Aftershock

We were wheeled into the recovery room on the fifth floor as the midwife strolled Hunter in his own little glass cart. There he was truth and innocence. So beautiful. Just yesterday he was a big bump in my belly. I couldn’t wait to see him, but my eyes were boulder heavy. I felt like I just returned from a bloody ax battle. My body numb, my head ached, my brain dead. Deliriously content. I looked up at Shane from my wheelchair and smiled. I was ready for bed.

I awoke hours later to flowers, celebrity smut literature, Godiva chocolates. Our cell phones were filled with well wishes and best congrats. Woe is me, a catheter from the epidural protruded from me like a sick joke. It didn’t hurt at all, but that plastic prosthetic device was pretty sci-fi. Gulp, I was scared straight with the thought of going number two. Especially after the stitches, but thank god for stool softeners, ice packets, and ibuprofen.

Gestational diabetes confined us to the hospital another two days. They needed to make sure that the diabetes was under control. In those two days, came a flurry of friends and family to see the heavily anticipated Hunter. I was fine with that except I just wished I was invisible. All the pushing had my face swollen not to mention my legs; I’m surprised my capillaries in my eyeballs didn’t explode. I was Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka. Lord almighty. I felt like I could float, float away like a bloating blimp into oblivion. I had to remind myself that it wasn’t about me. Smile.

Vanessa and Anthony, who accidentally found my pregnancy test, has been with us from the very beginning, cheering us on and supporting Hunter with gifts and cards. I mean Vanessa’s been enraptured by the pregnancy, she’s been such a sweetheart. Along with the usual suspects, Angela and KJ, Kurt and Sophia, Alex and Beth, Aunt Nyra, Laurie, Sydney, Alyssa, Shawn, Neil, and Mark. The hospital staff was astounded by the outpour of visitors. I’m thrilled to bits that Hunter is surrounded by positive individuals. He has a lot to look forward to.

This is Shellie awaiting the removal of my catheter back to you Bob at the studio!

It's a Boy!Hunter Styles Kitchen

As the baby lay on my chest, the room glowed with hugs and congratulations. “Hey guys, what is it? The gender?” Everyone laughed, “Wha? You didn't hear? It’s a boy!” I knew it! I silently wished for a boy as I thought it would only be fit, if our future children had a big brother to look up to. I mean we were content on any gender, but secretly I wanted a boy. Smile.

I stated in my birth plan that Shane catch the baby…that didn’t happen, as his confidence in playing catcher was as large as a wheat germ, yet he did participate in the cutting of the umbilical. For a split second there, I witnessed tears from my sweet husband, but not soon enough because he was back on his cell phone making calls to his family and friends telling stories of exhaustion and hardship which made the nurses burst into laughter. He relived the experience as if he was the one that gave birth.

I will relieve you of all after birth details which entailed stitches, cussing, pushing, numbing, and placenta. Gulp. Exactly, that’s all you need to know.

He weighed in at 6 lbs 11 oz and 19 inches long. I scuff at you doctors who were certain the baby would be the size of a galloping watermelon due to the gestational diabetes. He was healthy. I was happy. Shane was happy. The sun kissed the window outside, but there was nothing brighter than our beautiful newborn boy.

This is Shellie wishing I could bottle this exhilarating moment back to you Bob at the Studio.

Push it. Push it Real Good!

After being couped up in a room the size of a shoe box, I was wheeled to a larger room that was labeled delivery. The drugs had silenced my pain, hence I could be sliced and minced with a ginsu knife and I would remain in bliss. I was ready to meet Kitchstar. It was time.

“How are you feeling?” My sister inquired meanwhile today was her birthday. I apologized for having to spend her 50th birthday potentially staring at me with my legs spread. It’s definitely not what I would wish anyone on their 50th anything. Shane sat at my side reading his novel. We were waiting for instruction from the midwife and doctor. There was a peaceful calm that stirred in the room. We were in the eye of the storm.

We were shooting to have Kitchstar before midnight as it was not only my sister’s birthday, but a few close friends including our Bichon Frise. Personally, I didn’t want the baby to share anyone else’s birthday, but that’s just me. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. The midwife prepared me to push by prefacing proper instructions like upon a contraction to breathe in through your nose, but hold your breath and push like your pooping. It sounded simple as Duncan Hines frosting. I was ready. I felt strong. The lights were dim and the room was quiet.

Pushing seemed simple alright, but I never realized that I was an uncoordinated ox. It was hard enough for me to keep my breathing in tact, I could breathe through my nose, but that’s as far as I got. I would have to start all over, because I was exhaling while pushing which in the pushing world is a no-no. On top of everything else, I was pushing with the wrong muscle. The midwife reminded me of my errors enough times that I could spit in her face. So much for my kegle exercises, it came in handy as group of midgets at a tea party. So much for my prenatal pilates, my prenatal yoga, and all the hours spent on the elliptical. I was doomed to hell!

My blood pressure, my blood sugar, my pitocin increase, my decrease of epiduro mingled in my veins like a block party. The lights were soft and dim, a damp towel cooled my forehead, an oxygen mask regulated my breathing. Subsequent to being told that my birthing was the most calm in world history, the spiritual experience was broken by the bright lights and the order of business. Pushing was the real business and my contractions became painfully apparent, I begged for more epiduro like a fiend. But I was denied. Instead, I was rewarded with a nice bag of cold ice to bring the swelling down. I didn’t feel any swelling, evidently I was swollen as a bloated pig down there. I was recommending to take a thirty minute break, but I couldn’t sit through another series of contractions without pushing. They were insane!

The pain was a pain unlike any other, tears and fear were one with contraction. I should be excited, but I couldn’t see past the moment. It came in waves and I was supposed to push with every incoming contraction. I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel, but my husband and siblings could see farther past I could feel. “Your almost there!” Everyone cheered from the sidelines, but I was exhausted. Tired. I felt failure. I felt myself failing. Falling. I can really see eye to eye with Sisyphus, because all this pushing was going no where. I was exasperated. I wanted out. As I pushed on the fourth hour my sister mentioned that the sun was rising. The mere mention that the sun was rising made me throw the oxygen mask off and forfeit this whole birth gig. It had been a grueling journey. I pushed hard, but not hard enough. Someone put the oxygen mask back on and slopped a wet towel on my forehead. Suddenly, the cheering got louder, “push, push, push!” The doctor grooved her hands somewhere down there making way for Kitchstar. Dr. Birmingham’s calm voice like she lured the newborn into the light. In the meantime, I screamed with all my might and propelled Kitchstar from me! I think I heard something about his shoulders coming through...ouch...with the instant pain of a rip, the baby was on my chest.

This is Shellie with a face streaming with tears and a newborn on my chest back to you Bob at the Studio.

Let the Games Begin

I was scheduled for an induction on Monday. As there has been an abnormal wave of births at St. Luke’s my abduction has been pushed back five days. If I have any say in the future and it is this…just say no to inductions. Yikes! I was confined to the bed and 18 hours later, a good deal of morphine, 4 cervix checks later, my water broke. Break it did! “Pop!” It was a sound that produced a gush of liquid from between my legs. My eyes widened as I instantly screeched, “My water broke!” Shane’s been on his cell to the outside world conveying the play by play to friends and family. The ball was rolling and I had Shane and my two sisters at my side. I was a bit guilty as they had taken time off to be at my side and a day was wasted on ripening my cervix.

Pitocin. Oh thy vile inducer! My veins pumped that poison to regulate contractions and with every contraction, preceded water. I was a sloppy mess. Furthermore, my contractions began to quicken and with that quicken came lower back pain. Coercing my body to produce this baby was unnatural. At the same time, I was relieved as the last week had born subtle stretch marks on my lower belly. Ah, the vanity. Smile.

The lower back pain increased and finally, I pleaded for an epiduro. All I remember was carefully being instructed to curl my spine so the anesthesiologist insert the needle into my spine. Upon future contractions, I was to keep silent and still during the procedure. Shane, my crutch, assisted me in this process. In the midst of the procedure, I could feel the pang of a contraction beginning to unfold …so I stuttered, “a contraction is starting.” “Just breathe with me.” Shane instructed, “Look into my eyes and just breathe with me.” Meanwhile, Shane went pale, if I didn’t know any better I think he was on the verge of fainting. Following the procedure, he admitted the sight of blood shooting from my spine made him ill. It was over in five minutes. The magic drug was in full play. Praise god! Praise the lord! Praise! Praise.

I was perfect now. I felt great! I went back to bed! I felt heavenly. Ten o’clock rolled around and another cervix check later and I was 8 centimeters. It was time to push.

This is Shellie scared poopless to push back to you Bob at the Studio.

Final Countdown

Today, may be the big day! I go in for my final ultra sound which will lead to my induction. For the past few weeks, I’ve been working aggressively with my acupuncturist to ripen my cervix via herbs and needles. I know it all sounds like a scientific experiment, but like I’ve said before not a huge fan of western medicine. Instant gratification i.e. pills scare the hell out of me. Thanks to eastern medicine, several Braxton Hicks, contractions, assisting in the ripening of my cervix resulting in effacing and dilating.

It’s been a long road considering my gestational diabetes and all the havoc it wreaked. Furthermore, I’ve had enough of bed rest, talk shows, and chick flicks. Huh, I never thought I’d ever admit such horror! We’re so, to say the least, ecstatic! I’ve had enough of my weeble wobble stride. I have to roll out of sitting position which has put a dagger in my vulnerability. Besides, stretch marks are starting to wall the bottom of my belly, although for all the girlish fuss I’ve made, they’re not that bad. I can deal with the subtleties.

After Kitchstar is born….Note to self:
1. Devour the box of 16 piece nuts and chews Godiva Chocolates.
2. Beg for Patron silver chilled up.
3. Ask for another Patron silver chilled up.

Before I close, I would like to thank the academy…kidding…Tracy Massillon for all of her insight and referrals to making this pregnancy magical. I would also like to thank my superb husband Shane for always being the foundation of my happiness, despite my confessions on this blog. Finally, I would like to thank my family and friends for all your generous support. You have made my first pregnancy memorable. Sniffle.

Think well thoughts today as this may be my final entry as the coolest pregster…until the next pregnancy…

This is Shellie scared poopless to push, but excited as hell to meet my creation, back to you Bob at the Studio.

Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

Apologies and groveling followed last night’s debacle. His canine acuteness was in full effect as soon as he awoke sober in an empty bed. If I had gone into labor and my husband was abosolutely tanked, hence driving myself to the hospital, he would’ve had a screaming demon on his nut sack and I would’ve committed possible manslaughter. I had a bullet proof reason for my disappointment.

Followed by a spout of apologies, I pardoned his juggling brainless act. What’s the use? I led him into the lion’s den by sending him over to Joel’s house. What did I expect? An evening of saintly prayers and psalm? Psssshh…not. Shrug. He snuck me out to Mavericks for brunch. Food it makes my heart flutter with fondness. I love brunch and I love food. Besides, it was a super sunny day, and I have been in a rest pod for what seems to be ten thousand life times.

Paradise wasn’t crumbling. It was just the walls of my patience. If we didn’t disagree, than we really wouldn’t be normal now would we? How is our relationship to seek heights of improvement, if we were stagnant. Perhaps, Shane has had it good for too long. He needed to be shaken (a little) and not stirred.

This is Shellie from the arms of her husband back to you Bob at the studio.

Paradise Crumbles

Today my acupuncturist proceeded to aggressively induce as the doctors will be inducing next week. Believe me, inducing through herbs and acupuncture is more pleasant than western medicine. Basically, my water could break any time now. I am in hatch mode! Shane rolled in half past midnight after I placed a phone call to wrangle his ass home from Joel’s house. They were enjoying a celebratory night from the Golden State Warriors win over the Dallas Mavericks. As I am due any day now, I thought it would be nice that he watch the game at a friend’s house a few blocks away. Under the condition that he be home before midnight, call in and check up on me, and go easy on the booze as he may have to drive me to the hospital.

Instead, he strolls in with not a care in the world as I am profusively infuriariated, fuming from every pore of my body. Have I been too lenient? I am fully pumped with hormones and I have yet to take a bite out of the mood swing cake. My husband is completely clueless when it comes to pregnancy. I have to remind him that my case it’s abnormal. My emotions have not been sporadic. I have not gouged his eyes out for eating a carrot stick to loud. I have not burst into bouts of crying over a bottle of olive oil. I have not suffered heart burn, acid reflux, or constipation. I have been happy as a humming bird considering my diabetes. He is clueless as to the authentic symptoms of a pregnant woman.

I proceed to lash him with the third degree, yet his slurred response is, “What’s your problem? Why are you pissed?” I could’ve have tossed him off the top floor deck into the backyard. Yes sir. I blacked out in anger. I excused myself from the bedroom, to put it nicely. There’s no use in conversing with a drunken babbling monkey. I couldn’t tolerate his presence. I have given this man complete party privileges during the past nine months and the one time I want him be responsible, it backfires. Typical. Just my luck, you can't train a dog to stop sniffing ass. Is it my fault? Is it my fault for being so easy going? Is it my fault for being self-reliant?

Maybe I should have played victim and allowed him to pamper me during the pregnancy. Now that I have swollen into buoyant proportions and unable to navigate easily, he still wants me to cook him dinner. That is my life. I have spoiled my husband and this is the hell I have created. I feel trampled. Used. Because he has been insensitive, during the entire pregnancy. He has not showered me kindness, nor sympathized with me in the past nine months. Sob. Note to self: being easygoing has it’s downside. I hate to say it, but paradise is in trouble.

This is Shellie coming to you from the living room couch, I bid you good evening or in this case good morning.

Rest

Sadly, my entries have dwindled, since my recent scare. I would love to indulge in the daily of my pregnancy dallies, but my bed keep dictates my thoughts. I am held hostage to the television. Have you had the luxury to enjoy morning television? It's chockful of nonsense. Thank god for cable and DVD(s). Perhaps, I could retire to a good novel, but my attention span is the size of a germ. Writing has always been my safe outlet and without writing means well failure. Fray.

Here I lay in the comfort of my bed looking out of my bedroom deck into an exquisite day as Chloe begs to spend the day with me. She proceeds towards the bedroom deck where she lays on her stomach and spreads out on all four sets of paws like a fuzzy white rug. There she is my sweet Bichon. Will she love Kitchstar when it arrives? Will they be best friends? Will she care for the baby? I am filled with uncertainty as Chloe requires an ample amount of attention from Shane and me. She’s good with children, but will she be just as sweet with our own?

I should take Chloe to Fort Funston for a nice walk, but my condition refutes my desire. I went from yoga, pilates, and an hour at the gym to resigning to bed rest. I always found the need to exert all this restless energy, but I’m sure I could exert it elsewhere in my life. Maybe that’s the problem with us Americans, we are stuck in the gridlock of the hurly burly of life. Maybe it’s not Americans, maybe it’s just me. It’s all for the best as one could never get too much rest. Right?

This is Shellie from the billowing eight hundred thread count sheets bidding you to enjoy the beautiful sunny day.

Name is Forever

What’s in a name? Authenticity? Sophistication? Blame? Our name list originated six months into the pregnancy, but we put a delay on the task, because we could not come into agreement. Unfortunately, a few weeks from the due date and the heat strikes hot. I suspect we should have a substantial grasp on a few names. Giggle. I thought that Shane, my dear husband, was the most persuasive person provided proper cogent coaxing, cough…not this time…cough.

The pressure is on to selecting the name that shall snug Kitchstar suitably. Shane and I have crossed swords on names. It has been pure warfare. Digging our daggers in one’s favor for a name. Shane’s reasonable response, “I went to school with a kid with that name and he constantly ate his boogers. I'm not naming our kid after a kid that ate his boogers.” Curious how our childhood become vivid and raw during this process. Furthermore, the unknown gender to Kitchstar’s has made the process a smidge complicated. Therefore, our long jumbled list of girls, boys, and neutral names has been revised a too many times over. We have agreed that family, religion, and traditional names are restricted from the list. Worse, boys’ names are toilsome like searching the world for the Holy Grail! Perusing the name books have proven to be useless. These books with names that are sorted by categories such as wealthy, nerdy, political, and popular, to say the least, we found repugnant.

Shellie's Proverb: A book with blank pages can not be read.

Meanwhile friends voraciously probe us on names as we embarrassingly admit that we…gulp…haven’t agreed on one. Our name list was a simple gesture of attempt. Occasionally, I would like to rule out Shane’s opinions by utilizing the “I’m carrying your child for 9 months, therefore…” excuse, but I don’t have the guts. I’m sure it’s been done, but I’d rather come to a decision that we can acknowledge.

Coincidentally, we were subjects of old time media. Shane, named after the John Wayne movie and Shellie, after the notable actress Shelley Winters. What are we really searching for in a name? I would prefer Kitchstar avoid any name taunting on the playground. Is that possible? In the end, kids will be kids and will find any reason to tease no matter how what the name.

The fact that we are responsible for labeling Kitchstar’s name frightens the shivers out of me. Moreover, finding a name that Shane and I can come to adore is like two rams battling the weaker off a jagged cliff. In the end, we did decide that upon Kitchstar’s arrival, so shall the name like watching a glowing apricot colored sun rise and knowing that it will be an exquisite sunny day.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must not judge his enemy by his sword, but by his name.

False Alarm

“You’ll be having the baby by tonight, if not tomorrow.” The midwife’s voice bounced off my exhausted brain. I was 36 weeks as tears began to stream down my face. Kitchstar just failed the diagnostic test 10 being the best, scoring an all time low 3. My birth expectations were miles away from a cesarean. It was trendy to go cesarean. I mean who wants to squeeze an elephant through a birth canal? If my mom naturally gave birth to a 12 pound baby, anyone can do it. Besides, our body was built to shift. Unless, suffering from vital complications like breach or a high risk pregnancy, cesarean was really for vanity or wuss reasons. It’s all a sham. Some women opted to bypass the pushing and tearing. A mere cop out, but that’s America we have a right to choose. In this case, I was robbed of mine.

I attended my stress test which took place twice a week. The stress test gauged the amniotic fluid and the activity of the baby. It was a normal day up to this point, they couldn’t pin point the heart rate of the baby. The machine’s data was long and windy. It’s been two hours and I’ve missed both my doctors’ appointment. They urgently sent me down for an ultrasound and said to return upon completion.

I returned from the ultrasound as the midwife called Shane and me into a room that read Delivery Room #6. By the look of the midwife and the call into the private room I sensed a prelude to seriousness. The term “exhausted” placenta followed by the underdevelopment of the baby’s lungs at 36 weeks and lack of movement hijacked with the word cesarean were all part of her explanation of why there were keeping me. If it wasn’t for my diabetes and the relation to underdeveloped lungs, an emergency cesarean would have been performed. All of this information bounced off the walls of my brain. Kitchstar was in jeopardy.

It was almost six o’clock and I have not had any food, since noon. Famished was an understatement! I kindly pleaded with the midwife if I could take a quick ride home and pick up a change of clothes and maybe get a quick bite to eat, but the wheels were set in motion. The cesarean dictated my food intake which was null to none. As I lay in bed a militia of nurses, doctors and midwives kindly introduced themselves. A split i.v. was inserted furnished with saline and oxytocin as well as continuing the stress test. Kitchstar’s heart was faint and the sheet of paper spit out mixed messages to boggle the minds of the medical world.

Meanwhile, Shane couldn’t get a hold of my sisters. My family members were missing in action. On the other hand, the Kitchens were in full blast checking in three four times an hour. You can imagine what crap I felt, because my family was down for the count in typical Cadelinia fashion. Sigh.

We procrastinated on packing the bag for the hospital. It was plopped on the floor in front of the desk. Ironically, we were in the process of putting the bag together the night before, but we thought we had a few more weeks ahead of us. Jinx.

Jill, sister in law and savior, stopped by the house to gather the essentials. To add more intensity to the situation, our new housekeeper may have placed the bag somewhere other than originally thought. We set Jill on a hunt for the bag, we mastered the art of clueless. Insignificantly, Shane instructed Jill on his hospital attire, “grab the pair of buffalo jeans or should I wear sweats, the blue sweats with the yellow stripe running down.” He turned to me, “Should she pick up jeans or sweats? What do you think?” With eyes of piercing fire I responded, “I could give two flying donkey fucks about what you are wearing Shane, I’m sure the baby could give two shits as well. Just have her pack the god damn bag Shane!” Shane quickly got back on his cell, “Jill, just pack the sweats and get over here.” I couldn’t believe the audacity of my husband! As I laid there in my finest backless hospital couture, he was more concerned about his fashion sense than the situation at hand. I could kill him right now! The whole day was shattered into pieces.

Kitchstar needed to prove to the doctor that it could jam three movements in ten minutes during a contraction. The nurses were bedazzled by my lack of emotion during the contractions, “do you feel that?” You’re having a major contraction right now. Unfortunately, I couldn’t feel myself blink. I never suffered a menstrual cramp, since my bleeding existence. I’m sure I wasn’t missing anything as I remember my girlfriends cursing the heavens of what hell they suffer. I couldn’t feel anything. They started the drip from 3 units and it was up to 27 units and I couldn’t feel jack. Shane sat on my bed comforting me in his arms and stroking my head, “Everything’s going to be fine honey, you’ll see, don’t worry.” He exerted my worries with his magical smile. I must say that the St. Luke’s Labor and Delivery unit rocked impressively. They were on me like ham on rye. I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t worried. I was more perturbed that I couldn’t get a hold of both my sisters.

Shellie's Proverb: A deck of card is null without it's queen.

There was an explosion of excitement wanting to finally come face to face with this moment. “Always expect the unexpected.” One of the nurses reminded us. She was right. I didn’t expect this and we were thrown off course. Shane, on the other hand, was completely jazzed. He placed calls to Minniti and Kurt conveying that the baby was arriving tonight or tomorrow. I was enlightened to see that my husband was ecstatic. Simultaneously, if I wasn’t strapped to the i.v and the stress machine, I could’ve bitch slapped him for not being more sensitive to my condition. Shane one of his good sides was that he always looked on the bright side of things. Erck.

It was almost eleven o’clock as Doctor Norrell performed a third ultrasound. She confirmed that Kitchstar would be fine. The baby was moving again. Kitchstar was fine. The excitement came to a screeching halt. The circus act had come to it's finale. Her advice was to take it easy and no work from hereon in. To bed rest. All this hoopla, I felt let down as I had prepared myself to meet Kitchstar by tomorrow morning. Perhaps, the scare was a sign to get our shit together. I was busy trying to stay fit and heed this diabetes when in fact I should be nesting.

Phew! Prankster I mean Kitchstar placed a big scare on us. After being told that the arrival of the baby was at hand and for it to shift, I was a smidge sullen. This incident had made things so clear. It shifted different priorities into action like establishing our birth plan and having a plan a, b, and c when it comes to contacting family members. The next time we’ll be slightly prepared, until than Kitchstar is resting well in my belly. Countdown four more weeks.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must master the way of folding the origami to achieve the ways of adaptation.

Hope

As I dosed off to the beat of Kitchstar's heartrate, an abrupt loud clang and screaming shook me from relaxation. If they were trying to escalate my stress level well they did a good job. What the hell was that? The screaming became more apparent and stronger suddenly followed with the wailing of a baby. I turned to the nurse, "Was that just a baby crying?" "Yes, a baby was just born." She smiled and went back to her paper work. The crying of the newborn continued down the hall of the labor and delivery room. My heart throbbed warm and large. There was something in that moment that took me closer to my fate. I felt lucky somehow. I was fortunate to have the opportunity to share this experience with the faceless woman down the hall. How special that these nurses experience this on the daily. I wonder if they take it for granted. Or did they find each birth unique, different and just as moving. My comrade had joined forces of the new mothers and here I am on the outskirts of their fellowship.

Shellie's Proverb: A man that doesn't make water is usually shriveled and dry.

As I basked in the sound of the newborn's crying, it softly hit me that I would be there soon. That would soon be Shane and me! Shane and I would be in one of these rooms fiercely laboring to get the baby out. It put all my anxieties and fears to rest knowing that there was light at the end of the tunnel. All the doctor's appointments, prenatal massages, acupuncture, exercising and monitoring of the baby circumferenced the arrival of Kitchstar.

As the days and nights mesh into one big glob, I count the days to that shining moment.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must never take oxygen for granted.

Rock the Cradle

As we anticipate the arrival of Kitchstar, we keep busy by putting the finishing touches on the nursery. We are so thrilled of the arrival of little Kitch. Shane has been very helpful by putting all the baby gear together, but when it comes to talking to my belly he's as interested as a dog pissing on a log. My ever growing belly is not tangible enough. Freak. I am at the 35 week mark. Eek! Occasionally, more frequently, as I relax in a hot shower, my knees weaken and my heart races at the thought of pushing Kitchstar out of my v-canal. Shit! I close my eyes and hope my meditated magic, a repetitive "Ohm," will diffuse my anxiety.

Other than that, everything is tip top. I've succumbed to co-exist with my gestational diabetes. I mean I could whine, sob, and play my pity soliloquy, but why? I've acclimated to the pre-meal insulin that enters my blood system by injection via the stomach. Don't worry, I'll take it out on Kitchstar in the future giggle. In addition, I'm undergoing stress tests to make sure Kitchstar is actively moving and ultra sound to gauge the fluid around the baby twice a week. I'm in great hands.

Shellie’s Proverb: A candle with no wick is pure wax.

Besides, I've been pampering myself weekly with visits to the acupuncturist and prenatal massage. The constant daily advice is to practice squatting. Yes, squat...this allows the baby's head to drop and it allows my pelvic floor to stretch and strengthen. A little graphic, but you get the gist. It's been predicted that the baby may come early. If not, the doctors will induce on my due date. Starting my 36th week, I will start a gradual dose of primrose and herbs to start the ripening of my cervix. Ripening? Ripening. Believe me, nobody wants to induce, if the cervix is not ripened. An unripened cervix is like sawing through a slab concrete with a plastic knife. Painful.

Lastly, we need to coordinate a birth plan, a specific schematic of preference during labor. Back in the day, women just squirted babies out. This day and age, there’s so many choices and alternatives to consider that it could make an old man sterile. A birth plan consists of instructions and preferences for the doctors and midwives to follow ranging from labor positions to pain relief to cord cutting to unexpected labor events. Do you know how many selective cesarean incisions there are? Exactly, knowledge, knowledge, knowledge.

May is immediately around the corner and we’re ecstatic! As the last days of our anti-parenting moments come to a close, we thrive in the threshold. A new chapter. The Kitchens will soon embark on the shores of parenthood. We can’t wait for the arrival of Kitchstar so let the lack of sleep, logic, sex, and consciousness begin!

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must have all the ingredients to make chop suey.

Space the Final Frontier

Shane left for the Baja coast of Cabo San Lucas this morning with his cronies. A weekend to myself. Ah, what a relaxing feeling. Obviously, it's boys weekend in girls gone wild country in the spring break region. This wild girl will take a break this weekend and wallow in the sunshine of spring with my fellow chicas. I'm having dinner with Angela and Jill tonight at my favorite restaurant Salt House. Yum mee! I can't wait. Although my endurance for sitting in one spot has become a slight burden, I always manage to make it through without whining. Ouch.

My two sisters are sleeping over on Friday and Saturday night without their kids! Yippee! Do you have any idea what a big favor I've done them? No kids? I don't think they know what to do with themselves. What will they do with all the silence and the non-bickering? They're big plan is to bring over a bunch of filipino food on friday and plop on that couch and feast. I, of course, am unable to indulge in the filipino food fiesta, due to my gestational diabetes.

Shellie's Proverb: A rotund person will never go hungry.

The weather's looking spectacular this weekend so maybe I'll drag my sisters to Chrissy Fields early Saturday for a short brisk walk than to brunch. Although Laurie, my middle sis, is absolutely addicted to shopping and is trying her best to coerce us into shopping for the baby. Honestly, I'm not sure how much more stuff baby needs. We went through the baby's clothes and between socks, hats, onesies, pants, shirts, towels, and blankets, Kitchstar's wardrobe is growing faster than a bacteria in a petri dish. There's only room for one in the clothes department in this household...um that would be me.

As the chatter broke the barrier of the goings on in Cabo, something about Borat and swimsuit, ahem...cough...I can only imagine what fun my husband is having. Smile. Enjoy it, because this baby is coming faster than a tortoise on roller skates.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must not attempt an axe kick with a limp foot.

Update

The nursery is coming cozy. Since there will be many visitors, we decided to keep the second room as the guest room. Besides, the narrow flight of stairs simply gives me anxiety attacks. I've slipped down those stairs in the middle of the night and I was not going to chance it with Kitchstar. Look at me, I'm already fussy with circumspect. Ill. The nursery will be in the front section of the downstairs equipped with bay windows. We divided the downstairs with a wall of sheer white curtains. We removed the monstrous obstruction of the dining table for we don't foresee any lavish dinner parties anytime in the near future. I think the show Top Design has become a menace to our perspective.

The Kitchen household has been really productive. After the closing of a work day and preparing dinner, we proceed to put the finishing touches on Kitchstar's room. In the past few days, Shane's been focused, assembling the dresser, the glider, ottoman, and the crib. It took him the same time to put together the crib as it took me to assemble a six piece hamper with the annoying assistance of an allan wrench. Frightening I know. That's why he builds houses and I keep my nose of it.

As we'll probably have to move in the next few months, we are attempting to make the room as comfortable as sanely possible. As I am not a fan of frill, color schemes, ruffles, bows, and doodads can just catch the next train ticket to Mars. I am leaning towards a zen shui feel like the tranquil sound of running water, bamboo, clean lines, and flowing curtains. Since I'll be spending most my time with the baby, between the crying, puking, pooping, peeing and lack of sleep, it might as well be harmoniously serene.

We were up past eleven last night organizing the front room, buzzing with focus, we were both sick of being procrastinators. Since Shane's gone this weekend, we wanted to get a head start as you never know when the baby comes. If Kitchstar arrives early, than we're in heavy and deep poo. As fate wears many masks, I just prefer to be one step ahead.

Shellie's Proverb: A brick will strengthen a house, but a brick can not make you strong.

Speaking of fate, Kitchstar's definitely growing! Evidently, the movements are stronger. It's so cool! I love the mommy and baby Morse code. It punches when it's starving. It kicks when I'm eating. I've been gaining a pound a week in the past two weeks and growing. I keep trying to slow it down to prevent the slightest development of stretch marks, plus I have seven more weeks to go. Yes, I'm superficially vain, say a prayer for me you religious fanatics. I don't understand as I've been working out everyday. You think that my fat loss would equivocate to the baby's weight gain. Well, that's my logic it doesn't have to make sense.

The Kitchen household is slowly coming together. The babies room is very cool! It's comfortable, inviting, and cozy. We're very proud of the hard work and late nights we've invested, because the outcome is fabulous! Meanwhile, Shane will be boozing it up in Mexico this Thursday, I will attempt to put together our birthing plan and read up further on the alternatives, expectations of birthing. As I am regularly hounded to read Ina May's Guide to Child birthing, because of my shear terror of giving birth I just might complete the task this weekend. As both my sisters are spending the weekend at the house, I'm sure I'll find some alone time.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must practice in order to become the master of his art.

Serenity Now!

St. Patricks Day and Birthday Festivities for Tracy Massillon's, doula extraordinaire aka proficient in the masterful ways of the vagina, birthday ensued from a barbecue to drinking at Brunos. By the time, we hit Brunos the entire posse was in a mood. I, on the other hand, was sober. The DJ was bumping, but so was the headache that progressed in my head. I moved and grooved until I couldn't take it anymore. I decided to head home before I turn into a pumpkin. Shane was free to stay under uno important condition and that is to be at the top of his game at 1000 hours tomorrow. I may be full of girlish foolish promises, but I trusted Shane to do his woman right.

Shellie's Proverb: Never trust a drunk to keep a promise.

As the gods would have it, Shane rolled in the realms of 3 o'clock in the morning. The raucous of his presence was apparent from the door slam downstairs. I was slightly perturbed not because he was drunk, but because he would be mush tomorrow. A tragedy. He sluggishly flopped into bed gurgling boisterously in gibberish and wreaking of alcohol. I was not a happy wife. I was hijacked from sleep, because my husband was being an absolute snoring slob in bed. At sunrise, I watched him bobbing in the depths of his R.E.M. Brewing in frustrating and irrational thoughts. I was not going to allow him to ruin my Sunday. I bounced out of bed. I ate my breakfast and headed to the gym. If and when, I return and he is unresponsive, than I shall take the world into my hands. Until than, the elliptical, heart rate, sweat, free weights, and exertion was immediate.

There's something about exercising that pushes me through the threshold of any conflict. A baptismal. A cleansing. A reflection. I drove home after an hour and half of working out with a different outlook. A brighter one. If Shane was just mentally bruised, than I would pursue today's errands a la solo. Done. No arguments. No lectures. I walked into the house and my husband greeted me with a cheerful, "Good morning honey! Where'd you go? To the gym?" I followed the voice to the bedroom. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk last night." He confessed. I shed a tear as that was all that I was looking for a simple apology without the tooth pulling. How can I be livid with someone so sweet? He further proceeded, "I will do whatever you want today. Baby will have a nursery!" As a part of me would've made him lick the bottom of my cross trainers, my heart oozed forgiveness.

Lesson: A wise grasshopper must not allow emotions to restrict free thought.

Prepare for Storkville

Shane and I finished our morning work out at the gym. I felt resilient! I was Master of the Universe. It was 9:45 o'clock on St. Patrick's Day as I made way to visit my acupuncturist. I wallowed in the great head start to my Saturday. I couldn't wait to feel physically and mentally in syc; rested, a true luxury. As we are not finding out the gender, everyone's been trying their hand at the guessing game. Christine, the acupuncturist, attempted to figured out the sex by deciphering the babies pulse. She said it was a girl, but my intuition always told me from the start that it was a boy. I could be wrong. In any case, the baby is faced down and head down which in pregnant world is ideal. She did her magic and I felt brand new. I scheduled her weekly in my last four weeks to ensure the health and safety of baby and me.

On my way home, I was entangled in the circus of the St. Patrick's parade. A wave of drunken green barricaded the roads. By this time, I was famished. I regularly pack my snack with me to avoid irritable pregnant syndrome, but not today. Frown. Shane and I had a schedule to keep. We had some essential shopping to tackle like diapers, butt butter, and butt wipes. As of yet, nursery is just a figment of our imagination. Since Shane's been playing hookey during my pregnancy, it was time I put the screech on the emergency brakes. If you compare him to other victimized father's to be, he's got it lush. He is to be present at Cabo San Lucas this Thursday for four or five days to celebrate a bachelor that doesn't have a set wedding date yet...ironic. Anyway, that's a different story. Smile.

Shellie's Proverb: A horse that gallops never gets tired.

At home, husband is enthralled in what we women like to refer to as March Sadness. Shane, finally motivated to utilize the computer not to mention the internet, glued to the NCAA college bracket tournament. He tried to delay our errands so he can catch the last five minutes of a game which could mean anything...like a double overtime and an hour later. Not today mister.

Shopping was like two people having a brain meltdown. Since we were clueless as to the gender, I thought it would be fun to have one gender specific outfit for the hospital. Shane as usual did not want any hand in my game, in reality I think he called it stupid. I quickly nabbed a knitted pink hat, pink shoes, and pink shirt. All of this overdose of pink was causing an allergic reaction, an outbreak of nausea and light headedness. He, on the other hand, was more selective, nervously picking through his choices, resulting in blue shoes and blue giraffe shirt.

We than browsed the aisle of milk bottles, nipples, and pacifiers. The marketing strategy was amazing words like avoid gas, colic, natural nipples was apparent. Milk bottles were as various as the hues in the color spectrum. We were baffled! A victim of marketing, I grabbed the bottles that avoided colic and gas. How ineffective could it be? We further perused the breast feeding section as Shane giggled like an adolescent at the odds and ends of breast pump accessories. Diapers, we needed diapers. It seemed like everyone had a newborn, because every brand was out of newborn diapers. Strange in a twilight zone kind of way. As I would have loved to have perused more, we were scheduled for a birthday barbecue at 3 o'clock and it was almost 4 o'clock. Where was our priority? We were always sucked into the abyss of celebration. It was St. Patrick's Day and March Sadness and I could feel that Shane was feverishly going through withdrawals. Besides, we had a hot date tomorrow to finish up our errands. So I gave in. Big mistake.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must stay on the green path to avoid ninja attack.

Baby Shower

As Shane saw it fit to celebrate my baby shower by rounding all of his buddies for golf and than afternoon cocktails into the wee hours of the noon day, I was subject to tradition and a golden tradition at that. On Saturday, girlfriends Angela, Sofia, Aussy hosted a baby shower for yours truly. I must admit that I was touched by the kindness and generosity displayed. Sniffle. It was the perfect sunny and warm day. I couldn't ask for anything more. I was showered with love, laughter, and happiness.

At thirty weeks, about seven months, my buoyant body made way to the baby shower. It was heart touching to be surrounded by my girlfriends and family. Further amazing, were the company of girlfriends that had the opportunity to bond. There's nothing more lovely than a bunch of girls gabbing, eating, and being merry. I am so fortunate to have such lovely friends and family. My two neices were present trying to snatch the clothes pins at the drop of the word "baby!" Of course, they were games and prizes. I enjoyed a memorable flute of mimosa and boy did it go down swell! Champagne, the liquid of my loins. The food spread was amazing! No holds barred on my carb intake. I'm sure I soared off the charts, but I was not going to register it into my glucose journal. My girlfriends were considerate enough to provide sugar free cookies. Aren't they just the sweetest? How I devoured these cookies like it was oxygen. Did I mention the miniature cupcakes from whole foods! Yum in my tum.

Down to the nitty gritty. Presents! My, the pile of gifts. Each gift wrapped meticulously with care, I felt terrible having to dispense the paper. Each clothing item were so adorably tiny, like socks! I could cry! Generosity overflowed from the handmade knit blanket and snug hat (umbilical cord) made by super Mom Kitchen to the stuffed animals, books, and other essentials. Although the mother of all gifts, drum roll please, the bugaboo! I know! Fancy pee in my pantsee! Kitchstar is not worthy, but Uncle John, Aunt Nyra, Jill and Greg seem to think so. This is all new to me? I took it all the positivity in like a field of spring flowers, because I knew in a few months I would be confined to the needs of Kitchstar.

Shellie's Proverb: A smile is contagious.

Essentially, I would like to take a moment to thank the girls for putting on such an elegant and memorable baby shower. Sofia for investing the time to haggle everyone together and for such a beautiful invitation! Angela for spear heading the games department and for providing your ever so delectable deviled eggs. Aussy for hosting the celebration at your humble...cough...mansion...I mean humble abode. I am ever so lucky to have females like you in my life! Of course, the absence of Mom, Mom Kitchen, Chris, Meaghan, Minniti, and Erin was apparent. Well, I had dinner with Meaghan and Stella that evening, but it would have been bomb, if she was present at the shower. Smile. But, such is life! I look forward to returning the favor when the pregnant fairy beckons you.

At the closing of the day, it wasn't about the gifts. It was about the gathering and celebrating. It meant a lot. It was significantly special. The baby shower has come and gone and now the big day is on the horizon. We have yet to put together the make shift nursery. There's a lot to do in the next few weeks. My husband has one last hurrah in Cabo for his best friend's, TC, bachelor party. Than it's time to kick him into husband mode. I can easily say that I've allowed him a lot of slack, since my pregnancy. Now it's time to reel that big fish in. Sorry boys, the husband needs to tend to the homestead. Smile.

Lesson: A happy Grasshopper is a content grasshopper.

Almost there...

As I'm heading towards the finish line of pregnantville, my doctors appointments fills my calendar. St. Luke's have been proactive at monitoring my gestational diabetes. I meet with my OBGYN or midwive once a week alongwith my diabetes counselor. To ensure proper development, I am scheduled for an ultrasound monitoring twice a week. They need to make sure that the baby is coming along nicely. It's nice to know that Kitchstar is in good hands. Phew! Thank the lord for co-payments and such an understanding employer.

I have managed to keep my blood glucose down through diet, insulin, and exercise, instead of enjoying my pregnancy with absolute decadence and sloth like behavior like the other lucky preggers. Besides yoga and pilates, I've incorporated 45 minute cardio and 20 minutes of free weights to my workout. Yes, I'm finally making use of my gym membership that I've had for a decade now. All of this has contributed to keeping my blood glucose down. I'm more healthy now than ever. One thing is for certain, I won't be gaining as much weight. How ironic. The best work out on the planet was the boxing gym, but what good is a pregnant women at a boxing gym. Ridiculous. Swimming is ideal, although there's something about swimming in the same water as obese people, no offense seriously, that makes the chlorine null. This coming from a woman that has orca features.

Shellie's Proverb: A beached whale does not enjoy the sunshine.
My belly has transformed beautifuly into a very tight and rotund sphere. I haven't seen the southern sector of my belly for months now, well unless I look in a mirror, but that would be cheating. I'm a wibble wobble that won't fall down. I've embraced my pregnancy. I'm blessed and I am lucky. No acid reflux. No constipation. Whee. No lower back pain. No nausea. No emotional hijacking. Phew! I count my lucky stars. Sure, I can't delve into a bowl of ice cream caramel sundae, but my situation could be dire. I am thankful and I am happy. I am crossing my fingers and knocking on wood in hopes that the remaining pregnancy will be just as smooth.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must master his appetite to control his waistline.

Baby Boom

I am two months away from joining the ranks of selected family and fellow friends. So excited I could pee my pants! Not so quick you parents who have circled us like vultures waiting to feed on our carcass or I shall douse you with holy water and garlic bulbs. Hiss! How you've persuaded us to join your kind for years, "Kids are so fun. It's the best! It'll change your life." Here we are at the edge of the deep abyss ready to plunge into the dark hole of changing dirty diapers, sleep deprivation, tolerance, frustration, conflict, and all the unknown creature habits that hides in the future.

It is pleasing to know that Kitchstar will have fellow cohorts. Firstly, the Kriegsmen who are new parents to David and the Brooke family on their special special baby boy Jasper. Not to go unmentioned are my pregger females, Allison and Jamie, that were also suckered into pregnancy. Finally, a big "congratulations" to the Benjamins
Meaghan "the wrecking machine" Benjamin. The same day she popped Stella, her third and surely not last, out she was on the phone making calls and a shnazzy website full of photos and clips followed. If ever there was a mother that exuded the true word, it would be her. This women works a full time job, part time job, mother,and wife. She's all natural, galaxies from uptight, I might even go as far as to exclaim that she's an inspiration. She is the frosting on the the cake.

Shellie's Proverb: Do not ask a lion for a handout when it's feeding it's cub.

I am fortunate to have such well rooted friends and family. I can't wait to compare, compile and complain with my fellow mothers. I'm sure Meaghan is the "go to" as she is fully experienced with the art of raising children. I'd love to look to my mom, but she comes from a different generation. A generation of "no fuss" and my questions may bring on a tidal of prepostrous comments. When mom pays her visit, she will go over her Mother 101 recourse. I can hear her first advice to me, "just let him or her cry." Them hard words from a mother of ten will probably be the most important advice given. Until than I am just thankful that there's a gaggle of babies that will hopefully create the same bond as their parents.

It'll be difficult not to be fully paranoid with my first child, but I will try my best not to be a psychotic hypocondriac misophobic freakazoid and I will look towards the veterans for insight. In the meantime, we hope that our friends will follow suit into the interesting world of parenting. You know who you are. Smile. I embrace this miracle and all the nonsense that comes with it, because in the end it's all worth it.

Lesson: A sly Grasshopper must not slurp noodles like soup.

Third Trimester

I have entered the zone that many other females have dared entered before, the 30th week zone. Ten more weeks, give or take, and counting! Ten! Ten more weeks and our life is changed forever! Forever! Shriek! We're thrilled, but at the same time we have no idea of the whirlwind impact Kitchstar will bestow. This is huge! Monstrous! We've been warned that one can never be ready for the arrival of a baby. I believe it! Simply put, sleep deprived is a precursor for havoc in other departments of my existence. Shane and I are taking advantage of sleep as much as possible. We, naive individuals, enter the unknown frontier of parenthood.

Otherwise, my pregnancy has been enjoyable thus far. Despite my former lower back pain which is non-existent...knock on wood ...I'm back on track. Thankfully, yoga and pilates miraculously healed this trauma. Hallelujah praise Jesus. I'm a believer. So far, so good. It's been a pleasant pregnancy. More and more, Kitchstar's playing drum rolls in my belly. It is absolutely amazing! I 'll try to get Shane in on the action, but the baby seems to move faster than a hare on wheels. It's tricky this one.

Shellie's Proverb: Laughter will bring lightness to your life.
The diabetes is, for the most part, being maintained by diet, exercise, and insulin oh my! Sure I have my bouts of depression usually after I inject my belly with insulin, but Shane always reminds me that it could be worse. He reminded me of our quickness to conceive. He proceeded to remind me that we have someting special. He was right. He's always right. That's what so great about him. He always knows what to say. Smile. I am hoping that the third trimester gods is as generous as they were in the past two. It has been a pleasure!

Lesson: Grasshopper must learn to swim before he can skip stone on lake.

Birthtastic

My three day weekend was complete with baby information overload. Shane and I enrolled in a 2 day baby intensive class over at Natural Resources. Boy, were we in for a surprise. Shane grumbled about how spectacularly beautiful the day was and here we were stuck in a birth class full of neo natural nerds. I knew in the frontal cortex of his brain that he'd rather be sipping a brew on some golf course, if I’d guess correctly Stonetree with his boys. Humph, and I’d rather be on a beach in the Cayman Islands; so in love, we suffer together. Our friend Tracy, doula extraordinaire, taught the class. We went around the room of six couples and introduced the other couple that we were interactively paired off with. Let the fun begin. Smile.

As Tracy, in all her wealth of information, played real birth videos, compliments of nausea, my spine curled into the chair. Yikes and triple axel yikes! Hold the caffeine, because here cometh the placenta! What the hell? Gulp. I gulped so hard, I thought my eyeballs were going to evaporate into my head. As I've mentioned the shrinking idea of romanticism and pregnancy, birth was the mother load of all “Oh shits!” A whole new world cracked opened before me. I knew it wouldn’t be walk in the park, but gosh darn up an apple tree, birth was blatant. I was bullets loaded on getting an epidural, yet reality struck me down like a storm of flatulence. A cesarean? Not, if I can help it. Did you know when a child is not passed vaginally the newborn’s immune system is vulnerably pedestrian? Water birth, now that’s a Water world for mom and baby -despite the fecal matter- I believe I was sold.

Shellie’s Proverb: A dog’s sincerity is his sniff.
Essentially, the class provided valuable information pertaining to birthing alternatives. It also allowed us to prepare and to expect. Birth is one big bad wolf. I am all about taking the easy way out so shoot me up with the narcotics and let this baby go. Until I attend this class, needless to say, I'm weighing my options, and boy is it heavy. Am I strong enough to do this drug free? As Kitchstar is sprinting its way to the finishing line, I've got some decisions to make. Let’s face it, I’m a real frightster, but deep down inside this little shell of mine, I am strong. I have proven myself time and time again that my determination supersedes my fear. Besides, I have the greatest person in the whole world there to support me. My sweet husband.

Lesson: A strong grasshopper must balance on chopstick to feel balance.

Hearthrob

Today is Valentines Day. The day most men dread more than facing the deathly jaws of a great white shark. Basically, Doomsday to be exact. As every women relates Valentines day as "their" day, I've given into the opposite. In the past few years, I've become numb to the fact that Shane doesn't bring home flowers on such an occassion. According to him, and every other male, it's too forced. To keep my spirits high I'll, more often than never, purchase flowers for myself. Maybe my husband is right...we shouldn't be prompted to be romantic just because it's Valentines day. We're pretty cheesy most of the time as it is. It could make an elephant sick. Blush. I've decided to take matters into my own hands.

Today, I've opted for a movie over dinner. There's nothing special about a pre-fixe menu. All I want is to see the new chick flick with my favorite heart throb Hugh Grant in Music and Lyrics. Opening night is tonight and I purchased the tickets yesterday compliments of Fandango. Because he is being coerced to attend a movie on opening night, his efforts are my bliss.

Shellie's Proverb: A man with too many roosters doesn't know how to lay an egg.

Now for my contribution to the romance department. I thought about getting him something nice like clothes, shoes, or a hat, although that was as heartfelt as a bathroom carpet. I had already bought his Valentines day card last month, but what now? Shane has a sweet tooth the size of the original sin. In fact, last night he slopped a few heaping tablespoonfuls of peanut butter and swirled it into his vanilla bean haagen dazs and plopped on the chaise lounge and "ooed and awed" and swooned over every taste. He held the spoon to my face to tryst me into a tiny bite of this heavenly morsel. The devil that he is! He is the devil. I'm sure he meant no harm, but I can't even afford to do the foxtrot with chocolate.

With that in mind, I traipsed down to the Ferry building and purchased a box of selected Recchutti chocolates yesterday. All filled with his favorites, peanut butter chocolate pucks, chocolate honey comb, a bag of caramel almonds, home made marshmallows (to die for!!). I knew he would appreciate this sweet gesture. Before I left this morning, I left the card and the sweets on the table. Despite my minimal hormonal tearful breakdown last night in bed, it was a sign of love and maturity. Most of all, it is his happiness that rules my heart.

Lesson: A Grasshopper that learns to share his dim sum will master the way of kindness.

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.