, we look forward to the big surprise! There's something about not knowing that will make the arrival of Kitchstar even more captivating. So get your bets on boys, the pool is on!

Shellie's Proverb: A dish without salt is bland.

Thus far, my pregnancy has been smooth. Knock, knock on wood. Not one visit to the porcelain queen. Girls, I swear by ginger root. If any of your are suffering from mild or heavy morning sickness, simply steep ginger root in hot water and I promise there's hope. My weight gain is only in my belly. My food cravings are dormant. I'm keeping active with swimming and prenatal yoga. Over and out this is the Kitchens bidding you tata for now.

Lesson: A Grasshopper must practice the art of appreciation to become master of his own temple.

The truth is always a surprise!

Disclaimer: No fur-bearing animals were harmed during the creation of this entry. Allergy alert: may contain cinnamon, but I doubt it. Return for refund where applicable. Not recommended for persons with sugar-restricted diets. Batteries are included -- good luck finding them. May cause irritability, frightmares or warts after prolonged use. Contents under pressure. BHT added to preserve freshness. Caution: this product has caused some laboratory rats to tear through their cages, fly across the room and brutally murder hundreds of innocent people. Shake well before using. No vacuum tubes or other user-serviceable parts inside. Not to be combined with other radioisotopes except under the advice of a physician. Avoid prolonged exposure to ultraviolet light. The truth is out there. Use no zippers. Not intended for use by children or liberals under the age of five. Printed on unrecycled dead trees and we're proud of it.

I cannot preface the abundant surprises that I incur everyday. It's truly amazing. A miracle. Am I ridding myself of this larvae existence and finally getting my medal to butterfly? I am privileged to experience such an opportunity to morph.

I'm sure you've come to your wits end listening about how my stomach is growing, but it's stretching at epic proportions! It's like a huge solid growing ball. Kitchstar hasn't started doing the Irish jig in my belly, yet there has been moments of minimal cramping like a quick pinching jolt. Is it normal? It makes sense, the body is accommodating growth spurts by stretching and pulling. Furthermore, an occasional sneeze sometimes sends additional pain in the core of my belly! Pregnancy and painless? Gimme a break sister. Note to self, please inquire with Dr. Sue McDonald as to the normality of this cramping.

Headaches. Apparently, it's common during the first trimester, but hello I'm in my second. Personally, I could do without the torture. Headaches? I get them once a year. Lately, they're as common as fruit flys in the summer. I don't understand, I've been indulging in many glasses of water a day. I eat well. I receive ample rest. I'm finally regular, but I won't mention the personality of my stool samples which are completely miraculous themselves. I must make an appointment with my Chinese acupuncturist. I adore eastern medicine it is utterly amazing. The evidence is clear, just look at the average life span of a Chinese person.

Shellie's Proverb: A plant with no fruit is unbearable.
Got leakage? Exactly. It's disgusting! My faucet downstairs drip, drips, drippin'. Normal? Honestly, it's like my urine seal is dysfunctional. Oddly enough, it's not urine. It's stuff of milky consistency. Blah, yuck, eek! Oh, the horror! Today, I walked from my office to the bathroom and every alternate stride a squirt of liquid gave way. I was befuddled! Has my bladder gone weak? What the phuu? As I sat in the bathroom stall, slacks off and panties down, urine was not my culprit, it was milky. No, it wasn't an infection that consisted of feta cheese or any dairy curd of the sort, it was white liquid. Note to self, please mention the daily discharge to Dr. Sue McDonald.

Furthermore, bosoms, boobs, whiffle balls, in the scientific term, breasts are lawless. How do women do it? I went from flat to fluff riding on the rails that it could be frisky. Nay, this pair is weighty and nipples are pout it could blind Helen Keller. One word, cumbersome. Jesus lord of bras, show me the way? I hear you naggy women rolling your eyes in the background, "Sheeyat, have fun with them? Dress'em up!" I do dress up except directly south there's a heap of rising belly that's as discreet as the great wall of China.

I have come to accept that every woman is different, yet I know I am not alone. Isolated incident? Not by the hair of my chiny chin chin. What the future has up it's mischievous sleeve is just a sunrise away. Thus far, I am very fortunate to be experiencing a healthy pregnancy. My heart goes out to those women who haven't had such luck. For those of you who have romanticized pregnancy, I used to be that way too until surprises began to sprout like warts on a witches nose. If they are any other women who can vouch for my transition, "holluh!" Indeed, pregnancy is a miracle and I look forward to embracing every swelling inch of it.

Lesson: A Grasshopper that doesn't remain on his toes will never be surprised.

Harmony

As my wardrobe begin to cease blood circulation, I decided it was time. Purge. Sniffle. It was my time to face the music. Sob. I began to remove the items that were inappropriate for my pregnancy. I began to slide my goal items i.e. mid riff and relinquishing my early twenties into the past. This was healthy for me. It was my last farewell to my foolery. It was time to fess up and act my age. Now, grow the hell up.

I folded my clothing that delusionally kept me hanging on. "Change is always good," I remind myself trying to maintain a positive attitude. As my belly hasn't popped outward, the buttons and zippers on my pants are telling me different. As I neatly fold my clothing, I wonder to myself if I'll ever fit into my designer jeans again. I am slightly ill with the idea that maybe that setting sun shall never set. I'm scared. The sight of stretch marks. The future of saggy boobs. As DJ Hughley, Kings of Comedy, once said, "Women they're always worried about their bodies. They're nails. Shit! Stretch marks, soppy titties, bad nails never stopped a man from wanting to have sex with a woman." In those words, I find motivation and inspiration. Regardless, Shane is stuck with my stretch marks and soppy titties till death do us part. Chuckle.

On the brighter side of the moon, most of my friends that are moms have dropped significant weight when nursing and have maintained to keep it off. Maxine, Meaghan and Zaachila look phenomenal! Can I be so fortunate! There's a little faith that I can keep in my pocket. Regardless, I have to remind myself to expect nothing. Subsequent to giving birth, will I be concerned with weight? Will I be so preoccupied with the infant that I would take on the persona of a slob? Are my concerns simply superficial? Is my need to self preserve just short for selfish? I just don't find a reason to let myself go, if I don't have to. Sometimes fate just has it in for you from the start.

Shellie's Proverb: A slug with no motivation wouldn't get it anywhere.
One refrigerator box load of clothes and an hour later, my closet and my two dressers were cohesive. Uncluttered. Neat. Although to any other person it would remain to be seen as just a hunk of clothes. Shrug, I can't help it, I'm a sucker to fashion. As my Virgo reared it's organized brain from under the shrubbery, I psychotically began to take on the tidal project of the living room. Our living room and dining room that sheltered our clutter of knick knacks, artwork, guitar, paper work. How it got to this point all falls on me. Since we were moving out soon, it would be productive to get the packing party started. I couldn't see past the medley of junk that orchestrated this madness. I was riding hard on my Zen wave. Needless to say Shane was pleased to see my motivation in cleanliness as a rarity. Myriads of piles heaped up in the middle of the room consisting of donations, trash, filing, and photos. This was a video camera moment, as I am not a typical Virgo, this was my eclipse.

Later that night, we sat on our couch admiring the simplicity. The absence of the rubbish really brought sparkle to our home. The candles brought a blanket of warmth to our surrounding. It was cozy. In the grand scheme of things, I was making room for the baby mentally and physically. "Do you think we can keep it like this?" Shane inquired. "I don't know," I chuckled, "but we can always try." For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of fulfillment. A well rounded sense of accomplishment overwhelmed my soul.

Lesson: A Grasshopper must always give in to the way of the wind to live in harmony.

Cheese

Alien abduction or the Attack of the Body Snatchers, choose your sword. Pregnancy has the tendencies of being uncontrollable and unforeseeable. Just when I thought it was safe in the world of Shellie, my gums gave way to blood from a gentle morning brush. Seriously, it was like I was gargling blood. Heck, could it be all the sugar babies I was popping like pills? I quit smoking three years ago, yet I could be paying for it now? Could it be that I avoid the dentist like church on Sundays? Not too keen, I know. My concern for the well being of my gums was now code red. If I lost my teeth before forty, simply because I procrastinate, will be with the understanding that it was deserved. Thankfully, I have a dentist appointment tomorrow.

According to pregnancy facts, about fifty percent of pregnant women's gums bleed from flossing and brushing due to higher progesterone levels, which make gums react more to the bacteria in plaque, in addition to, the increased blood supply to my mouth. If not cared for it could develop into periodontitis, a more serious form of gum disease in which the infection goes beyond your gums into the bone and other tissue that support teeth. Some studies have even found that pregnant women with these conditions are significantly more likely to go into labor prematurely. Other research has shown an associate between chronic gum disease and preeclampsia, a serious pregnancy complication marked by high blood pressure and protein in the urine. I must brush after every meal to prevent this.

Shellie's Proverb: A man with no teeth is careless, although a donkey with beautiful teeth is still a jackass.
As I’ve scratched my butt with my dental benefits, my teeth and gums suffer the procrastination blow. Robert Fuji, forte teeth, worked hard for his dollar. He scraped the mortar off my teeth until his arm fell off. Poor guy! Frankly, Mr. Fuji was sweating his sack off. My teeth will fullfill his nightmares full of squirms and screams. He'll wish he's never met me. As his weariness settled in and his hands shook from much scraping, he concurred that gum vulnerability is common in pregnancies. Between gums, hormones, weight gain, appetite swings, frequent urination, irregularity the only good thing going is my voluptuous bosoms that weigh like two mini pot belly pigs.

To think that mom went through it ten times. What a machine! My hero! To think that women all over the world squirt these suckers out, is miraculous! Thus far it’s been fourteen weeks and I feel that my quibbling have been perpetual. I try to keep my complaints to a pittance, but where would the condition of this blog be? I need to revel in the joy of this special Kitchstar. How about a limbo party at a midget convention! I need to cease my clucking! Seriously, is everyone in agreement? I don’t enjoy listening to my clamor so why should anyone else? I need to hold a blithe outlook and soak in the bliss of our great fruition. Optimism. Giggle. So here’s to brushing, flossing, and to a healthy and sublime pregnancy!

Lesson: A stable Grasshopper must always take a bite of the meatier section of the pork bun.

Nesting

For those of you who are able to nest, consider yourselves lucky. I, on the other hand, live in limbo land. I live in a land of delays, permits, construction, and spontaneity. I live in a chaotic world that is ever changing and evolving. As we anticipate for the permits to go through, which may arrive at any moment, we will be forced to seek shelter in another home. Seeking shelter is not a problem as our resources are plenty. It’s adapting to another environment that reeks.

This pregnant woman is mourning the one important aspect of having a child. That is the nesting period. I believe that I am secretly and silently freaking out, but mums the word. I mean I should be relaxing and taking it easy, but in the back of my mind the rumbling of the storm is brewing. The thought of moving into another home and turning that into a cozy household only to move one last time into the house that we were previously in is really menacing.

Shellie’s Proverb: A zebra with no stripes is just a horse.
I should look on the bright side. A year from now, we’ll be in a beautiful home that we’ll never have to depart, but I live in the moment. The forecast for the next six months should be positive, but all I can feel is anxiety. Is this good for the pregnancy? Is it good for me? I have put off looking at baby essentials to avoid the packing and moving nonsense never mind looking into a nursery. There are worse things in the world like soldiers dying in Iraq for an invalid purpose that is unknown to me, but come on.

Shane’s positive with the future. Sometimes I would even say clueless from my perspective. It’s different now. It’s different, because we have a potential baby that will throw a wrench into the spokes. I believe he’s doing his best to provide a home for us and I honestly appreciate his efforts, although I cringe at the idea.

I am trying my best to make my first pregnancy a memorable event, but it’s really hard knowing we’re going to be nomads. Is it selfish? Is it normal? I never had a nursery when I was born so what’s the big ordeal? Am I being absolutely yuppie? I chose this life from the beginning. That's right, I’m not walking into a brick wall knowing that I did not have a thing or two to do with piling the bricks. Buying houses just to flip it was convenient for the bank account, but is now fluent to my insanity. Sob.

Lesson: An organized Grasshopper can never predict fate.

Sew What!

As my belly begins to rise like a round piece of dough so my wardrobe becomes hideously limited. I’ve been fighting the world of elastic waistband, empire cut blouses, and baby doll dresses. Instead, I’ve been coercing my waistline to squeeze into my usuals. Does the term, “Snap into a Slim Jim,” come to mind? I’ve dabbled into the maternity clothing galaxy, and I’m appalled by the cost and the production. Designers are making a whopping kill on such drab outfits. Well except for the Gap, because they have such adorable shrugs and chunky sweaters. Although Paper Denim, Habituals, Diane Von Furstenberg have all jumped on the band wagon. It’s incredibly horrible.

Some people knit while others crochet, but I prefer the art of sewing. Last week, I stopped by the fabric store to select some really fabulous material. I will proceed to sew my maternity clothes while my short legs can still reach the pedal. Why not? I enjoy sewing and I’ve been doing it since the seventh grade. If you observe very carefully, most maternity clothing entail elastic and empire waistline. So it won’t be too long before my wardrobe will expand to match my waistline.

Shellie’s Proverb: A flower with no petals is just a bud.
Purely, I am not vain, yet I like to be polished? Not a crime. This body is blowing up like a hot air balloon and I refuse to look like a galoot when it happens. I’m okay with my portliness, but is it a felony to be stylish? Why should I give in to stretchy polyester blends or gabardines? Therefore, I will remain true to myself. I will not give into the dark forces of drab stretch cotton and velour scoop neck blouses.

Instead of decompressing in front of the television, I can do both! I can simultaneously be lazy and productive, the perfect antithesis. Designer I’m not, seamstress I’m barely. I have an empty closet to fill, regardless, these clothes are not a one time showing. The Kitchens are procreating for humanity.

Lesson: Smart grasshopper must learn to make rice before he can eat it.

Shriek!

The second trimester has been enchanting! Hallelujah, there is sunshine outside of this viperous black hole. I am a spry spring chicken! On Saturday, I took Chloe for a hike at Fort Funston. All this energy has me feeling like I could sprint to the top of Mount Everest. Well, you catch my drift. A month ago, this slug couldn't make it off the couch. I am making it a point to get my cardio and free weights on. Yes, I am enrolling in prenatal yoga, but there's something about yoga that bores me to timbers. Certainly, I understand the circumference of benefits that yoga provides, but the whole breathing, stretching, and meditating is so deathly monotonous. Please don't get me wrong, besides the fact that I am as limber as concrete , I used to be yoga obsessed that was until I discovered boxing. I'm just in bliss with my butt not imprisoned to the couch.

Shellie's Proverb: Never trust a tortoise that doesn't come out of his shell.

My food cravings have dwindled and I'm back to par. Well, I did give into a sausage mcmuffin on Sunday, my husband nursed a slight hangover, but that didn't stop me from noshing on two hash browns. So besides that stumble, I'm back on the organic and cage free kick. Eating healthy is crucial. Considering that I live in San Francisco, makes it easier for me to enforce the organic and free range code. Are you kidding? It's all the rage in this city from the neighborhood store to the restaurants. I'm just glad that I don't live in the South or Midwest where I would be subject to trans fat, high caloric and portions the size of an elephants caboose. (Please insert sense of humor here.)

I am thrilled to disco that I can make it through meals without doing a face plant into my meal. I am joyous to know that I can fulfill my chores and errands without forfeit. I am enraptured by the change in the weather. As I have been threatened by the forecast of the third semester in which my narcolepsy relapse may occur. For the next two and half months, I will bask in the rays of my second trimester sunshine. Happy days are here again!

Lesson: A young Grasshopper must always go off the path to discover direction to Shaolin.

Top Dawg

A few concerns have arisen regarding the almighty Kitchen household. Is the honeymoon over? Are the walls crumbling? Has it gone awry? Keep your jock straps on sister Mary(s), surely everything is fine. My hormone faucets ruptured, it happens. Shane is safe and so am I. We are all cool like pickled cucumbers. It's just sometimes I tend to magnify my rantings a thousand fold. My confessions are a merely a heavy exertion on events. Certainly, without disagreements, improvements would cease to exist. Don't worry loyal Shane fans he has come out unscathed. He is well aware of my entries, considering that he contributes to my daily dallies.

Shellie's Proverb: A country with no rice always goes hungry.

Perhaps, he is freaking out about the baby, as he should. As the male species can never put the trigger on their emotions, my husband proceeds to increase his extra curriculars. That's normal too and it's all malleable. I'll take that over a wife beater any day. I've been with musicians, gamers, and techies and that my friend is mental abuse. Regardless, I don't blame my bout with hormones exclusively. In the past years, I've learned to tame that wild animal we women refer to as PMS, although this spontaneous hormonal flux is a tasmanian terror.

We're doing a great job thus far. It's been a little choppy, but nothing that we can't hack. So you loyal members of Shane's fan club can take a big whiff of your jock straps, because it's all going to be alright. He's still on for the annual Golf Tournament in Scottsdale. I am forcing his attendance to Carr's wedding in Texas. We have an understanding with snowboarding. A don't ask and don't tell policy. The Kitchen dome is in tact. Shrill.

Lesson: Grasshopper must suffer most terribly to achieve enlightness.

Boo!

In previous years, Halloween has been my Christmas and Thanksgiving all rolled up into a jelly roll. Is it the power of disguise that I find thrilling? Is it because I could be anyone without seeming absolutely schizophrenic? Whatever my attraction is to Halloween, this year it's all fizzle. I do believe I suffered a Halloween overdose last year and I am still recovering. I mean three costumes in three nights, my heart goes out to you, Elton John.

Shellie's Proverb: One cannot slurp soup with fork.

Angela, Jill, Greg, Vanessa, and Minitti showed up for a pre party prior to Jeeun's birthday part on Friday night! I wasn't jonesing, but a shot of tequila shot would have hit the g spot. Okay maybe I was. Instead I opted for pineapple juice on the rocks. Make that a triple! Furthermore, I hogged the fruit platter. Yes, that's me the hungry pregnant woman sitting amongst my drunk karaoke fiends. Shane and Minitti dressed as geeks as usual they got into character and very well I might add, and took over the dance floor. Considering my love bun in my belly, my costume alternatives were slim. That night, I played photographer and took photos that could possibly fall in the black mail category. I must add that this Halloween has been the tamest in the past years.

Since alcohol has no place in my system, this year I'm passing out candy and cozying up to an American Haunting with Shane and Chloe. Considering that we live in Potrero Hill, I have a feeling we'll be bombarded with kids, hence movie watching maybe difficult. It's a change and I don't mind it. I don't mind the brakes, it's been a hectic life and the slow lane sounds really good for a woman in a wheelchair. I kid. Who says you have to be at a costume party to let your fangs out? It's Halloween!

Lesson: A versatile Grasshopper must be willing to cross bamboo over rushing water to master the ways of the master.

Hurdle

I kissed Shane goodbye as he made way to the bar to meet his boys for a couple of afternoon brews. I gently reminded him that we had a dinner date with two expensive free range pork chops so don't be late. Two chick flicks later and that disappointing ball of spike sunk it's sharp dagger deep in the pit of my stomach. "Is it shrug off worthy?" I thought to myself, "Was I making a rash out of an itch?" Funny, I didn't feel crazy.

I loathe being the female that places the disgruntled call, I'm not a spoiler. What is he like ten years old? He should know better. It wasn't my place to call him to remind him of our dinner date. As there's one thing that I have learned and that is there's no sense in communicating with the drunk. None. Zip. Nada. I have a better chance of communicating with my dead relatives. Besides, he won't remember the discussion tomorrow and my time is too important to waste on an incoherent baboon. I'll save my shrieking for tomorrow morning when his hang over is drilling a hole in his head. Despite the fact that my night was tarnished, it didn't give me a reason to ruin others. Regardless, if I calculate correctly, four hours of drinking doesn't sound like a good concoction for a beautiful meal. If I know my husband, he'll be stumbling through that door and slurring like his tongue was on a mechanical bull ride.

Shellie's Proverb: Only pet a dog when it's tail is wagging.
I took advantage of the silence and attempted to catch another chick flick on cable. I cozied up with a warm bowl of soup and called it a night. At this point, I was more disappointed than furious, but furious nonetheless. As predicted, he dawdled in like the rooster that ruled the roost, "Whuhre's deechnner?" He smiled and slowly plopped on the chair, his head tilted back eyes closed and mouth gaped wide as the Great Plains. Shoveling a spoonful of hot sauce in his mouth seemed like a good idea. There he was my darling husband sloshed to the gills. I turned the video camera on and began my first film Shane Does Beer. I chuckled, as I tried to decipher his prattle. "Whut ur eew doing?" His head bobbled, "Yewr so meagn." His eyes rolled and than closed shut. "I'm not mean honey, I just wanted you to see how hilarious you are when your drunk." I bantered. "Um nawt dreeunk." He rebutted repeatedly until he blathered himself to silence. I grabbed Chloe and headed upstairs. Soon he would shuffle his way upstairs and accuse me of being cold and mean, because I didn't feel like cuddling and inhaling his breath that resembled a bar. Regardless, I ignored his absurd drunken bollix and prayed for sleep.

It's times like this that I wish I could drink. It's times like this that I prefer to be drunk. It's times like this that I wish I could shriek my frustration from the top of my heels. It's times like this that I learn positive restraint and patience. These experiences can be hurtful and vexing at times, but I know that it's not out of spite, stupidity perhaps, but not spite. It's not consuming alcohol that's difficult, it's having to adapt to an intoxicated husband that becomes intricate. As the world turns, there are other humans that are worse off such as these American foster children that are shafted by the Brangelinas of the world who opt to adopt children in far away countries.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must learn to tolerate the pain of walking barefoot.