Finals June 26 - July 18, 2005 Just as I must endure this never-ending pregnancy, you have to put up with my whining.

	Am I under or over the magical 100 kg?

	A grain of sand is a hugely interesting thing.

There's no need to torture me to make me confess -- I had hoped that I shall be able to skip this journal, but it is not to be so. You are up for another serving of pregnancy whining, instead of smoothly advancing to postpartum depressions. Our little daughter appears to be mother's princess and refuses to venture out into the wide world.

I tell myself every day that I cannot possibly get worse -- and then I do. It used to be simply bothersome, having to kneel down to every simple task like sweeping Tom's morsels from under his table. Lately it has been not only bothersome; a logistic problem emerges -- how to re-erect a whale, thus fallen onto the ground, back into an upright position. My latest pregnancy fashion statement is: flip-flops. I would not fit into any other footwear, due to swelling. It seemed funny until I tried to walk around in them. It's OK inside the house, in our yard and in stores, but a stroll with Tom, a ZOO trip or anything else exceeding twenty minutes of walking, "rewards" me with foot pain (flip-flops, in fact, lack any orthopaedic form, which would relieve my foot currently being overloaded with additional pounds). There are specific difficulties associated with car travel as well. Just the other day, some idiot who had obviously never been pregnant, parked her car right next to mine so that I could not even open my door. I cracked it as far as I could, stuffed one of my feet under the wheel and maneuvered my butt and belly into the gap between the seat and the door until my stomach slid inside -- but then I did not realize that my chin protruded over the window glass -- while trying to finish the move by plumping into the driver's seat, I almost lost some teeth. There is another problem with the relative size of my limbs, compared to the new robustness of my bust and my behind. When driving, how can I reach all the switches and handles, and fully step on all the pedals, and keep the wheel from embedding itself in my stomach?

	Granny, I wanna splash!!!

You must agree that it is the highest time to let our youngest make a little more self-sufficient and leave her ancient, withered mother functioning again. Especially after I managed to experience another day of regular contractions, which, although very unpleasant, did not lead to any result. My doctors at the clinic keep reassuring me that "it would come soon" and that we would see each other again at the hospital; with the inevitability of bad weather I keep arriving at the clinic, again and again. No matter that I have been open to one, two, three, four centimeters -- my daughter keeps holding on. She's entitled, for there are still a few days left till full term, but it seems absurd to me that we could not stop our first child from coming early, and the other one can't be convinced to emerge, in spite of everything being ready. If only she could refrain from joking with us and stop showing signs of becoming imminent as she did this last month -- I could cease to keep my family, friends and neighbors in high alert state (backups for Tom-sitting, transport to the hospital etc.). This way, everybody's losing their nerves.

	Tommy could take a custodian job at the ZOO. Notice how he's studying expert information.

Naturally, like every other expecting mother I must often deflect queries of the type, "how is it going?" This question can froth my blood, especially if it comes from a person who sees me daily, as I roll down somewhere pushing my belly. Are they expecting that I reach underneath my skirt, pull out a baby like a bunny from a magician's hat and declare "there already!" or "trick or treat!" or something similarly thoughtful? Fortunately most people are simply sympathetic. A cashier at my favorite grocery store refused to let me stroll away with a shopping cart, saying that in my state she could not let me drag it, and summoned a strong man for help. I permitted it (although I typically drag my twenty-eight pound Tom along with my shopping stuff) only when I saw the helper -- Jerry was on duty, for whom pushing a cart all the way to my car, unloading it and returning with an empty cart to the entrance of the store is the apex of his career, and one can see that he really appreciates his responsibilities. I, in return, appreciate the fact that Jerry, who can concentrate enough to even talk about weather and say good afternoon nicely, does not have to stay locked up in some institution.

	Our water sprite in the pool - heat wave fun at no surcharge.

I continue using my (obviously miserable) condition for emotional blackmail of anybody in my vicinity, to ensure that house chores are being done and Tom is being entertained. Honestly, I don't know what I would do, during the last few weeks, without my parents. I cannot deprive Tom of his favorite curbs, drains, sprinklers and house numbers (our junior is apparently getting ready for a stellar career of a public utilities inspector -- to his ability to read some letters, he added a few numbers, putting thus the whole neighborhood under his careful scrutiny); yet dragging behind him around the block and verify whether somebody did not, maliciously and overnight, change their address, is currently somewhat beyond physically possible for me, especially in this weather.

If you remember, back in May we were scrounging for warm "sleepers" for Tom, and fought cold temperatures. Those ended quite abruptly and we have found ourselves in an unusual tropical wave -- for third week in a row, temperatures oscillate between 80 and 100. One can stand being outside only in the mornings, and after about four thirty (when it cools down to "moderate" eighty-two). Meanwhile we run our air conditioner and I try to convince Tom to sleep right through the hot afternoon. I fail often and then we, feeling like steamed vegetables, seek refuge in previously so despised (alas, air conditioned and cool) shopping malls and book stores, at least until such time when outdoor temperature drops low enough for us to survive in our pool.

There's always the other option, of course: ocean shore. California Current, originating near Alaska, cools down the coastal temperatures to very pleasant levels. For me, however, this luxury has been out of reach lately. Pacific Ocean is about thirty miles away, and requires driving through switchbacks (over a 1,900 ft high mountain range) on a freeway that is a trap (for there's no alternative route or exit, and if you run into an accident, everything jams for several hours with no chance to escape) and has relatively poor cell phone signal coverage. I am not enticed by an image of me driving in labor pains through dangerous turns, or alternatively delivering a baby somewhere in a traffic jam in the woods, being assisted by a twenty months old toddler, without a way to call for expert help. I leave trips to cooler places to weekends, when I can engage our family driver (i.e. Sid; granny refuses to drive with a child in her car).

	Three quarters of our family on a stump. Daughter is camouflaged behind my XXXL sweatshirt, but my swollen feet can't hide.

	So when are you due? This is what Tom would ask me if he understood the cause for my big belly.

It's too bad, because Tom loves the ocean, runs up and down the beach laughing, shows great interest in all object disgorged by the sea and lures us, boring adults, to immerse into the icy waves. Another cool attraction is the San Francisco ZOO -- it is located right next to a beach, hence it offers pleasant temperatures the year around. But here again, we have a problem with transportation. So far the most elegant solution has been an exchange of Tom and his grandmother for our neighbors' cat. That is, our neighbor took her grandson, our granny and Tom to our local ZOO (which is not near the ocean, but is nicely overgrown with tall, dense trees), while I entertained her cat in our air-conditioned home. Kitty was ostentatiously content with stretching out under our bed, happy for some cool place to sleep. I actually envied her a little.

Now so that I don't just whine -- again, I am being grateful for our back yard and the pool. It provides entertainment for our junior for a considerable part of the day; and it suits my whale-like condition quite astonishingly. I can use the excuse of the pool to invite over Tom's peers -- boys have fun and we mothers and grannies can relax a bit. Although Tommy still did not discover the magic of playing with someone, but at least he watches the other kids and follows suit -- and occasionally gets busy in skirmishes over toys, and by showing off.

Fourth of July was an interesting exception from our routine of being "anywhere near the hospital". We were invited to a barbecue with our ballooning friends. I confess I was a little afraid -- their children are all grown up (some have almost adult grand-children) and it was clear Tom would be the only toddler there. Oddly enough, the whole afternoon was a very pleasant occasion. When I play it back in my mind, the reason comes clear. Of the three hours that we spent in the back yard of Jeanne's and Tom's, at least an hour fell on eating. Tommy loves meat; his allotted quarter of chicken put him instantly into a state of delight. I helped him by pecking on the serving here and there, repaying him in baked potatoes and other goodies; even so I think that Tom devoured a substantial volume of meat. This made him register with all the participants as a problem-less, cute child -- perhaps they shall invite us again next time. Let us just hope Tom's sister won't spoil the impression. I keep hoping that she -- being a good child -- won't burden me longer than her due term.

Copyright © 2005-2007 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.