40 weeks.

Today is my little boy's due date. It's safe to say he'll be a little late (I knew all along he would be - he's my kid, after all...), and safer still to say he'll be here soon. Very soon.

I have mixed emotions about it. A LOT of emotions. People keep asking if I'm just "so ready to be done," but truthfully, I'm not. I mean, I get it. He's coming, ready or not. But then I have to share him with the world. (My husband is quick to point out that there will be plenty of times to come when I want very much - nothing more than - to share him with the world. With perfect strangers, if that's my only option.) But right now, it's me and him. I kind of like that.

There's some stuff I'll miss about being pregnant. (From my last post, which got a bit... graphic... it might not seem like it. Hey. This being pregnant shit is real, and sometimes, it's messy.)

• It's a special little club, it really is. There's a smile, almost a smirk, you get when people glance down and see a whole globe of a world growing under your tee shirt. It's supportive, encouraging, compassionate - even when there are no words exchanged. It makes me feel better to know that everyone loves a baby mama.
• While I know it's as vain as it is bullshit, I love - LOVE - being told I'm "the cutest pregnant girl, like, ever." I don't know why people say it. I know it's not true, mostly because I've said it, to multiple people, so clearly it can't be true. I don't care. I love it just the same. I've never been the cutest anything before, and there's a super good chance I never will be again. I'm milking it.
• That might be it.

But right now I'm a little sad it's almost over. I just got the hang of it, this belly and all it means. So I'm trying to think of all the things I miss about not being pregnant. It's no joke of a list.

• I know, you think I'm going to say booze first. Duh. I cannot wait to have a glass of wine. A bottle of champagne. A keg or so of Summer Shandy. Can. Not. Wait. But no, even more than booze - I miss clothes. Real clothes that aren't stretchy. I can't wait to not have three pairs of pants and a couple of tank tops to choose from. I love my clothes. I miss my clothes. Sometimes I just sit in my closet and talk to them.
• Working from the bottom up, ankles. I miss my ankles. They were never thin, but for crying out loud at least they were there. The tops of my feet look poppable by the end of the day. It's so gross.
• Reaching my ankles. I was a gymnast when I was younger. I've done yoga for the past decade or so. I am unaccustomed to having parts of my body I can't reach, let alone see. The six year old has to help me put my socks on. And never mind that he can't tie his own shoes, he judges me for not being able to tie mine.
• Speaking of places I can't see, grooming. I miss grooming. We can probably leave that one at that.
• A waist. Another duh. I used to have a waist. And ab muscles that were at least strong enough that I could sit up on my own from laying down, without hubby having to give me a shove. It's humbling.
• My shiny new rings. On my fingers. I wear my wedding ring around my neck right now, which is charming and pretty, but that's not why I do it. I do it because I'm afraid that even if I could fit it over my swollen sausage of a knuckle, I wouldn't be able to get it back off and they'd have to cut me out of it at the hospital and hubby would be maaaaad.
• I miss being able to call people just to say hi or, you know, I love you, and not have them respond with thinly veiled disappointment. "Oh. Okay. Yeah, hi." Not confidence boosting. And by "people" I mean "my mom."
• Sex. Or more accurately, I miss missing sex. Because right now that just sounds awful. Horrible. Seriously. No way.
• Being just generally huge. Did I tell you guys about the time a few weeks ago when the sixer, catching a glimpse of me in a bathing suit, opened his horrified little eyes and wrapped his tiny little hands around my thighs, asking, "Why are your legs so big?!" "Well babe, that happens when you get pregnant. Everything just gets a little bigger." Staring some more. "Yeah... but why are they so big?" "I don't know, okay? I don't know why they're so big. I can't figure it out. Punk." "They are SO. Big."

I'm sure there's more. I'm sure many of you have your own you could add. I'm sure I'll find great relief in not being pregnant once I'm, you know, not pregnant. But for tonight, I think I'll not complain about baby boy baking a little longer than expected. I think I'll enjoy one more night of me and him. With my feet on three pillows and my orange juice-in-a-wine-glass cocktail.

Se7en.

Someone asked me today what it feels like to be seven months pregnant.

Clearly, I was in a mood, since I retorted, "Can't remember. I'm eight months pregnant." (Which I am, by exactly one day. So, chances are I could have remembered, you know, yesterday, if I'd really put my mind to it.)

Maybe it's because it was a boy asking, or maybe it was the mood, or it could have just been that one little word, but all I could come up with was this:

It's exactly like Se7ven. You remember that movie? Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, Gwynyth Paltrow's head in a box? (Spoiler. Oops. Sorry. I guess I should say 'spoiler' before I actually say the spoiler. Whatever. That movie is from like 1995. If you haven't seen it yet, that's your fault.)

It's exactly like that one particular scene in Se7en. If you haven't seen it (again, your fault), here's the gist: there's a guy killing people. (It's Kevin Spacey. I'm just being mean now.) He's going down the list of the seven deadly sins and picking on people he thinks are sinners. He gets to gluttony. He picks a big guy - like a really, really Big. Guy. - and makes him eat until he literally explodes from the inside out. It kind of feels like that.

Now I feel bad because I just googled "Se7en gluttony guy" and the images that came up are not an accurate reflection of this gorgeous growing baby inside me. I just feel a little... full.

There's my answer. Being seven months (and 31 days) pregnant feels full. Hope that helps.

I Should've Had a V8.

There’s a certain phenomenon in pending motherhood that I shall dub “fruiting.” I assume (which I know I should not do) that many of you are familiar with this long-running tradition, but for those of you who are not, it goes something like this.

As a means for measuring your tiny little nugget around something supposedly universal, someone somewhere decided to compare fetuses to fruits and veggies. When said fetus is quite small, it’s an adorable concept. “Awww, baby’s a poppy seed this week.” “Say hello to my little pine nut.” “Oh my gosh, I’m growing my own pomegranate seed.” Case in point: one of my dear friends first heard this idea when she was carrying her then-blueberry-sized poppet, and Blue became baby’s nickname until she came out. Now her name is Violet. How stinking cute is that?

Here’s the rub.

As fetuses get bigger and more distinct, so too must their comparative foods.

And while a floating blueberry is a charming image, a floating head of cauliflower is not.

Then there’s the shameful notion that I just don’t know my fruits and veggies well, which makes a lot of these comparisons a moot and meaningless point. But the person responsible for these assignments doesn’t seem to either – I’m pretty sure around month five I went from an ear of corn to a navel orange to an artichoke. What now? How is that helpful? Or linear?

Adding to the confusion is mamas-to-be like me who are signed up for about 76 different sources of information. What to Expect, that classic book-turned-iPad app, seems to be the original fruit source. Then things like The Bump come along and want to differentiate themselves. So baby on one site is a passion fruit, and on another he’s a scallion. Again, not helpful.

Last week, my baby was a rutabaga.

I have no visual for that. I have no idea what that is… except for a drinking game.

Yep, in my mind, last week my baby was named after a drinking game we used to play in college called, obviously, “Rutabaga, Rutabaga.” I don’t remember much of the specifics – which means it must’ve been a pretty good drinking game – I just remember that everyone in the circle had to go around and say a fruit/vegetable twice, without showing their teeth. Seriously. I think it must’ve been that whoever laughed first had to drink. I also spent the whole week walking around with my lips tucked in mumbling, “cumquat, cumquat” and “asparagus, asparagus.”

And that’s a little glimpse into the kinds of wisdom my baby eggplant can look forward to learning from his mama.    

This is not a story about feet.

So here’s a story for you.

As many of you know, I hate feet. Hate them in general, but really, really can’t stomach even the idea of someone touching mine. It’s unpleasant. I’ve been known to take a stiff drink along with me when a pedicure is no longer optional.

This past fall, early September I believe it was, I got good and drunk (no mom, not really) and hauled my cookies to an orthopedic surgeon’s office, to see what could be done about my dear little size sevens. They need a new shape, you see. They're shaped like Stone feet, which really only means something if you're intimately familiar with a Stone, but trust me, it's something to see. Even knowing they’d have to be x-rayed and gawked over and generally manhandled, it was worth it. They hurt. All checked out and all was well. All I needed to do before I could have a teeny tiny little surgery would be to come off the pill so my leg didn’t clot and kill me, and I would be ready to reward myself with a new pair of Louboutins before the snow melted.

So I did.

I came off that itty bitty little pill that I’ve taken habitually for… let’s just say for a while. Like, a long while.

And because I’m one of those damn blessed, lucky, everything-good-happens-to-her kind of people, I got myself immediately knocked up.

That’s right dear readers.

For those of you who’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to in my silence for the past year, now you know.

I’d decided (sort of, and sort of just let happen) to take a break from the blog. Maybe less randomly funny things were happening to me as I settled into Midwestern midlife? Maybe I just got lazy? Mostly I filled my spare time with a charming man, his charismatic five year old, and was generally too content and too tired to write much at the day’s end.

Welp, that’ll teach me.

 

A couple of you, upon hearing the good news, asked if I'd be blogging about it. And here I am, so I guess so. Because God knows how this is gonna go for me. Or the poor guy who gets to go it alongside of me. But He also knows (both of them): it's gonna be funny. I mean, seriously. Me. With a kid. That's got to be good for a story or two, no?

Stay tuned – nineteen and a half weeks till he gets here. Also known as “till all hell breaks loose.”

Goodbyes are stupid.

Whoever said there's no such thing as goodbye was either a liar or a dirty hippie.
Watching someone you love leave is really, really hard.
It's really, really dumb.
Goodbyes are just new hellos? Hogwash.
Parting is such sweet sorrow? Ridiculous.
Endings are just new beginnings? Bah.

Except that, of course, they are.

Tomorrow - just a few short hours from now, actually - my baby sister starts a new adventure. And contrary to the horrifyingly pained look on my face right now, I could not be happier for her.

Elizabeth. Sweet thing. Good soul. This is what I wish for you.

I wish for you a California full of sunshine and happiness and relatively little quaking earth.
I pray you'll have a million new experiences with your husband and your kids, see things you never dreamed of, and add chapter after kick ass chapter to the beautiful story of your life.
I want you to feel independence, and confidence, and your own strength. The rest of us feel it all the time, and it is awe-inspiring. You are awesome.
I hope you discover a deep, soul-binding love for your home (your real home. your true home.) and that your eyes light up with connection every time you see an Ohio State sweatshirt on someone in your New State.
I need you to know that every moment you're gone you'll be desperately missed, fervently prayed for, and lovingly thought about.
I know you know you'll be fine. Better than fine. So much better than fine. And I know you know we know you'll be fine. And hell, we'll be fine ourselves.

All we ask is this. Keep being a phenomenal mother, so those towheaded children who have looked the part of SoCal since the day they were born remember us. Keep being an exceptional wife, and don't let Dave make fun of my pants anymore. (That has very little to do with the rest of this, but any way you can give me a hand I'd appreciate.) And please, for the love of all good things, become a better texter. Seriously, you suck at it. Like, S.U.C.K. at it. And we'll need to hear from you.

Whatever you need, ask. I know it's not always the easiest thing for you. Ask anyway. A few measly little miles isn't going to keep any of us from you. Not really.

I love you, kid. I am so thankful for three and a half years here, getting to know grown-up you. I'm so appreciative of every time Dave let us loose for some girl time. And I'm so grateful to know your children. I know without a doubt it's why God brought me home. I'm honestly a little irked that He's now sending you as far away as possible, but we're working through it. We're cool.

Yep. I love you, kid. Go get em. And then come back.

     

Circling the Wagons.

It's been a pretty blah few weeks. Made blahier by the fact that they've been the first few weeks of a whole shiny new year, which feels a little wasteful. And even blahier by something called a "polar vortex" which is just weather code for the universe is trying to kill you.
There's been a lot of whining. A lot of moping. 
And there's been a lot of praying. Actually, there's been a little bit of praying mixed in with a lot of bugging the crap out of God, trying to convince Him I know better than He does and He should just listen to me and give. me. what. I. want.
A lot of talking about myself. To anyone who will listen.
And tonight, in the shower, where all the world's problems get talked over, He'd had enough. Yep, I've talked about myself so much for 19 straight days that I bored God. So He gave me a suggestion, that sounded in my head a little something like this: Seriously, Stone, I cannot take it anymore. Please. Stop. Talking. About. This. I  know it's been tough. I know it's confusing. I know it's not what you want (because you won't stop telling Me). But surely you don't need Me to point out to you, in the midst of all this alone you're feeling... how surrounded you are. Right?
I felt humbled. Like that bow-your-head, drop-to-your-knees kind of humbled. Because I realized just how many people have listened.
I got scared, and people held my hand. I got hurt, and the world took notice. I got sad, and the wagons circled.
It is an exceptional feeling, to feel loved. To feel protected and cared for. To see concern in the eyes of people who simply want you to smile and be happy. 
I have been shrouded in friendship.
And I'm grateful.
For every little note, every huge hug, every reminder that, if women this wonderful can love me, I must be at least a little loveable. If girls this funny are determined to make me laugh, I must be capable of humor.
I'm grateful for my friends who are doing everything in their power to make sure I don't succumb to the stereotype. One even gave me this gentle reminder:

And that, readers, is what friends are for.
So here's hoping I have something funny to write about soon. It's time, no? But in the meantime, my dear friends, thank you. This is my love note to you.

Summer Vacation with My Bubbie.

My first day of vacation actually got started about a year ago, when Larry Smith came to visit the heartland.
Larry is a friend of mine from New York - famous in his own right as editor of the infinitely wonderful "Six Word Memoir" series (although right now he's probably best known as Mr. Piper Kerman - husband to the author of Orange is the New Black which is taking over the world. Okay, enough name dropping. Back to vacation.)
The latest in Larry's series was a small book entitled Six-Word Memoirs on Jewish Life. (I know you're all dying to know how this ties into my beach vacation, which last year didn't go any deeper than tan lines on my elbows. Stick with me.) To promote it, he did an incredibly glamorous book tour to glamorous places like Bexley, Ohio. Since that's near me these days, he called me up, said come sit in the audience and ooh and ahh and encourage book buying and I'll treat you to a beer. Deal.
Hopefully nearly all of you have read at least one of Larry's wonderful books. If you haven't, shame on you, and I'm not going to waste everyone's time explaining them to you. When you finish reading this, go buy that. But for those of you who have read them, you know they're poignant, hysterically funny, heartbreakingly touching glimpses into the lives of our friends and neighbors and idols and future exes, six words at a time. Jewish Life is no different. Full of gems. Larry deftly walked his audience (me, his other glaringly non-Jewish Ohio friend, and about 50 middle-aged to senior citizen Jewish ladies who eyed me openly and sized me up suspiciously) through the six-word story's legend-has-it beginning with Hemingway, up to its most recent rendition. He flashed some of the best excerpts on the screen, and they all oohed in all the right places ("Wait, you've got a little schmutz.") and ahhed in all the right places ("Chosen for something. Not sure what.") and nodded knowingly in all the right places ("Is he Jewish?! Is he Jewish?!") I did my best to hang in there, I really did. I have Jewish friends. I know the jokes, the stereotypes, the history. But I'm also a WASPy little mutt from Ohio, so I come into life - as I came into that room - with my own history, my own family, my own background. So when it popped up on the screen, my eyes rolled back, my mouth opened, and out popped that loud, obnoxious, Jessica laugh (you know it. I know you do.).
My grandmother's tattoo still haunts me. 
Six words that silenced that room, until the damn Gentile broke the stillness with her cackle.
The minute it came out of my mouth, I knew.
I couldn't explain - I couldn't start running my mouth about my crazy, wonderful, stubbornly willful, free-spirited grandmother who has for years - YEARS - threatened to get a tattoo simply because the joy of picturing some brand new doctor discovering brand new ink on a not-so-brand new body would bend her over with giggles. I couldn't take the time to tell them about the time she backpacked across France by herself in her seventies. Or the "renovated" RV she bought, dreaming of the open road, but that wasn't put together right so all the drawers flew open and forks went flying as she curved around the exit ramp onto the highway, making her first road trip nearly fatal and her last.
The little old lady sitting behind me leaned forward, put her arm on my shoulder, and said, not quietly but not unkindly, "Honey, I don't think you understand." A six word memoir of her own.
It was mortifying. Truly. I've embarrassed myself pretty much on a daily basis, pretty much since birth. But never, never, never would I want to say or do or, God forbid, laugh at anything that would cause someone discomfort or pain, let alone a whole roomful of people. Larry just stared at me for a second, shook his head to ask me "Seriously?" with his eyes, and then carried on. Oy.
But yes, yes... this is a blog about vacation.
Every year I come to the Outer Banks, and every year on my way, I spend a few days with that aforementioned nutjob of a grandmother.
Her 86th birthday is just a couple of weeks away. Guess what she wanted. How could I say no?

So see, Larry - I wasn't completely making all that up. If you ever get the opportunity to tell those ladies that I come from a crazy Protestant family who does things like multi-generational tattoo outings just for fun, I would so appreciate it.

(yes. multi-generational. the manischewitz made me do it?)

(epilogue: a few of you will understand, truly, that the worst part about this wasn't the notion of permanently drawing a stupid picture on my body. it wasn't the pain, even though it hurt like a motherfucker. it wasn't even the grimace on my dad's face when he tried to bring himself to look at it, and couldn't quite. it was that guy manhandling my foot.)