I have spent some time wrapping myself up in nostalgia as yet another year prepares to slip away. So much has happened. So many new relationships and a few forgotten ones. I have spent some time scrolling through old pictures (because that's what we do now, right? We scroll, not flip), remembering so many moments that I had tucked away. Nostalgia brought me back to this blog. It has been well over a year since I've written. I hereby resolve to improve on that.

Nostalgia reminds me that I miss my friends - my high school girls that I grew up with. The ones who loved me unconditionally, and despite my flaws. The ones who saw me for what I would be and loved me because of it. You know who you are.

Nostalgia reminds me of the things that I love and appreciate right now in life, and it reminds me of how I have evolved as a woman, a mom, a partner, a lawyer, and a friend over time. I've compiled a list - by no means is it a comprehensive list, but it certainly represents a slice of my soul these days.

So here goes:

I love my children. I love being pregnant (no I'm not currently pregnant). I love babies - all babies. I love my overwhelming urge to hold every baby I see. I love that I love these things.

I love red wine and fine wine glasses. In the summer, I love a crisp cold white wine in the sun.

I love sunshine.

I love warmth.

I love dark chocolate.

I love Pandora and music in general. As Shakespeare wrote, "If music be the food of love, play on."

I love quotes.

And, speaking of food, I love food. I love sharing food. And tasting food.

I love dining out. I love cooking in. I love grocery shopping.

I love condiments and sauces and dipping.

I love mayonnaise. [As an aside, I distrust anyone who does not similarly love mayonnaise as I am fairly certain it is a lovely complement to 99% of all foods, perhaps with the exception of cereal, and the jury's still out on that one . . .]

I love eating with my fingers.

I love good conversation; conversation that is so engaging and engrossing that hours pass in the blink of an eye.

I love laughter and laughing and smiling and giggling.

I love sleep.

I love road trips.

I love learning.

I love writing.

I love the the absolute satisfaction that these things give me and knowing that the appreciation I have for these things has only come with my life experience.

And, while I always grieve for the time that has passed by, I love that a new year, full of endless possibilities, endeavors, relationships, firsts, endings and stories is ahead.

Happy New Year friends, may it be the most prosperous one yet ♥

The Rantings of a Pregnant Woman

1. I'm now wearing adjustable waist pants. I'm not sure if I'm really excited about this or just totally mortified. Indeed, my son still wears adjustable waist pants. [Sorry Cam, I'm pretty sure most boys your age do and even if not, I'm fairly certain that none of them are reading this blog. I haven't outed you, I swear.]

2. Last night I participated in a covert food packing operation that involved pretending to order mass amounts of food to eat IN the Bar-Bill when really the goal was to box it up and take it all home. The bartender was in on it. Apparently they don't do take-outs at certain times, but I can't figure out why. It wasn't that busy. In any event, there I sat with my partner in crime (Kiki) ordering 30 barbecue wings, poppers, and two beef on wecks. Every time the roast beef slicer turned her back, we shoved more food into the boxes. Hilarious. Stop now and picture us and our very sneaky, very stealth operation. The only casualty was a handful of chips in my lap. Whew.

3. The Bills won last night. Whee! Need I say more?

4. My mother in law was knocking on my door at 6 o'clock in the morning and woke me up. It was not an emergency. Need I say more?

5. I re-ordered standard cable at our house as we usually drop down to basic for the summer. I have been watching Food Network non-stop ever since. Brian loves this. Seriously the only channel I really have memorized is 716. Because who wouldn't want to watch Food Network in high def?? Mind you I don't actually go shopping or replicate the recipes. Instead, I just watch other people make and eat the food. Somehow I really, really enjoy this. [Ahem-masochist.]

6. Cam's first football game is tomorrow morning. I'm super excited. I wish I had an adult sized East Aurora Blue Devil's Pierrot jersey to wear while I jump and down in the bleachers shouting his name. SO FUN.

7. It's been forever since I've written. This is in part due to the total lack of time and energy I have and in part due to my utter lack of creative abilities lately. Sometimes I think of really super fun awesome things to vent about. It's usually at a time when I'm driving or showering or just too sleepy to get up from where I am lying down and so even while I think to myself, "go write this down, you're going to forget it," I don't. Of course, then I forget it. I imagine that at least 3 bullet points fell victim to my failing memory this week. So to make up for that, right now, I'd like you to stop and think about something really funny, and then, because I am a team player, you can attribute it to me. :)

Sobriety is for the birds

I miss alcohol. I miss the warm, fuzzy feeling of being mildly intoxicated. I miss just how good that second glass of wine is. I miss that iced cold beer on a hot summer day and that dry peppery red with my medium-rare filet.

Because of this, I've taken to smelling my husband's alcoholic drinks. Not just a casual whiff, mind you. No. Instead, I've found myself gently, but deliberately grabbing the beer bottle, pressing my nose just ever so slightly against the mouth of the bottle and deeply inhaling. It is a glorious smell. At some point I reluctantly release my grip as he's prying it out of my hands set the beer bottle back down on the counter, sigh and walk away. I feel I've been a pretty good sport about this whole sobriety thing. God knows my pregnancy has not put a crimp in Brian's enjoyment of alcohol. Well, perhaps I have a put a crimp in his actual enjoyment of alcohol (as my big sad eyes bat at him begging the question "don't you feel mildly guilty drinking that in front of me?"), but his habits haven't changed in the slightest.

Because I'm a masochist and really enjoy torturing myself, I'm keeping a list of all of the upcoming events at which I cannot drink. They include: Various summer parties, cook-outs, fundraisers, and the ENTIRE upcoming football season. The several upcoming weddings we have been invited to. My birthday. Thanksgiving Eve and Thanksgiving Day. Christmas. New Year's. Did I mention the ENTIRE upcoming football season??? How will settling into the couch on a lazy Sunday afternoon, with the game on, while my husband complains that I'm wasting the afternoon on stupid football is off building something because he can't sit still for more than 20 minutes to save his life, ever be the same when I can't drink BEER? How will GOING to the game on a glorious fall afternoon be satisfying when I can't enjoy that $12 draft while simultaneously medicating myself so as to tolerate the other drunk fans and/or Bills' loss? Maybe I will have to buy one and just resort to smelling it for the duration of the game. Because that wouldn't be weird at all.

Baby Gaga

I have been obsessing about baby names. I'm not sure why since I have a million weeks to go in this pregnancy, but I spend the majority of my day scanning names through my mind. Think of a scrolling news feed on the bottom of CNN's television screen. Only this feed doesn't tell us anything useful or critical. Instead it reads, Naomi . . . Layla . . . Evelyn . . . Marilyn . . . and on and on and on.

I have to stop discussing baby names with my son. I suppose at the age of 6 he can't appreciate the concept of suggesting a name that is not already being used by one of his close friends. Or a Star Wars character. His top suggestions are Luke, Vader (because Darth is too obvious), Anakin, and "Pookan" - which, if he's staying true to the Star Wars theme, I am pretty sure is supposed to stand for Plo Koon.

My 14 year old daughter on the other hand has managed to suggest only a single boy name (Joel) and a handful of girl names, all of which had to be immediately rejected because each was an ex-girlfriend of my husband. [It's bad enough that he routinely called me and/or introduced me as those names during our first year or two of dating.]

My husband has suggested no names. This may be because he doesn't care. It also may be because any girl name he might suggest would inherently lead me to ask, "why THAT name? do you KNOW someone named that? where did you meet her? is she pretty? do you like THAT name better than MY name?" Poor Brian has 6 more months of this to go . . .

My mom hates all names that I seem to like. As we were giggling about names throughout dinner last week, all we had accomplished by the end of the meal was that Baby Gaga - a name that made us both laugh hysterically - was a clear front runner since we could agree on nothing else.

It was easy naming my daughter. I just knew she was a girl and I knew she was going to be Whitney. She's named after my grandfather, Lyle Whitney Cagwin, and his mother, Ethyl Grace Whitney. Even Cameron is named after family since his initials are C.J. and my grandfather's father and his father and his father were all C.J.s.

I am convinced I'm having another girl. Though I could be entirely wrong since my psychic abilities have proven on multiple occasions to be entirely NONEXISTENT. But assuming I am not wrong, with the exception of Grace, which is already in use as a middle name in one of Whitney's first cousins, there really are no other girl names that I can steal from my family tree. My grandmother's name, Ella, is already in use TWICE in the first cousins in our family. Her middle name, Maxine, was a candidate, but my mom has put the kibosh on that. My great-grandmother's name, Ruth, was considered until I realized she would be Baby Ruth. I can't do that, I mean c'mon it's not even a GOOD candy bar. Other options include Isabunda, Gertrude, or Ethyl. No lie. I feel like giving those names to an innocent little baby would be worthy of some level of legal reprimand or censure. Probably not unlike naming your child Baby Gaga . . .

We're hoping it's a pony

Oops we did it again. It is about that time, after all. That SEVEN YEAR stretch of time when divine intervention takes over and it is determined that once again I shall bear a CHILD. Yes, that's right. We're pregnant. [Using the word WE as opposed to I or ME seems to bring me some level of mild consolation that this is not just happening to me. Oh no. It is most definitely happening to my husband, too. I will be sure to keep him very apprised of that fact.] It's funny. When you google "every seven years," all sorts of things come up like "Your body and personality change every seven years," or "It is true that all cells in the human body are replaced over a period of roughly seven years," and on and on. Perhaps there really is something to having your children 7 years apart. And, while I wasn't quite 21 when I had Whitney, I was, in fact, 28 when I had Cameron. Seven years later, I will be 35 when I deliver Baby X. Definitely food for thought...

In any event, part of me is so relieved to know that my waistline was not just growing uncontrollably due to what was my insatiable craving for FOOD. Another part of me, however, is freaking out at the fact that I'M HAVING ANOTHER BABY. When I will be THIRTY-FIVE. And, when my already "babies" are going to soon be turning 7 and 15, respectively. Honestly, what have WE done?

I still have no foolproof evidence of how far along I am. I mean, I figured I would at least be 14 weeks at this point given when my OB refused to refill birth control script back in March all because I missed an appointment with him. [Really Mr. OB? I blame YOU completely for this situation, don't be surprised when I call and ask you to babysit.] However, the ultrasound that I had said that I was only 7 and 1/2 weeks then. Thus, I'm only 11 weeks now. My profile, however, says differently. I mean, at the rate I am showing, I'm convinced it's going to be a PONY. I've heard that women show more quickly with each pregnancy, but it's been SEVEN years since the last one for crying out loud. I should not look THIS pregnant when I'm barely out of my first trimester. At this rate, it scares me to imagine what I will look like at 9 months.

With the expanding waistline, I have also been having a horrible case of "baby brain". I'm doing things that make no sense whatsoever. For starters, I can't seem to spit words out of my mouth in a coherent fashion and I'm having extreme difficulty choosing and then committing to which word to say even once I start saying it. As a result, I've been blending words together and have been caught speaking this gibberish on numerous occasions in the process. For example, when responding to a salesperson's question I had wanted to say either "cool" or "perfect," but instead I exclaimed "pool!" I pretended it didn't happen. At lunch when the server asked me how everything was going, I couldn't decide between "well" or "good," so I blurted out "wood!" He pretended it didn't happen. And so on and so forth.

To add to that, I have been demonstrating a superior level of clumsiness. For instance, when driving, and on no less than three occasions thus far, I have mistaken the gas pedal for the brake pedal and when I had anticipated quickly stopping, I have instead punched the gas and revved my engine, lurching the car forward. I can't even tell you how awesome it is to do that. I have also been running into things. Knocking things over. Hitting myself with my own hands in the eye, face, chest, etc. And, for the first time in my seven years of employment with Chiacchia & Fleming, I LOST an expense check and had to ask for a replacement.

Last, but not least, I'm pretty sure that I've been mistakenly substituting hairspray as a facial astringent for the last two weeks. Which reminds me: Don't ever assume that you can transfer liquids into unmarked three ounce containers that comport with airline carry-on rules and then remember what those liquids are three months later. Chances are that you, too, would confuse hairspray for facial astringent, which you would then proceed to rub on your face with a cotton ball morning and night, neverminding the odd smell and strange burning sensation. Of course, my first thought upon realizing this was -- is it safe for a pregnant woman to rub hairspray all over her face twice a day?? Holy crap, there are just too many things to think about.

So, yes. We're having a baby. It's exciting and chaotic and INSANE all at the same time. And, we can't wait.

I had the occasion to explain the concept of divorce to my 6-year old son last night as I was dicing up zucchini, yellow pepper and mushrooms to add to my lasagna's super awesome ricotta cheese mixture. This conversation arose as I was explaining that I was making the lasagna and baking brownies for my father because his wife passed away. Cameron gasped, "Grandma Debby DIED?" I couldn't get the words out fast enough to explain that my mom was still alive and well, "No, no babe. My dad was married to a woman named Kathy. My parents got divorced when I was 17."

"Di. Vorced?" He enunciated skeptically, "what's that mean?" I responded, "It means that two people who were married, aren't married anymore." He wrinkled his nose and pressed, "Why wouldn't the two people want to be married anymore??" I blurted out something along the lines of: "Sometimes people don't love one another anymore. Sometimes they can't get along. I don't know Cam, there are a lot of reasons I suppose."

Then Cameron proceeded to say the most adult-like thing in the most adult-like voice that I think I've ever heard him speak: "When I get a girlfriend, I think I'm just going to just marry her. Because I don't wanna have to go through it all over again, ya know? Like your cousin Caitlin, she got a boyfriend and married her boyfriend and that's what I'm gonna do."

I'm not sure what he meant by "go through it all over again," especially since he's 6 and he is lacking a little bit in the life experience department. However, he said it with such an old soul and with such conviction that I couldn't help but want to be his biggest cheerleader in that regard -- even though the common sensical me wants to remind him to "shop around," travel, go to college first, etc., etc. I also can't help but love the fact that he wants to grow up and be married (yay! Brian and I despite our moderate level of dysfunction haven't ruined the idea of marriage for him. Whew!). And, not to mention that he wants to be married to just ONE girl FOREVER. How awesome is that? It's SO awesome.

Afterward, when Brian and I were chatting about this conversation, he told me that Cameron told him earlier that he had revealed his feelings to the little girl Ella at his school that he has a crush on. Apparently Cam walked up to her and said, "I have a crush on you." At which point he smiled and then she smiled. When Brian asked him what he did after that, Cameron responded, "Uh, I went and sat back down Dad." Like, DUH. What ELSE do you do after you tell someone you have a crush on them.

I'm in love with the way this kid thinks.

what was that?

Sometimes I mishear things. I think this is similar to my perpetual tendency to misread things. For instance, I have the horrible habit of reading something rather quickly and believing wholeheartedly that it says one thing when, in fact, it says something completely different. Sometimes this is problematic, but that's material for a completely separate blog entry. It makes sense that this would happen, given those theories that we really don't even need words to be spelled correctly or have letters in the proper placement in order to assign meaning to whatever it is we are reading. Our minds recognize patterns, fill in the blanks, etc. etc. I've taken those little "tests". I get it.

Sometimes it's really funny when you mishear things. Like recently when I was sure that my friend had said, "Who else wants to blame Ball if I have a tumor?" To which I raised my hand and said, "I'll blame Ball for your tumor, hahaha." [To be clear, my friend does not have a tumor AND she encouraged me to go ahead and publish this post, all political incorrectness aside . . .] Ball is a colleague. Sometimes I'm certain that he's a little too perfect. It's about time he was responsible for something horrible and awful and catastrophic. Like a tumor. My friend looked at me and burst out laughing, "not BLAME BALL, Christen, GO BALD." Ahhhh. Yes. I quickly informed her that I would not go bald because, let's face it, I'm much too vain to try to pull that look off successfully, but I would totally wear a pin that says, "I blame Ball." Which, for someone who doesn't wear pins EVER, is saying a lot. I kid, it is with the utmost affection that I would blame Ball. It is also with the utmost respect and envy that I joke at Ball's expense. He's a kind, considerate, hardworking attorney who has not yet lost his enthusiasm to change the world. God, I hate him. KIDDING.

Really, it just makes me bitter to think that I used to be like that. And, now, well . . . I'm not. I'm something completely different. Worn, tired, and altogether disenchanted. That's Ball's fault, too. I'm sure of it. In the interim, I console myself with the notion that Ball will get to this glorious stage of embitterment, too. Only time will tell. For now, I'll just blame Ball. For EVERYTHING. Works for me.