I haven't written much about the pregnancy, I guess because it's gone so smoothly (at least so far, knock on wood times a thousand) that there's not much to talk about. Or maybe I'm just scared that once I start talking about it, I won't be able to stop. (Babiesbabiesbabies!) I can pretty much guarantee that future facebook status updates and photo uploads are going to be dominated by Baby Perreault, so if you're not infant update inclined, you may want to hide us from your stream for the next few years until we arrive, hopefully relatively unscathed, on the other side of the trial-by-fire of new parenthood.
For all the mental and material preparation that we've accomplished over the past few months, I'm actually feeling a bit in limbo. Three weeks ago, we were all gung ho and ready for labor. We had completed the childbirth classes at Tanana Valley Clinic (fears of the unknown assuaged). I attended a bonus breastfeeding class (oh, so that's what those are for). The pages of our numerous pregnancy books were dog-eared and worn from so much reading and re-reading (Dad tip bottom line: give her chocolate and foot rubs; she's always right, don't even try to bring your silly logic into conversations). The nursery was stocked with essentials and the hospital bag packed (will ten bring-home-from-the-hospital-baby-outfits be enough, do you think?).
Now, by the time my body and baby are actually theoretically ready for delivery, my mental preparation seems to be stuck in purgatory. I'm not anxious, just at loose ends. It feels like I'm stuck in the middle of a childhood piano recital, waiting for my turn to play. Like I've already gone through the motions of psyching myself up for the performance and I'm all set and ready to go, but dammit, a little kid is still playing that stupid Kabalevsky piece and there are fifteen more people to go ahead of me; the waiting stretches out and I lose my state of calm and have to start the mental prep all over again. I know, I know––delivering a baby will be nothing like playing Rachmaninoff's Prelude in G Minor. But I think I'd rather go through labor than relearn how to play the Ocean Etude again. (You can bet the kid will more than make up for my lapse in piano practice; oh, it's going to be so much fun having someone to live vicariously through and to bear the weight of unrealistic parental expectations!)
So how am I spending these last few days of babyless freedom? Today, I walked around the Museum of the North (http://www.uaf.edu/museum/) for an hour while waiting for John to finish setting up the planetarium for the annual Science Potpourri. I like hanging out at the museum, especially in The Place Where You Go to Listen, even though the docents seem to give me the evil eye when I sit there for too long. I thought about finding a hiding spot somewhere so I could emerge during tonight's Chocolate Bash without having to buy a $75 ticket. But there are surprisingly few places for a pregnant lady to fit.
What else? I've been enjoying our recent warm weather. Not enough to actually go outside to enjoy it, but I do like looking at all the sunshine through our deck patio windows. Spring is a tease, however. Our sunny, clear days are interspersed with more snow accumulation. Yesterday, it got up to 60˚F on our deck. Now we're supposed to get another 3-4 inches of snow.
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| Yes, I know this only shows 50˚F, but trust me, it got up to 60. |
I've been feeding birds again. I think it's a mothering instinct. Inspired by the monster-size chickadees and camp robbers that visit the Quist farm to feed on meat scraps left out on their deck, I decided to try the same thing. I haven't attracted any ravens to be my surrogate friends (yet), but there's a camp robber in the area that has come by a few times. We've named him (or her?) Bruce. Bruce is a lot fatter now than he was two weeks ago, thanks to copious scraps of beef and some raw chicken. Is it wrong to feed bird meat to other birds? I feel like that character from The Social Network who was shamed for feeding chicken to his chicken. Whatever––Bruce seems happy enough. And it's kind of fun to watch Henry bounce off the patio glass in an attempt to reach Bruce when he does his fly-bys. Man, am I compassionate or what? I am going to be such a good mother.
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| Bacon (organic!) artfully arranged on the deck railing for Bruce. Sadly, I don't have a picture of Bruce. Or of Henry the cat bashing into the glass patio door in his attempt to catch Bruce. |
I've been baking. Earlier this week, I made two strawberry-rhubarb pies. One for John and my dad, and one for the mechanic who's working on our Subaru. The pies turned out really well, but I have to admit, I still prefer apple. I'd be baking a lot more were it not for the malfunction of my KitchenAid mixer ... but the good news on that front is that John took it apart, figured out what was wrong, ordered a new part, and hopefully the mixer'll be back on its pretty clementine-colored footstand in no time.
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| The disemboweled mixer. All that black goo at the bottom is grease from the insides. Doesn't it kind of look like the KitchenAid was a special kind of muppet that John tortured to death? Or an orange version of H.E.L.P.eR. from The Venture Bros. |
What else do I do to amuse myself? I go shopping at Fred Meyer (West Siiide). It's not like I specifically intend to hang out there or anything, but when it's one of only two (or three, if you count Walmart, which I don't, because I haven't yet entered into that tenth circle of hell) grocery stores in town, it's kind of hard to avoid. Besides, it's kind of fun there. It reminds me (almost) of the Ballard Fred Meyer, except that the clothes and garden departments are reversed. And the clientele in Fairbanks wears a lot more Carharts than they do in Seattle.
You should check it out. They're having a great sale on lifesize Super Mario-esque lawn ornaments:
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| 1-UP! |
