Old Nana

We are sad to announce that Tim’s grandmother (Nana) passed away this last week.  I would post a picture, but Tim comes from a long line of people who hate posing for photos.

Today was the funeral – not just any funeral, but a real, Catholic (read: reverent) funeral.  We got brave and brought the baby.  She was very good for the most part, except that during the silence immediately preceding a somber musical number, she enthusiastically shouted “Yay!!!”  Apparently she liked the song. 

The funeral was nice, and it was fun to spend time with Tim’s extended family.  Which is slightly smaller than my 2000+ (and growing) family. 

I never got to know Old Nana in her prime, but I’ve heard dozens of stories that leave me in no doubt that I have missed out.  She doted on Tim and supported, loved, and nurtured him through many difficult times in his life. 

Go with angels, Old Nana.

Oh well.

I’m 13-something weeks pregnant, a fact that I thought I had expertly hidden from everybody save my family (which admittedly includes a couple thousand people) and close friends.

My belly has certainly developed a growing roundness to it, but I’ve been wearing Tim’s sweatshirts, loose blouses, and ginormous earrings (to divert attention, and because I love them) to work.

I realized yesterday how silly this has been when I told one of our beloved administrative assistants yesterday my big news, and she said, “I know.  I could see that you were pregnant when I looked at you a few minutes ago.” 

As I left her office, I ran into Willy the Jamaican Janitor.  He gave me an up-and-down look (he’s famous for it), got a huge grin on his face, and said, “Ahhhh.”  When I saw him again a few minutes later, he pointed to my belly and said, “That one a boy, right?”  Shocked that it was that obvious, I mumbled that it was too early to tell.  He said, “Hmmm.  You will see, he a boy, he up high in your belly.”  He then laughed and carried on with his work.

Oh well.  My sister Karen and I are very short.  On top of being short, we have very short torsos, meaning there’s not much room for concealing things toward our core.  Furthermore, my body just seems (in ONLY this one way) overjoyed with the prospect of making a baby… every time I so much as walk past a pregnancy test, my belly pops out six inches. 

As my sister says, we make other pregnant women feel good about themselves.

You’re welcome.

A day in the life of Squiggles G.

Our darling daughter has discovered the joy of stickers.  I’m pretty sure that good mothers give their kids ONE sticker, OCASSIONALLY, as a REWARD for something awesome their child has accomplished.  But because I am often in need of a few moments to send an e-mail to my boss, load the dishwasher, etc., I sometimes give her entire sheets, which occupy approximately ten seconds of her time.  She usually emerges from these periods with stickers all over her person.

One morning, I dozed off after I showered, and awoke to a much-improved leg.  (I’m not sure where my pants were… don’t worry about it.)

She has also discovered the animated tale of a somewhat whiny pig.  But nevermind the pig.  We usually only watch the first 15 minutes or so.  As far as Squiggles is concerned, the story is about a lovely and awesome heroin named “Baba” (Fern) and a terrible, horrible woman named “Oh no!!!” (Mrs. Fussy) who tries to hit Fern’s baby pig with a broom.  This is so, patently unacceptable to Squiggles, and if I don’t reach the remote in time, the scene ends in hysterical sobbing.

She is also a fan of “Ah ah ah” (Curious George), Ruby, and Max (no names for them… rabbits don’t make sounds).  By the way, where the heck are Max and Ruby’s parents??? 

Aside from stickers and TV, Squiggles occupies her days either at daycare or at Iowa’s home (Ivy’s house).  She enjoys daycare, and her teachers tell me she is the only one in the class who hangs up her jacket after a walk or helps clean up after an activity.    But nothing can compare to Iowa’s house.  She asks to go to Iowa’s house about a finity times per day. 

She has inherited my (ha ha ha… not so much… I meant “her father’s”) obsession for routine and order.  If there is a speck of dust on the tray of her high chair, she refuses to eat until it is clean.  We must adhere to a strict routine (there will be no skipping of Charlotte’s Web upon waking, followed by toast with honey, etc.) or hysterics ensue.  She has also inherited her father’s stubborness, which should result in some awesome daddy-daughter wars in the next couple years.  I’m just going to pop some corn and enjoy the show.  In the meantime, they love reading stories together (yes, we fed our daughter food from an unnamed establishment that gives out paper crowns).

Finally (this post has no organization whatsoever), she loves to “bye” (rock-a-bye).  She’s a little obsessive about her blanket lying just so while she’s rocking, so she frequently stops to adjust it.

That’s all for now.

A little late

I’m not really into this guy, Daddy.

NOT OKAY, DADDY!!!