A Woman in her Thirties Dogsits

I realize that some women in their twenties dogsit, but I was never one of those women. I reluctantly watched Carlos the Cat while K lived in Switzerland for a summer, but let's just say I'm pretty sure Carlos was unhappy with that deal. Pet-sitting is new territory for me.

Meet Walter:Walter is my friend K's dog, and he comes from the same shelter as Dan:The resemblance is striking, no? The same furrowed brow, the same expressive ears... In my mathematically challenged brain, one Daniel plus another dog that may or may not be related to Daniel equals two Daniels. Right? Wrong.

The last couple of weeks have been eye opening for me. While Walter likes pooping on trees, Daniel prefers wide open spaces. Walter likes sleeping on the bed, Dan likes is own sleeping space. Walter is totally okay sharing attention, Dan not so much. Daniel loves other dogs, Walt has trust issues. Walter is perfectly content having little kids pet him all day, Daniel is a little leery of little people. It must have been how my Mom felt with two daughters so close in age-- how could they be so different?

The reality is that, despite the differences, it's been fun having two dogs around. I get all kinds of cute play pictures:

And dress up becomes more fun:

How great is that look on Daniel's face? He's like, 'Jeez, Mom, you're embarrassing me.'

So I guess when a woman in her thirties dogsits, it's kind of like life. One plus one still equals two, and while two doesn't necessarily means the same, two almost always means better.

A Woman in her Thirties is a Sucker

I promised myself I would not buy baby girl clothes on a whim. I promised myself I would be strong and avoid the newborn onesies at Babies R Us. I promised.

Sometimes a woman in her thirties cannot keep her promises:

The post-it note in the middle says:

Dear Daddy,

Please forgive Mommy. She had a store credit and couldn't help herself.

Love,
Chewbecca

A Woman in her Thirties is a Goddess

It was right around the time of my recent mental breakdown that a neighbor recommended a place for prenatal yoga. She raved about it, in a very you'll-thank-me-later kind of way. A woman in her thirties that has now gained fifteen pounds and wakes up with cramped calves once a night takes good advice when she hears it.

I've stated my feelings about yoga and a few times in this blog, so I'll spare you the 'I'm leery of hippies' speech. Let's just say that during my first class, when my teacher said, 'The goddess in me honors the goddess in you' as we left, it was all I could do to keep my snort from becoming audible. Goddess-- she clearly hasn't seen my thighs lately.

But despite the 'let's begin class with three chanting Ohms....' and 'send a love note down to your babies in your downward facing dogs', I am completely hooked. I realized this morning that prenatal yoga is the great equalizer. Women who once might have dominated their spin classes sit on their mats massaging their cankles. Women who might have gotten judgemental looks in the locker room at the gym look sympathetically at the girls barely able to make it through class without puking. And we all have this wonderful excuse to tune into our bodies. Case in point-- the Miss Fitness USA-looking woman next to me today said, 'You know what? Squats are just not going to happen today.' And that's totally okay.

You'd think that a woman in her thirties who does yoga up to five times a week would be pretty awesome at it by now, but I have unfortunate news: I still completely suck. I sometimes sweat and breathe my way through my warrior series praying, 'Please God(dess), don't let my baby inherit my old lady back'. But I am starting to get what the yogies have been saying all this time about breath and life, about salutations and inward focus. It's helped in the past weeks when construction workers have been in and out of our home. It's helped when I started to create a baby registry and thought I was going to pass out thinking about all the stuff we are going to need for this child. It's helped when I wake up multiple times at night having nightmares about being a bad Mom.

I am a long way from seeing myself as a goddess, but I'll admit that prenatal yoga has been one of the best gifts I've given myself in a long time (that and TiVo). So with that, I am off to the dentist to put all these deep breathing practices to use. Namaste.

A Woman in her Thirties Springs a Leak

This Wednesday I finally began feeling like I was actually beginning my teacher summer. School (for me) was finally over, and I was starting to feel like I could kick back, watch my tummy grow, and get to work on hanging some pictures in the house we moved into almost a year ago for crying out loud.

Then I noticed a brown spot on the ceiling in our dining room. Weird, I thought. I didn't notice that before. Before I could wonder much further, I noticed a small drop of water, just like a tear, coming from that brown spot. Looking down, I realized there was small pool of water on the ground. And about two feet from that small pool of water, another small pool of water.

A woman in her thirties knows this is very, very bad. As in baaaaaad.

The plumber who charged double time for coming after hours told us the culprit was the toilet in the upstairs bathroom. He said things like, 'probably been leaking for a few weeks', and 'older home', lots of times. L and I only heard the sound of our savings account draining. And then he started talking about what it was going to take to fix it.

Instead of describing it, let me show you with a photo montage. When I am long dead and my iPhone pictures are being sold at auction, I think this will be referred to as my Blue Period.

This beautiful image was captured during the sealing off process of our dining room. You will notice that a window is taken out to allow for the water that is being dried from our walls to evaporate elsewhere. The two large machines in the room have made it hot enough to roast marshmallows in there for the last three days.

A woman in her thirties with more austere taste will appreciate this image, taken from the kitchen. In the upper left hand corner you will notice the three tubes hanging down, drilled through the ceiling, to dry out the walls. Doesn't the light coming from the window remind you of that scene in ET when he's about to.... oh, I don't remember. I saw ET when I was five and my Mom had to take us out of the theater because we were too scared.

Oh, but this image is my favorite. This is Dave, our contractor, ripping apart the original pine cabinetry from the 1920's in the dining room, since the water had seeped behind the wall. It was so great when he kept saying things like, 'Wow, they don't make cabinets like this anymore', and 'whoever made these cabinets really put a lot of thought into them.'

Come to think of it, I think the water that came from the ceiling might have been actual tears.

Don't fret, women in your thirties; we are remaining positive. We have insurance. At least it happened before the baby came. It can all be replaced. These are just the ups and downs of home ownership. It's all going to be okay. We have repeated these things about 50 times in the last three days. We have insurance. At least it happened before the baby came. I can all be...

A Woman in her Thirties Loves her New Pronoun

You know how people always talk about woman's intuition and motherly instincts? Shouldn't a woman in her thirties have perfected that by now?

I guess not, because last week if you would have asked me what I was having I would have said BOY. Without a doubt. This woman in her thirties is baking a boy. Keep in mind I had no science behind that, other than a heartbeat count and a few dreams. I always knew feelings were overrated.

Anyway, you can imagine my surprise when on Tuesday I lay down from my 20 week ultrasound and the doctor said the words 'unmistakable', 'textbook', and 'labia' (sorry) when referring to Chewy.

That's right. This is the perfect little spine:


And this is the perfect little foot:


And this is the perfect little profile:


of my perfect little baby girl.

I spent about three seconds in shock until I looked over at L's face as he scrutinized the image of our twisting and turning little Chewy. It was more than the face of a man in love with his baby-- it was the face of a man completely enamored with his daughter. Oh, how I know that face.

So there it is-- a woman in her thirties loves having a pronoun to attach to her baby. Her little girl, who will someday be a woman in her thirties of her own. What a miracle.

A Woman in her Thirties is Prepared

When I first moved to Pleasantville, I was perplexed by the large yellow horns that seemed to dot the roads at various locations. I was told those were tornado sirens, and they scream loudly when it's time to get in the basement and bunker down, Wizard of Oz style. I put that in my repertoire of knowledge about the Midwest that I was going to choose to ignore, such as the actual definition of All-Wheel-Drive and why it is important to keep kitty litter in one's car in the winter. Whatever it is they say about ignorance, it's true.

Fast forward to Friday. It rained in the afternoon, and all during my summer school class my classmates were using their laptops to check the weather. 'Tornado threat,' one girl said. And I thought, 'You know what sounds awesome right now? A bean burrito.'

So I went about my business, bought groceries for the week, and came home Friday afternoon insisting on date night with L. 'Are you sure?' he asked. 'It's raining pretty hard.' I said, 'It's just a little rain! Chewy wants pizza!'

At that point, the tornado siren started blaring. (Daniel was not very happy about this, let me tell you.) It hit me that this was the proverbial 'real deal', and I stood at the stairs to our basement like a four-year-old, looking at L for directions about what to do. The rain and hail came down in large chunks, and we watched the wind whip the trees in our yard feeling completely helpless. Here are some pictures that don't do the situation any justice:

And then the power went out.

Boy scouts learn to be prepared at a young age. A look in my purse on any given night in my twenties would have revealed a woman who was prepared for anything. But now, in my thirties, as a homeowner, wife, and almost-mother, I found myself completely without resources. 1 small flashlight (L's), 20% battery life on my cell phone (no land line), two candles for the entire house but not a match between the two of us, and a fridge full of spoiling meat. Not good.

The tornado siren stopped after a few minutes, the rain and wind stopped blowing relentlessly, but the power stayed off. It remained off for almost 24 hours. L and I did our best to make light of the situation, at least at first, but in the back of my mind I knew it wasn't light-- it was stupid.

I reflected on this situation yesterday, as I painstakingly threw away the contents of our fridge. A woman in her thirties is prepared. Not for everything, of course, but for the obvious things. Especially now, with Chewy moving around inside of me. Lesson learned, people. I'm off to buy some batteries.

A Woman in her Thirties is Published-ish!

A few weeks ago, a girl in my writing class directed me toward this website. She'd read my collection of essays about China and thought this would be a place to submit. And a woman in her thirties takes chances, right? A woman in her thirties puts herself out there? A woman in her thirties doesn't get intimid...

A woman in her thirties tells the truth: I was really, really scared. Rejection is... not something I particularly enjoy. It is the yuckiest part about the whole chasing-your-dreams thing.

Here's what happened: I sent one of my essays to Chantal, and not only did she like it, she also turned out to be a super nice, supportive, and a a fellow woman in her thirties. Jackpot!

Here's the link to the post: http://www.writerabroad.com/2010/06/guest-post-living-in-china.html

And if that's not enough, read my Mom's comment in the comments section. Now who's the writer?