Who's Your Daddy?

As you may have gathered from the writings here, unless you'd like to do something totally sweaty and outdoorsy*, there's not much going on in Stavanger, Norway, at least not on a Sunday.

So last weekend we were spending our usual lazy Sunday** sleeping late, cooking pancakes and watching hours of quality television --- which includes but is not limited to Miami Ink, The Daily Show and various CNN anchors pontificating on the state of the world.  

Also, Husband likes to save the universe. 

But last weekend, Sunday was just days from the best monthaversary we had planned thus far. 

In Norway, once a pregnancy is confirmed, the doctor registers the mother and the due date with the hospital where she plans to give birth.  The hospital counts to a day that will fall somewhere between Week 18 and Week 22 and sends a note inviting the mother to come in for a detailed ultrasound.  

During that visit, not only will the ultrasound person look at the progress of major organ development and measure to more accurately gauge the due date, but also ---if Pickle feels like participating--- determine whether Pickle is a girl or a boy.

And we when received our letter weeks and weeks ago, it turned out that our date happened to fall our eighth Monthaversary...

So of course we had been looking forward to it for months. 

Because I couldn't totally predict the health, I focused on what I could, which was the sex, so I looked up all the old wives tales and Husband was nice enough to help*** me test them. 

And we found that we had a 75% chance of having a boy.****

So finally when the day came, instead the usual dinner, flowers or travel, we started early in the morning with Ultrasound Lisa.

She counted and measured all the parts, finding that everything seems to be exactly as it should be (at least up until right now...), which was the most important part of the whole morning.  

Then she poked my middle enough to make Pickle wiggle into just the right view.  And what she saw was pretty clear to both Husband and me...

The little person who is due sometime around March 8th will be known for the next while not just as Pickle, but also as Baby Boy Durel.

And judging from the photos, he's going to be just as handsome as his dad. 

*Don't get me wrong, I am a huge fan of the outdoors and trees. (I love knowing they are out there and I really like to look at them from a pretty clean window. Also, thanks for the oxygen, trees. Good stuff.) And I adore hiking, especially the urban kind, usually measured in blocks. And camping, I'm all for it, especially in a place with 400 count thread sheets, designer furniture made of wood and one those swanky huge showers...even better if I can see the outdoors from it.

**Not this Lazy Sunday.

***And by "nice enough to help" I mean, "was coerced into helping" with smiles and promises of nice things.  When we were done, his only real comment was "if I wasn't convinced already about finding out the sex, the possibility of 20 more weeks of this is enough for me to immediately beg for someone to check and tell us what Pickle is..."

**** In case you were wondering, these are the highly unscientific tests:

MAYBE IT'S A BOY

--Have I been extra moody? Nope, just the usual amount.

--Have I had any morning sickness? Nope.

--Middle is poking out front (boy) or spreading out wide (girl)? Poking out front

--Wedding ring on a string hung over middle. (swings in a circle is girl, swings in a line is boy)

--Bad skin during pregnancy (Yes is girl, No is boy) No more than usual

--Chinese Gender Predictor

MAYBE IT'S A GIRL

--Mother's age at conception and year of conception. (Both even or odd is girl, One of each is boy) 36/2008

--Other Chinese Gender Predictor

Gherkin Alert* (Or Pickle FAQ's)

Thus far, it's been a big year.  We've hit many of the major life milestones---please see explanation underneath the title line of this blog---and it's all been good.  

So we decided to step the game up a level. (The news has been leaking for long while, really, ever since Big D got caught with an early picture.) 

As you may or may not have heard, it's official.  

We're having a baby or as we're calling it, "hatching a Pickle," which will arrive sometime around March 8.   

You guys have been awesome, calling and sending notes and packages.  (I wasn't ready to say it then, but that package came with this note listing all the things inside...)

My dear sister is making Pickle a quilt and organizing the nursery fabrics from 7,000 miles away. (While I make no judgements on other's tastes, I've never been one for cartoon characters or pink vs. blue.) 

And everyone is concerned and asking such thoughtful questions, so I thought I'd answer them all in one place....

________________________________________

1) How are you feeling?

I'm mostly completely fine.  

In the first trimester, I often felt about three seconds from being sick, but never was. 

I am tired, and if I didn't know I was pregnant, I'd think I developed a mild case of narcolepsy.  

And as for the moodiness, not so much.  

There was one minor incident fairly early on in which Husband saw me sitting quietly on the sofa and said,"You okay?" 

I hissed, "I'm hormonal, you ass!" ** 

Then I ran downstairs and slammed the door.   

That's pretty much it. 

________________________________________

2)  Why do you call it Pickle?  

Pickle came into being during our trip to Portugal.  

It wasn't a total shock, but when we took the test, we both were surprised, because when considered at face value, it's really just completely odd and science-fiction-y.  

Later on as we looked at the weird stick with the second line (which was the first of five tests over the next week, that was how much it didn't seem all that real), it occurred to me that we had consumed several alcoholic drinks over the two weeks on vacation. 

And I said, "Uh oh, I hope it's not pickled."***  

________________________________________

3)  What are you going to do about Lillie?

Not much, except work on training her to be prepared for it.  Then we'll just cross our fingers and hope that she doesn't eat the baby. 

________________________________________

4) No more bikini's for you.  (This was less of a question and more of a statement.) 

Oh I don't know about that. 

________________________________________

5) How's Husband?

He's really excited and getting prepared. 

(Husband says "It's an okay book because it explains some things and breaks the time down month by month, but some of it is not for me."  For instance... "Ummm the parts about dreaming of walking on the beach hand in hand with my unborn child.  Then there's the advice about how talking to the unborn baby more than two hours per day is not useful.") 

Husband does think that we're in the slightly boring time right now. 

I feel pretty good and we've got a while before I totally start to show.  

Plus, March seems like a pretty long while away.  

Throughout, I've been keeping him updated on the size of the baby as it relates to fruit.  (It amuses me to no end. This week it's a navel orange.  Next week, an avacado.)

On the last update, I noticed his eyes glazing over ever so slightly.  

When he noticed me cocking my eyebrow in his general direction, he said, "You know, it will be much more interesting when it's like a cantaloupe or something."  

Just you wait Husband, we're almost there. 

________________________________________

6) Do we know what it is yet?

Not yet.  

We'll find out in mid-October.  

We do know that lately it is looking less like a weather pattern...
(at 5 weeks) 

And more like a little person. 
(at 12 weeks)

________________________________________

7) Are you showing yet?

Yep, and it's looking weird. 

(taken last Sunday at exactly 15 weeks...)

(Okay, now back to the regularly scheduled programming...)

*Title borrowed from Carolyn, a friend who is a celebrity reporter --- for a magazine that you probably read voraciously, but would equally deride as "only airport reading."  Don't ashamed people, you're in the company of tens of millions of your closet friends ----  She is especially clever with the snappy phrase. Thanks Carolyn!

**This is the first and only time I have ever called Husband an unkind name.  And it wasn't so bad.  If you had been there, you would have laughed.  Then I would have most likely called you an ass, too, before I disappeared. Husband did not laugh.  At least not until later, when I had regained my sanity. 

***No, of course, Pickle hasn't been boozing since... 

If you had a few drinks before you knew you were pregnant, it does not mean your child is doomed to suffer.

First, the fertilized egg is actually protected from alcohol for the first two weeks of pregnancy. It is after the little zygote implants in the uterus and the placenta begins to develop that alcohol can enter his or her blood stream.

Current obsessions #1-3

I've been slightly neglectful in my blogging.  While I like to keep everyone caught up, it's been a busy week.  

Overall, I've been slightly obsessed with a few different things:

1) Settling into our new home.

While I loved our first home from the start, over time, it became clear that it wasn't going to suit our needs, especially with Pickle on the way. 

Our old landlord had crammed every bit of space with her own things and we just needed more room.   

So we moved here:We're on the second and third floor.  

Take a close look at the bottom right window. 

A few days ago, in the early evening, Husband and I were taking loads of things into the house. As we passed by, there were two young men sitting at a desk facing the window. (And no, I wasn't being all Gladys Kravitz about it. The window was Right.There.)  

These two men were thin, with white shirts and dark skinny ties, staring at some papers intently.  Complete non-Norwegians.  (Trust me on this.) As we passed by, they both looked up and waved hello.  

When we got inside, I said, "Do you think they are Mormons or maybe Latter Day Saints?" 

(You know the look I am talking about.  Don't pretend you don't....Young, fresh scrubbed, sun light deprived, sincerely beatific and dressed in a crisp uniform... Plus, there were rumors of door-knockers in the neighborhood.) 

Husband laughed and said he hadn't noticed.  (He's not as good at the details as I am...) 

But on the next pass-by, I took a better look at the signs in the window... 

And what do you know? 

One poster is labeled "Mormon Heros, Joseph Smith" and the other is a giant picture of Jesus.

They seem nice, waving and friendly.  And I wouldn't mind if they popped out and carried my groceries, but I'm hoping they won't pop up for some "conversion time." 

Husband thinks it they will be great neighbors.* 

He suspects there won't be any wild parties or loose women running about (These days, we are like this because we are now mature, parents-to-be.) 

He also thinks they will be less likely to tell our landlords that we didn't correct their mistake on the number of dogs that live here... 

So really, while we're not into conversions, they are always welcome for dinner and the new season of "Big Love."

Ahhhh sunny kitchen and big back porch...

A fresh guest room all ready for Megan's arrival in a few hours.  And it will be perfect for BigD when she shows up post-Pickle....

And the sweet hunds are settling in nicely...

2) Getting ready for Pickle to show up...

Husband painted the nursery and put all the furniture together.  Look closely...you'll see that it's all going to be pretty blue (not baby blue...), stripes and giraffe print. You'll also see boxes of things that all need to be washed and put up.  I've been a little nuts about all of this, too.  

I thought the plan was in place and getting done, but it wasn't, so I had to rejigger some plans.  My dear dear college friend Patty is going to make a baby quilt for me using the fabrics. She wins awards and knows how to do things, and has shifted things around to really help me out.  I couldn't be more fortunate.  

And dear Big D is dealing with some other things, so finally I know it's all going to get done.  

But per usual, it's going to be cut down to the wire.  I just hope it all arrives before we go to the hospital to collect the little guy, because before that moment, I really care.  

Afterwards, apparently I will not, so Pickle may always live in a half-done room, which really is not the most welcoming way to start off as a brand new person.  

Also, I have been weirdly obsessed with our new Brio Go, which arrived yesterday.  

All stroller sorts of things in Scandinavia are SUV-serious.  They can roll over cobblestones, on sandy beaches and through the woods for family hikes.  

(Guess how many of those choices the Durel family needs?  If you only guessed one for sure, perhaps, two, you'd be right on the money.  If you cannot choose which two, check out our last hike for clues.) 

The choices are limited to start with...and the vast majority are difficult to put together and to use.  Not this one.  It all goes click, click, click...

(Plus, I think this film is so soothing, too.  I wonder how soothing it will be once we pop in a howling Pickle...So I figure, lessen all stress that we can control...Click, click, click...)

3) My feet

Nope, I cannot see them either.

*In any case, they beat the heck out of our old neighbors, with the junkies and the "open for business" window.  More on this later....

Stick a Fork in My A**...

Because I am done...

This is from Friday.  

We had a doctor's appointment where I shared all the false starts and sundry signs that, in a normal person, would indicate Pickle's imminent arrival.  Our doctor ordered us home to pick up our bags and to head to the hospital for monitoring and possible check-in... 

This from today:  My due date...

An observant person may note two distinct facts: I am still pregnant.  And secondly, it is possible to grow more in just two short days.

The bottom line is Pickle just doesn't feel like it yet.  

In recent days, I've decided he's become less of a Pickle and more of a Vampire because every single night he gets ready and starts to at least pretend to be thinking about getting out.  

Then morning comes and he stays right where he is. 

Oh well...

*******************************

And Pickle, if you read this in the coming years, I'm not really mad and I don't really wish for dining utensils to be inserted into my skin anywhere. We're just ready to meet you.  

But, I do really wish you'd move out of me and into your own room.  

Also, if this is a sign of things to come, let me be clear on one thing:  We are so excited for you to live with us for years and years.  

And by years, I mean until you are 18-22ish...Not until you are 40.  

See you soon, little guy.

The East Coast Tour, including Tu-Tu's, Tattoos and One Small Pickle)

New York was lovely.  

I spent one day wandering around my old neighborhood shopping, getting a haircut and eating the best Thai food ever.  The next day was happily spent at Megan and David's wedding.  And in the evenings I visited with my cousin Jane and her husband Shane in their new swanky apartment in Brooklyn.  

It couldn't have been better.  Really, I just think I need about three good full days in New York at least once a year.  It's just like visiting home.  

But because I was all the way over on that side of the world, it only made sense that I popped down to Georgia for a few days to visit my actual home. Sadly, I didn't get any time to visit with any friends, but I had loads of good family time. 

Here are just a few snippets...

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Big D is the best kind of grandmother ever.  She isn't cloying, always has treats and keeps a trunk full of dress up clothes, just in case...because occasionally the clothes the short people arrive in just won't do once they are there.  

Right now, Virginia is modeling one of my old ballet costumes*, topped off with a hat her dad (and my brother) Will wore once when he was a cowboy for Halloween. 

It was the exact ensemble perfect for Bill's cookout birthday party, which was just what was going on around her.

--------------------------

James, Virginia's little brother, who was born on my 35th birthday, enjoyed the book about Norway Husband and I gave to Bill. 

Bill loves books and tends to peruse through them immediately after he opens them, even if we're all still sitting around waiting for the next present to be opened.  

We know this, so we're prepared. 

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Brother Will and Sister Claudia posed while Bill explained alllllllllll about the Vikings and fjords. 

--------------------------

Later that week, Jack (Claudia's son), Big D and I went to visit my grandmother, Nana.  

Nana is 98 and has just moved into a residence home.  She seems to like it there and has loosened up considerably.  

When D asked Nana if it was okay if Jack drank his bottle on her bed, she said, "Of course. It's not like he's pouring a bowl of hot soup between the sheets."

--------------------------

While we were there, I introduced Nana to her newest great-grandchild.**  

Husband and I will be back at Thanksgiving for a visit.  We'll probably have more photos to show, but Nana may not actually meet Pickle until next summer...Unless of course she comes over early next March when Pickle is hatched. 

(Contrary to her expression at this second, she was psyched about getting another great-grandchild.  Pickle will be lucky number seven, depending on how you count.  And I suppose there is always the possibility that one could arrive sooner and we just don't know about it quite yet.)

--------------------------

To celebrate my official name change to the one on the right hand column (and also just because it is just loads of fun) Bill took the girls out to dinner. 

Then it was time to come back home. 

*For a guaranteed a good time for everyone involved, say the word "tu tu" as often as possible when having a conversation with a five-year-old who is wearing just that. For an added bonus, accidentally confuse "tu tu" with the visible "tattoo" on child's right leg.

**Yep, that's what you read. More on that later...

This is Not a Third-World Country

(Out for our first anniversary dinner.) 

So last night I was talking to BigD.  She sent a lovely "going home"* outfit for Pickle, so I called her to thank her, to catch up and also to whine about various "I'm sick of being pregnant"** sort of things.  

In the course of conversation, she mentioned that she ran into a friend at a party.  This friend's son (who is about my age) married a woman from another country and are expecting a baby as well.  But they went home to Gainesvegas to wait out the final months until the baby is born. 

So this friend, who isn't the first one to say so, mentioned that they were surprised that I was having our baby in Norway.  

And a second ago, I checked the stats for their daughter-in-law's particular country, which is associated with many things that tend to be somewhat negative.  And, unsurprisingly, I suppose, I find that it has one of the highest infant mortality rates in its region of the world and one of the lowest standards of maternal care. 

So it's totally understandable that this couple would jet off to a safer place to deliver their baby. 

That is not the way it is in Norway. 

I've written of the medical system "flaws," many of which I am not into.  I am not on board with the all-natural, and abhor the bullying into it.  I would rather have a doctor, not only follow me through the pregnancy, but also be there when Pickle arrives.  And I won't even get started about the easy drug access and the lack of choice about how he will eat once he arrives.

But Norway is safe and completely focused on family and babies.  

And in the past week, I've started feeling much better about it. 

After our appointment with Kari, the Wonder Wife, Husband, without my knowledge went back to the hospital.  He searched out the head of the department and re-explained everything. Together they amended my chart and registration---which lovely Kari had filled in to say merely "Anxious American"---to reflect my notes and wishes.  

And last week, my doctor sent a note to the department saying I was feeling pressured and made an appointment for Husband and me to talk to another midwife on staff at the hospital.  

A few days ago we went and instead of the "It will all be fine, we will take care of you" dismissiveness we've had thus far, she explained the national process and offered advice on how to navigate better.  

So, really, most likely, it's all going to be fine.  

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*For those of you not from the Southern United States, let me explain.  When a baby leaves the hospital, he or she must be dressed up in some sort of finery for the photos and the ride home.  This is important.  And no, Husband did not understand it either.  We opened it together and knowing better than to tease or mock, especially right now, he said "Ohhhhh, so these are the times when we pretend Pickle is a doll and you just dress him up." Clearly.  Also, because the ride home is relatively short, I may make Husband take a drive through town just because it seems like we should enjoy the schmancy outfit, which is really cute, but I won't show it now.  I'd hate to ruin the surprise. 

**Too boring for words. Suffice to say, among other things I cannot sleep, I waddle and I am now shaped like a beer-gutted redneck.  Seriously, check the photo.  If I had stubble and was wearing a stained tank top, you may for a moment wonder if I was about to give birth to a keg. 

(Last Sunday at 39 weeks.) 

Some days, my life is a poorly written SNL skit

I love Gawker for a variety of reasons and have spent much too many hours happy hours perusing the site for years.  

I saw this a few days ago and it reminded of Norwegian hospitals.* 

If you're going to have a baby in Norway, you get a letter from your local hospital about 3 or 4 weeks before your due.  That letter instructs you to come in to the birthward to pre-register, which should be a great thing.  

You meet with one of the midwives who will take your info and confirm your details (name, address, etc....).  This midwife is also supposed to make notes about your wishes (all natural vs drugs, language requirements for caregivers, would you like a window, etc....) 

So on the day (or evening) when you came in for the birth, whoever is on duty can pull out your file and be good to go.

This is especially important because the person giving birth (in this case, me) will not have ever met or have ever seen whoever is on duty at that moment.  

The person delivering the baby (in this case, Pickle) will be a complete stranger and just whoever happens to be on duty.  

Yes, the only person I will know at the time will be Husband. 

So when I say this appointment is important, it's because it is. 

Ours was not very successful.  

We had Kari, The Wonder (Mid)Wife.**  

Over the course of our 20 or so minutes, along with our other wishes, we said we'd like a note put into our file that I would like an epidural and that any caregivers should be fluent and comfortable speaking English.

She informed us that because Husband knows some Norwegian, that English speaking wouldn't be as important.***  

And more so, that, if she were the midwife on duty, she'd take an assessment and decide whether or not I could have the drugs, but that it would really be better for everyone if I practiced breathing and used the gas.**** 

After that, I was slightly disturbed, but even more so, when she began chit-chatting while she was typing into our file.... 

___________________________________________

Kari, the Wonder-Wife:  So what do you think of your new president?

Me:  I am thrilled

K, t WW:  Thrilled?

Because I thought she may not have heard me or perhaps didn't understand the vocabulary or some such, I tried again.....

Me:  Thrilled. I think he is a good man and just the right person to deal with the giant mess.  He's got a hard job, though. 

Still nothing.  Just a quick glance and silence.  So I gave it one more try.

Me: But what do you think?

K, the WW:  Oh I don't know.

And, in one last attempt to be cheery, plus clearly she had something to say...

Me: Really? Most people have some sort of opinion.

Kari, the WW: Well, I think a change is good, but I don't; know about a black man. Or any colored really.  And by colored, I mean any colored person other than white. We've only had people that are colored here for about 30 years and I don't think we'd let them run the country.

Me:   Huh. 

Husband, who has been silent until now:   Huh. 

Kari, the WW: Yes, you know how we are here. We like our own people.

Me: That's funny. I guess we just like all sorts of good, brilliant people back in the states.

Kari, the WW:  Well, that's not very Norwegian, is it?
_________________________________________

It was so odd and weird and unfunny, that, in between my rants about the system, we laughed about it until we almost cried. 

I am going to deliver the Pickle in the middle of an SNL skit...and a poorly written, not so funny one, at that.

**************************************************

*Or to be fair, it reminded me of one instance and one midwife in one Norwegian hospital. 

**And no, doctors don't get involved in these parts, unless surgery is needed.

***To be fair, Husband is actually fluent in the Norwegian language, so that note in our file would be valid and totally on point IF Husband was in actual possession of the particular ladyparts from which our Pickle will most likely emerge.  He is not.  I am. My Norwegian is only fluent-ish through Lesson 8 in my textbook.  So being able to ask a shop-person if they have a green sweater in my size won't be as useful in this case.

***The "gas" is the same gas used in the dentist office, in the case you need a bit of drilling.  One friend of mine, who missed the window for an epidural here because they told her to go home.  She took a long walk around the hospital grounds, came back and her daughter was born 90 minutes later.  She used the gas as a last resort and said "It does take the edge off and the mask is useful for screaming into." 

The Girls

There have been lots of things I haven't been able to really talk about so much this year and at certain times haven't even been able to write about, at least not yet.*

First I was pregnant and we decided to keep it a secret until we were sure it was going to take.  But in the beginning, while we waited, I felt pretty awful and people guessed anyway, but I still didn't write about it and refused to confirm. 

And now for months, we haven't been sure whether or not we'd be in Stavanger for the last half of Husband's two-year contract.  The financial crisis spread around the world quickly and because he's in financial services, it bit us as well.  

So we've been waiting to see whether we would be packing up to head back to Atlanta (where we came from and still own a house that we haven't been able to sell) or would be staying here.

There was also the added bit of having to figure it all out by mid-December, which is the last approximate time frame I should hop on a plane for more than about four hours.**

So the time has been ticking closer to our deadline and this week, when people in Gainesvegas would ask when we would be appearing again, I would laugh and say, "Either next week or next June."  

But now, it's all be figured out.  We'll be living here, until at least next December.***

And as for when we will be back for good, I don't know for sure.  But definitely, we will be settled somewhere for the long haul by early 2015, which may sound like a long time from now, but really is only about six years.  

And, while there are a few other reasons, one of the key ones is because of The Girls. (Occasionally you may also hear me refer to them as The Calvary because they always show up, en masse, to save the day.)

The Girls have been my mother's best friends since BigD was in kindergarten.  Depending on how you count, there are about ten of them who went all through school together, some to college together as well.  Then they all went their separate ways, scattering all over the United States, South America and the rest of the world. 

They create things and have glamourous careers and travel and made families, but they always show up.  At the very least, each one of them comes to Gainesvegas around Christmas for the yearly lunch.  They rent out a private room somewhere, shut the door and if you walk by can hear the raucous laughter coming from inside.  

But they also show up during the rest of the time as well.   When Husband and I were getting married in a speedy and unconventional way, but still hoped for some of the more traditional trappings, they stepped in and threw the very best rehearsal party ever. 

And while Big D has had a pretty rotten year (other than our hitching, of course) they have been there, too, with emails and calls and showing up.  

Best of all, not only do they have almost sixty years of history with my family, they are fun. Because along with all the good, they've been through every single thing, but have always kept their perspectives and wicked senses of humor.  So when they appear, the levity does as well.

(Trust me, if you ever have the good fortune to meet one of them, try to stand next to her as long as possible.  It's good fun, I promise.)

Last week, on the morning of Nana's funeral, I was left at the house to open the door and answer the phone.  One by one, The Calvary assembled.  

They showed up with piles of food, and shooed me to go on and get dressed for the lunch before everything started happening.  But the best part was coming upstairs and listening to them talk: "We just borrowed the car and then we replanted the flower bushes.  Was that right after your fourteenth birthday?" and "I'm glad that both my kids have gotten neutered because four grandchildren in two years in about all I can handle."

And why does The Calvary matter in the plan Husband and I have on when we get settled somewhere? 

Because that's what we wish for Pickle. We hope that he will have a long time group of solid friends that he will be able to count on as much as he will his own family. And that they will be there to show up. 

I have the same Best Girls from 6th grade on up, a handful of great friends from college and New York and then a fantastic group from our time in Atlanta.  Husband has a solid group from college.  And we're cultivating a hilarious and diverse group here. They are all people we love, have amazing histories with and we all show up for each other in all the same ways...

But the best example we have are The Girls.  And they started when they were six, so that just seems like a good goal to work towards.  

So while lots of things are somewhat uncertain these days, some things aren't. 

And do the The Girls have partners?  Yep, and they show up, too.  And, when needed, man the bar. 

(One of these is not 1/2 of A Girl.)

*There's really not much that is off the table, in the overall sense.  (Unless the secrets are not mine.  I would never tell those. Notice how non-specific I am in this post...) Everyone I know, knows that if you are in my life, it's entirely possible you may one day be a character in something I commit to paper or some other permanent medium. The BigD is okay with this and I have the most dirt on her, so you should be okay with this, too. Plus, even though I am honest, I am also benevolent, so really, it's all good. 

**Getting from Stavanger from Atlanta takes 16-20 hours, at least two plane rides and there is one giant body of water to cross.  Even if a plane would let me on, which becomes more and more unlikely as the weeks pass, along with a few other things, the very last thing I'd like to do is deliver Pickle on a plane...unsafe, messy, embarrassing and far too far from the copious amounts of drugs I feel are essential. 

***Or until the next major financial crisis hiccup.  But at least until next June or, which is when Pickle will be about two months old, which is about as early as he should be on a plane...

The Gherkin

Have you ever heard of the Celtic Dragon Pub Company?  

No? 

Imagine that you are anywhere in the world.  You have a raw space, spare cash and a business plan.  Imagine that the crux of your business plan is that you desperately want to open an "authentic" Irish pub, but you are neither Irish, nor antique-y and you don't have the sources, nor the time to find all the accoutrements yourself.  

Enter the Celtic Dragon Pub Company.*

In an overly simplified explanation, they take your space measurements and quote a price, then some time later, you receive your pub in a box (or a great many boxes.).  

Seriously. 

If you've ever been to an Irish pub outside of Ireland itself, there's a pretty good chance it looked something like this.** 

And in my head, the phrase "Pub in the Box," has become a catch-all phrases for anything formulaic, something with not only the feeling that you've come across it before, but, given enough time, you will again and again...i.e. the plot of each Nancy Drew book as well as trademarked room decorations that include window treatments, paint colors, as well as bed skirts, etc...

This is neither a negative, nor a positive, it just is. 

And if you like that sort of thing, it's quite the good thing.  

But all that said, when I was planning Elliot's nursery, I did not want Pub in  Box.*** 

When I began the planning, Elliot was not Elliot.  Or at least we didn't know he was Elliot. We did know he was The Pickle. 

And, other than the furniture, which would have been too costly to ship from the US, I wasn't pleased with any of my local decorating choices, so I decided that I would do it long distance. 

With the help of BigD, the US Postal Service and a designer named Rudy, it all started coming together, with the exception of one bit: the quilt. 

And perhaps, in retrospect, the nursery didn't even matter and maybe the quilt mattered even less.  We all know that (within reason, of course) a baby can sleep anywhere as long as you take care of it and love it. 

But at the time it did.  

It mattered alot and it may have to you, too, if you were seven months pregnant, hormonal and focused on getting things done.  

Plus, if a brand new person is arriving, he should feel welcome and having a warm, cozy, special room is a start.

Enter Patty.  

Patty is one of my college friends, but because of life and locations, we really hadn't visited much since then.  But we were good friends then and over the past few years, we've caught up over Facebook.  

But dear Patty is not only a friend, but also a quilter. And not just any old quilter, but the kind that sells lovely creations and wins state competitions and occasionally teaches classes.****  

So I emailed her to see if she could help me with the quilt dilemma. And being a relatively new mother herself, she understood the importance of my query and she fixed it.  I sent her some fabric and free rein.  And in what seemed like no time at all, The Gherkin arrived. 

She took my general ideas and some of my fabric, added her own of both and made it better than I could have hoped. And it made all the difference.  

I suspect the actual Pickle doesn't quite appreciate it as much as I do right now, but once he's old enough to understand all the kindness and thoughtfulness and good wishes that are all wrapped up in his lovely cozy, cozy quilt, he will. 

 

*I'm not sure if they are the only ones in this particular line of business, but you get my drift. 

**This is in no way a condemnation of Irish pubs, authentic or otherwise. I have been a generous patron of them in many parts of the world, for example here, here, here, here and here just to list a few. 

***I also did not want cartoons or weird nursery rhyme characters, either.  

****If you need a special, distinctly non-Pub in a Box quilts like this or this, you should post a note on her blog.  I suspect she'll charge you slightly more than the rate I had (thanks and the cost of postage) but no matter what, it will be lovely.

And in case you are curious about the whole nursery, here it is.  

It's not totally perfect for a variety of reasons, including that Husband would only paint one wall for me because it's a rental apartment.  And it needs a few more things, but overall, I love it.  

And it's not Pub in Box. 

See that mobile?  My sister in law suggested it and it is one of the best recs ever--because that mobile is magic. 

I'm a fan of giraffes, in case you couldn't guess. 

Yes, it's tacky to photograph the diaper genie, but for accuracy's sake, that's where it is.  The cross stitch above the changing table is one my mom made for me years ago.  When she was here a few weeks ago, she said, "I made that for you before you were born." I said, "Really, then why is it dated 12-1-72, my first birthday?" The only conclusion we could come to was that maybe I'm a year younger than we thought. Score. 

 
The end.

In Other News

...this morning was the first time Pickle kicked Husband.  

For a few different reasons ---position of parts, general size and other fairly physical things---up until today, Husband hasn't felt a thing.  

And even 21 weeks into it (as of today) I have only felt a few flutters and a pokes or two. But we've seen Pickle swimming all about on several ultrasounds, so we're assuming that he's okay.

And every single evening and many mornings, Husband has been patiently waiting for a good kick. 

Today he got one, to the head, and then an elbow (we think) right in the ear. 

Companion Certificate in Expat Pregnancy

As you might remember, early on, I started thinking about devising a Masters in Expat Housewifery Program. 

It's been on the back burner for a while, but the past few months have convinced me it is necessary.  And not only is it necessary, but also that there should be an attached, or perhaps sub-program, in Expat Pregnancy.

It would include classes such as, but not limited to...

Medical mindset 101: 

Norwegian's do it differently. That is all. Get with the program or don't be shamed for how you want it handled.

Worries 101:

What happens, happens.  Come see us at about 20 weeks.

Do the Math 206:

They like babies so much, they'll pay you to have them.

and most importantly for my purposes here:

Cravings 301:

If you think you'll want it, save yourself some hassle and get it yourself --- from home

On Friday night, I spent part of the evening talking to C., a Norwegian friend who is about 32 weeks pregnant.  She and I have similar thoughts that pregnancy is a whole lot of "meh" but that the end result is worth it.  

When I asked her if she had any big cravings, she said no, that other than apples, she was just eating whatever.  Nothing cravings-wise has driven her nuts, which shocked me, but then we went on to something else...

But Sunday afternoon, I was lamenting the distance between me and the nearest* Whole Foods, which for those you who may not know, is one of the greatest places in quite possibly the entire United States.  

And by greatest, I am not talking about the "whole" part, I absolutely mean the "food" part. 

Whole Foods is a giant organic grocery store, but organic in a cool way, not in a "chokes you with the smell of pachouli and feet" way. 

Most importantly, it has miles and miles of prepared food and encourages sampling, so you don't have to commit** to a selection until you are absolutely sure.

And on this Sunday, I would have strongly considered selling my first born***  for just ten minutes in Whole Foods.  I would speed sample the soup bar selections and choose the best chunky soup, then head over to the hot counter for a mess of collard greens and a container of the best macaroni and cheese. ever. 

Then with the remaining seven or so minutes, I would just taste all the things I have been missing.  

I explained all of this to Husband, who just listened a bit and handed me a tissue when I got teary, because not only could I not have ANY of it, but all the grocery stores are closed on Sunday, so we couldn't even try to approximate it.   

(I also wanted a mani/pedi, but that is another post altogether.) 

It made me start thinking about how C. said she never had any major cravings in the way I described.  One possibility is that she just didn't. Every pregnancy is different, so that could just be that. 

Another (and this is the one that I'm going with...) is that a pregnant woman craves what is familiar and comforting.  

Even if you explain in scientifically (ie. a craving is your body needing to fulfill a need for a particular mineral or vitamin...) it only makes sense that you crave what you know.  

And if she craved, say for instance, Norwegian staples like salmon or reindeer meat or a sheep's skull or caviar in a tube, she could get it and quickly.  

But me, I'm hosed.  

There's no Thai food, at least not what I am used to eating.  The tomatoes are not from my Nana's garden.  Vanilla/Chocolate combo milkshake? Bwahahaha. Though there's a rumor that collard greens can be had with the right connections, I haven't seen them yet. Pudding had to be shipped from 7,000 miles away. I am even having a hard time find a good crunchy tart pickle. And there is no such thing as pickled okra.

But to be fair, the hosing is not complete...as I sat on the sofa sniffing, Husband,  who had just been listening patiently, got up, headed to the kitchen and started pulling all sorts of things out of the cabinets and refrigerator.  

He spread out things on the counter and chopped them all up...

And made a pot of soup-y goodness...

And cooked until it got even better...

And then served it up...

And it was about as close, to a Whole Foods soup I would have chosen, as it could be...

So that's something...

*564 miles---it turns out there are a few in London, still not helpful on a Sunday afternoon in Stavanger.  Also, it's approximately 5249 miles to the one in our neighborhood in Atlanta, also not helpful in the least to my predicament. 

**This also is a big selling point to me in all things.

**I kid, I kid.  No one can have Pickle, not for any price. Though if I know you, you can hold it or change a diaper, especially the yuck ones, whenever you'd like, free of charge.