Then I smacked myself around and took my meds.

So let’s catch up a bit, shall we?

Oh LOOK. The Hellspawn is no longer, like, a legume! It’s actually recognizable! No cloven hooves yet, apparently, but there’s still time. This was the officially-sanctioned ultrasound, scheduled and everything, so we were there for a good long while. And beforehand, I had to drive approximately 27 gallons of water, just to fill my bladder and get everything pushed “up and out”, so to speak. Well, everything was pushed up and out all right, including my back teeth, which were floating. Thankfully, they only needed to do the “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea” view for the first 5 or 10 minutes, and then I was allowed to visit the bathroom. Quite possibly the best pee I’ve ever had.

The night previous, the fetus and I attended the Ted Leo + the Pharmacists concert in Madison, which was AWESOME. It was at the student union in a room that was obviously some sort of cafe during the day. All the tables and chairs were stacked around the sides of the room and there was a makeshift stage at one end of the room, where some BIGASS speakers (taller than I was) were set up. This is how you know it’s going to be a good concert. THEN the opening act (Love of Diagrams) was late, and one of the student lackeys came out and said they wouldn’t be playing due to illness, so Ted Leo would have to do an extended set, which OMGPONIES!!1! Too great. So it was super-loud, noisy, full of college kids and 2 hours of standing-while-pregnant, THEN a mile-long walk back to my hotel room in the mist. Excellent night.

Since then, there’s been a lot of eating and not enough sleeping (not that I haven’t been TRYING. I feel like I’m 80 years old and should be sleeping in front of the TV while my stories are on.) Tomorrow is Mother’s Day, and even though I’ve received many thoughtful cards and gifts, it STILL hasn’t sunk in. Mothers are OTHER people. People who wear sensible pants and don’t eat cereal for dinner.

I haven’t felt any movement, either, so that could be why this is all still theoretical. I mean, when you think about it, what proof do I really have? I’ve seen the alleged fetus on TV — TWICE. I’ve been sick, which could very well have been an extended bout of the flu. Frankly, I think it’s all a big conspiracy, like the moon landing or the Black Eyed Peas inexplicable success. Time will tell.

Ultrasound or Rorshach test?

Seven weeks and about 12 hours ago, we had our first view of our child.

There was no instant recognition, no immediate rush of maternal love. Just an overwhelming awe at the miracle of science that was allowing us to catch the first glimpse. 2 1/2 inches long, there was nothing recognizably human in the fuzzy blob, but it wiggled its arms and legs as though treading water, staying afloat for its closeup.

Seven weeks — even sixteen weeks — is not long enough to fully internalize the reality of the changes that our little household is about to experience. It’s a good thing we have another twenty-four to get used to the idea.

AND I get a three-day weekend out of the deal? A happy accident. Honest.

It’s all over for me now…

So. I’ve been taking my New Year’s resolution to learn to knit and crochet pretty seriously this year. (It was one of last year’s resolutions, too, but I kind of ho-hummed around.) But THIS year. FOR REAL.

And look what I did! I learned how to rib stitch! SCADS OF SWEATERS HERE I COME.

Normally, I wouldn’t find that strange; I don’t have a lot to say as a general rule. I’m usually the one in the shadowy corner watching the conversation swirl around me, content to soak it all in and enjoy others’ thoughts. Today I’m ready to talk but I have nothing to say.

It’s a weird feeling.

I keep procrastinating on postings because I feel like I need to do more work on the user interface and, as a perfectionist, it hurts my soul to write something when the layout is so OBVIOUSLY DEFICIENT. I mean, look! No blogroll! (Even though I have dear, dear friends on it.) No Flickr links! No last.fm list! WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE??

The other reason I suck is that I am so bad at living my life out loud. I am the stereotypical introvert in the corner, the one content to view the goings-on of others than pipe up with my own goings-on. It’s the reason I can’t keep a journal. I feel slightly silly speaking to people who may or may not be reading. I might as well just talk to myself!

So.

One of my New Year’s resolutions is going to be to let it go. The blog doesn’t look quite the way I’d hoped? Fuck it. I can work on it bit by bit when I have the time and inclination, and, in the meantime, it shouldn’t prevent me from doing what I created this blog for in the first place: writing.

We are really not the type of people who PLAN to go out to dinner, normally; it just happens that way. Normally, one of us is suddenly famished and we haven’t done any planning that night as to how nourishment will magically find its way into our bodies. At that point, we do a little vaudeville routine. Either of us may begin, but it always goes like this:

“Any idea what you want for dinner?”
“Not really. You?”
“No.”

30 minute intermission.

“What do you want for dinner?”
“FOOD.”
“What kind of food?”
“GOOD FOOD.”
“I don’t think we have any of that.”
“Guess we’d better go out, then.”

Life is sometimes a bit circuitious when you’re a household of extraordinarily passive people.

So, vaudeville routine finished, we went to the new Lowe’s Hardware Superstore (the first in our area — hooray for progress!) and then off to find some dinner. Kevin’s first thought was to visit the site of our dearly beloved Peggy’s Bistro (now long closed) and see what had taken its place. Fair enough. We pulled up in front to find that it is now a Mediterranean tapas bar. Awesome. We also found that it was closed. Not so awesome. Appleton on a weekend has tricky hours — you have to guess when things might be opening. Could be 4pm. Could be 5:30pm. Could be 6pm. It’s like a fun-filled lottery!

So, practically shriveling up and dying, we hied ourselves off to our next choice: a new “Latin Fine Dining” restaurant further downtown. I’m assuming “Latin” = “Latin American”, but you never know. And I will never know, because they were also closed. Actually, it looked as though they were not too far off from opening, because we could see the chefs briefing the waitstaff on the evening’s specials. Unfortunately: shriveling. Dying. Unable to wait.

We trekked next door to what we discovered was a Cajun restaurant. This took us by surprise, as the last time we had been to the place with friends, it had been a German restaurant. Kevin likes Cajun, and I figured I could at least find something edible, so we decided to go for it. We walked in, and the entire bar turned around to look at us. Except for the people AT the bar, the place was totally empty. And dimly lit. I was half expecting to see La Cosa Nostra huddled around a table in the back corner. Then we discovered that it was STILL a German restaurant. Sort of. The hostess asked us what kind of food we wanted. “Ve haf Cherman or Cayjun,” she said in an unidentifiable accent. (I voted Eastern European of some sort. Perhaps it was the Russian Mafia in the corner.) We stayed the course and went for the Cajun. We slunk over to a table by the window. (At least our backs were to the wall.)

I quickly narrowed down my edible options to crabcakes or something called Tuna with Strawberry Sauce (pan-seared, no blackening, thank you), which sounded weird but delightful. Kevin went for Blackened Catfish. I made my way past the mafia to the back hallway where they had hidden the salad bar, which featured lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Oh, and croutons. Exciting. In the meantime, our Bulgarian(?) waitress had brought us something she was calling Cayjun Breat, which turned out to be tiny little pieces of fried bready delicousness WITH A CHEESE DIPPING SAUCE. These people obviously knew I was coming. I think all the crack they sprinkled on the bread got to Kevin, because he ate most of it. Then the real food came. Unfortunately, Kevin’s plate looked as though it had been vomited on, as they unfortunately were translating “blackened” as “blackened plus a big ladelful of chunky tomato-based sludge”. Eesh. The little bit I tried put me right back off Cajun for ANOTHER, oh, 30 years.

My tuna, on the other hand, was AMAZING. Perfectly pan-seared, brilliantly medium rare on the inside, with a delicate strawberry butter sauce that wasn’t overpowering, but was sweet and light and wonderful. It was all I could do to restrain myself from laughing, Nelson-Muntz-like, at Kevin. (OK, maybe I did ONCE. But I definitely didn’t point. Much.) He actually had some of mine to cleanse his palate of HIS dinner. (Not that he didn’t eat 80% of it anyway.)

Thus satiated and pleasantly, PLEASANTLY surprised, we bid adieu to our Romanian(?) waitress, the mob guys, and walked out into the Wisconsin night, amazed that, after living here for 8 years, this town still had some surprises left for us.

skits had me all excited about joining the 365 Days group on Flickr; one self-portrait, every day. No problem, right?

After taking 10 pictures of myself, I realized that I didn’t want to be in front of the camera. I don’t BELONG in front of the camera. Some people enjoy taking pictures of themselves. Some people are completely natural there. I am not. And that’s OK.

It’s always a refreshing surprise to discover something else that I can say “No, that’s not me” about. It’s taken me a long time to get to the point where I can say that.

I’m building a picture of myself in my head, bit by bit, day by day. And I plan to spend more than 365 days on it.