In the middle February 6 - March 7, 2005 In spite of astronomical charts, we found ourselves in the middle of spring; on the other hand I, quite according to medical charts, have reached the mid-point of my pregnancy.

	Look, an airplane!

Ever since we have announced our wedding, our mothers remain surprised and/or horrified over the fact that anybody would marry their slob of a son/daughter, and even after several years would live with him/her in the same household. I understand that for an orderly woman, it must be relatively stressful to live under the same roof with a DISORDERLY child, although my latest experience shows that to live with an ORDERLY child is worse yet. I have no idea where Tom could have acquired his tidying-up deviation, but he just happens to be our little housemaid. When we cook, he busies himself by pulling small bowls from his drawer and lining them up on a counter. He also tends to empty the dishwasher, though regardless whether the dishes had been washed already or not. His other favorite game is carrying backup toilet paper rolls and setting them up in columns. I really wonder who of us shall be the first one to encounter a crisis situation, having run out of tissue and reaching for a new roll -- only to find that all spares are carefully stacked somewhere out of reach -- in the bedroom, for example.

	Dadadadada!

Our searches for missing objects no longer follow the pattern of furiously browsing through our heaps (of magazines, computer components, books, videotapes, toys, etc.). Instead, we open every drawer, carefully inspect cavities like casseroles and bowls, and usually resign to the loss -- Tom considers some items so useless that he throws them directly into the refuse. During all this activity he stays naturally very quiet and nice, hence it took us quite a while to notice the smooth motion of little hands aimed at the waste basket, and thus we have cracked a mystery of missing toys and small household items. I admit that Tom fooled me most with laundry; I have had a feeling for a longer time that I had been doing nothing else but washing and folding and ironing laundry -- until I discovered that it might not be all caused by our increased use as much as by Tommy's recycling efforts. Unless I replace our laundry back into cabinets in time (est. three picoseconds), Tommy will eventually move it over into the dirty laundry basket. Again he moves by stealth, and only socks gave him away, for we really never toss our dirty socks there, still rolled up.

Unfortunately, Tom has learned lots of other things as well. Screaming, for example, if things don't happen his way. His most desirable games and most attractive objects are obviously those forbidden to him by his oppressive mother (e.g. glasses, sharp knives, phone on which I'm carrying an important conversation), hence screaming is a frequent occurrence with us. Tom also greatly dislikes not being able to do something. A scene with a plastic water bottle, which he wants neither closed nor open, has become quite typical. He wants to open and close the bottle HIMSLEF -- yet he still did not grasp the principle of thread and screw, and so he demands that we, his almighty parents, cause him to acquire this skill momentarily. He follows us around, showing where the problem is - but there is no way to explain it to him in words, and we don't know how to help him.

	K.C. and Tom burying a sock on a beach

It would seem that our junior has finally begun to enrich his vocabulary. BABABA means mother -- but given the fact that he uses the same war call when he wants food, I'm not quite sure that he regards me as a human being -- besides recognizing me as a feeding appliance. DADADA, however, cannot be misunderstood. He uses it most frequently not to call to his father, who's present at the moment, but to exert an emotional pressure on his mother. Understand -- when his mother frivolously interferes with junior's activity (e.g. interrupts his game to change his diaper, ends an outdoor walk to serve a meal, or makes a frisky child go to bed), it is necessary to find recourse with a higher and stronger authority. I would really like to know who teaches these little kids their psychology -- they know their act perfectly well: one has to start reformatting his parents by introducing an element of disagreement into their otherwise unified front. Tom has not succeeded yet, but he's up to an early start. A stone would develop emotions over his desperate "dadada" sounding from his crib (and though he goes to sleep in the afternoon without problems five days a week, weekends seem to bring on screaming).

Tom has lately noticed and begun to closely watch other kids -- still from a safe distance and if possible while holding a parent's hand, but he is interested to see what other little people do. We took little K.C. and his grandmother (our neighbors) to a beach. Only then, when Tom saw his older buddy run up to the waves and howl in laughter, he concluded that ocean is actually a great fun; for another hour, we waded through the surf. I'd like to mention that the Pacific Ocean in our latitudes remains at about sixty degrees throughout the year, hence it is not as attractive for adults (especially in February), but kids still love it.

	Name day fruit cake

With our neighbor, we also went to see redwoods at a park in Felton. I had imagined how we stroll with the boys among all the dignified trees and talk about nature. Well, they also have an old railroad at the park -- and K.C. loves trains. Our walk thus proceeded at a gait -- K.C. was resolved to find the train which he could clearly hear but not see because of all the boring trees. When we caught up with him at the station later, K.C. had already made friends with the engineer, while his granny found out that the train goes once a day, at 11 a.m., and had arranged that once they disconnect and secure the cars, we could at least sit inside the static train and have a picnic lunch, now that we came too late. Nevertheless I was bound to promise that we would get up early next week and be there in time for the train ride.

A few of you may have noticed that Tom had a name day recently. Americans don't seem to keep this tradition, and we don't throw big parties in our family, but still he got a cake and a new toy, one which I am unable to name exactly -- something between an abacus and a puzzle. Krens have enriched Tom's menagerie with a stuffed, very realistically looking cat. He contemplates it occasionally -- we keep seeing live cats during our walks all the time, but none of them seem willing to subject themselves to his studies in feline anatomy. This new stuffed cat lets him poke its eyes and pull at its whiskers, with no complaints. I would hence not hesitate to declare the celebration of Tom's name day quite successful.

	Abacuzzle

Our weather has been very April-like, during this month of February. Hot, almost summer days alternate with autumn rainstorms. I bought Tom a hat against the sun, and sandals -- during the day it has been really hard to stay in closed shoes. I myself also begun to use summer wear. It has become acute due to my dimensions, too. I can't fit regular clothes anymore, and pregnancy stuff hangs on me weirdly -- ah, a summer dress or a loose skirt, seem to be just a great compromise..

First half of my pregnancy is over, and so I'm well entitled to dimensional changes. My body has changed, and surprisingly so, mostly in the bra department. I'm already wearing the largest human size; anything bigger is limited to giant, reinforced, old women's garments. I really have no idea what I shall be wearing when nursing (my old nursing bras that I used with Tom are completely ridiculous).

	A head and a hand

Twentieth week of pregnancy is also time for a big ultrasound. Baby is measured, all organs get inspected; it is the last prenatal checkup for developmental defects. After my experience with the genetics center (nervousness, stress, their unreadiness to explain anything except the necessity of amniocentesis) I swore that such "specialist" would never seem me alive again, and I made an appointment with "our Beth". Beth is a lab operator at my clinic -- she has been doing ultrasounds for years -- all days she watches the screen and I personally trust her more than many a doctor with a fresh diploma. My obstetricians always mention her with a hint of awe, calling her "our" Beth -- and everyone claims that it's just her who "sees things" that anyone else would miss on a sonogram. I believe that to orient yourself in the mesh of gray smudges must take a lot of experience, and perhaps a bit of magic.

Right at the beginning Beth asked us if we want to know gender -- we did, and our baby wasn't hiding it. I admit that her resolute statement, "It's a little girl!" five seconds into the exam, made me almost jump. I wished to have another boy next to Tom, and was actually internally convinced that a boy it would be. Meanwhile Beth checked out other organs and so I pushed my shock on a mental sideline and concentrated on her reporting measurements and functionality, and how that corresponds with the baby's age. Finally, when the greatest fears regarding the health of the baby subsided, I could not help it and asked her once again, if she was really sure about the girl. Beth found the incriminating spot and announced that she was not seeing any "external plumbing" - as she put it gently. Well, there's no point trying to figure out a boy's name anymore, which we had hard time agreeing on.

	A snack on a train

Instead, we begin to wonder how it's going to be with two kids. Should we get Tom a big bed and leave his crib for the newborn? Or should we buy another CRIB -- with the risk that Tom would soon defeat his bed/cage and climb out (as far as climbing goes, he shows impressive performance), and we shall have to put him elsewhere lest it becomes dangerous? Should we buy a double stroller? Can I get by with Tom in our regular stroller and the new baby in a carrier? Or should the newborn go in a stroller and Tom walk by my side? (No, I think -- holding Tom's hand all the time is too fantastic). What if we buy the double stroller and Tom, like one older girl of my friend, would categorically refuse to "sit in the thing with a suckling"? We cannot ask Tom (just yet) and I doubt we could explain to him that he's going to have a baby sister, so we end up in the dark and must hope that "we shall work it out somehow". I am still uneasy when overlooking girl's clothes. Pink section dwarfs the blue one by about four to one ration, yet it appears to me that the selection is tristful. Some people may find satin dresses cute, but in my opinion they're rather remote from what's reasonable for a small child. So in the end our girl might end up wearing boy's things (T-shirts, sweat-pants) not because it's a hand-me-down, but because it is more practical given her age, needs and capabilities.

	Little driver

My biggest unknown is how I would manage two small kids. So far I'm convinced that I would do poorly. I'm already kind of spoiled by Tommy -- his eleven hours of uninterrupted sleep at night, and one and half hour after lunch, give me enough space to not loose my marbles entirely. If I add some household chores, and a baby with a heavy night life, I keep coming up short about when *I* should sleep? On the other side I know several multiple mothers and most of them maintain all basic life support functions, hence it must be possible somehow. Meanwhile, I systematically work on Tom. Our friend Barbara, who has two teenage boys, has been for a longer time now longing for an admiring and agreeable child. She even meant it literally -- so she started to borrow Tom. I had expected a heartbreaking scene, with a crying toddler being kidnapped from his loving mother's embrace by a stranger who drags him onto a playground somewhere, but Tom negated all that, again.

First time I went to the playground along with Barbara and Tom. When she came the second time, I began putting on Tom's shoes, while Barbara excused herself for a moment. Tom immediately threw a hysterical fit -- not because I was going to abandon him, but because he was afraid he would have to go to the playground with his boring mother, leaving poor Barbara behind in the bathroom. Our child, who struggles to get out of the house at every opportunity, now forced himself out of my arms towards the bathroom and quieted down only after he was able to get hold of and drag Barbara out by her hand. I don't need to mention that Tommy did not even look back to me. He showed similar enthusiasm when I left him for an hour with our neighbors. Judge for yourself -- how much more entertaining could be a friend of your age, friend's grandmother, and a little dog, than having a walk with your mother?

	K.C. and Tom on a buggy merry-go-round

I hope that Tom's affinity towards self-sufficiency would last after the birth of his sibling -- and I could sometimes stay in the company of a mere one child. During these last few weeks, which Sid had spent working twelve days in a row, coming home just to sleep, I realized again how essential for my mental survival are the couple of minutes when I can turn off my child-monitoring radar.

Granny should be arriving in a few days -- perhaps I shall even attend to civilized activities like buying a bra (did you ever attempt to select a bra while your child plays with you hide-and-seek between the racks and for the amusement of other shopping customers -- alas, not for yours -- brings you the most interesting pieces -- i.e. the largest, brightly colored, glossy undergarment items; alternatively, he bangs at the fitting room cabin doors, peeping at other half-naked ladies from under the partitions?). If our most benevolent immigration officials wake up from a restful night on that day, when granny comes to the US, she might be allowed to stay a whole half year -- which would even cover time around the upcoming birth and post-partum weeks. All we can do is hope for good cooperation on all sides -- most of all, from our young lady, who I hope shall be less eager to come into this world than Tom was, and will nicely stay where she supposed to till summer.

Copyright © 2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.