Pink Prickly Pear

Who's legs are those?

Having finally recently mastered the art of riding a bicycle, Mini-Pear discovered this pair of hand-me-down skates in the dwindling box of "clothes to be grown into".  It seems we've hit some point where we're not on anyone's radar anymore with regard to outgrown clothing.  Actually, I take that back.  We're not getting any clothing for Mini-Pear, but Mr. Pear's co-worker's wife is pregnant with her third child (first girl), so she sent Mr. Pear home with enough baby boy clothes for this baby* to wear a different outfit every single day for the first year of his life at least.  Very handy, since you all know how much I hate the shopping.

You know, it's not so much how I hate the shopping as how inept I am.  I wrote recently about a disappointing search for maternity clothes.  My mother, who needs no excuse to shop, immediately took this on as a project.  She arrived with a complete summer wardrobe for me.  Would you believe that everything fit, with the exception of one pair of shorts which felt just slightly too snug around the waist?  I mean, here I go into a shop, with the actual body in need of clothing, try a million and one things on and none of it fits, and all my mother seems to need to do is hold it up on the hanger and squint at it.  It's been years since clothing me was her responsibility and as I've waxed and waned considerably in this time, I find this no small feat.

But this is about Mini-Pear and skating, isn't it?  She started out awkwardly clomping around the back patio large before discovering that concrete paving stones separated by 2" wide avenues of pebbles are not the best surface for skating.  Now she awkwardly clomps along the sidewalk - decidedly less awkward when someone (in this case, it's her granddaddy) agrees to pull her along.  I made the mistake of telling her how fast one can go down a hill when all tucked up like a little egg.  She immediately crouched into the position and shot down the driveway towards the street.  I saved the day by shoving her into the flower bed.  She probably has a different opinion about that one...

* Oh hey, yeah, it's a boy!

Buckets of blood!

I was awakened this morning by a nosebleed.  Despite Mr. Pear's sleepy assurance that "everyone gets them," I don't think I actually have.  I seem to have some recollection of laying down on our old blue couch with one, but the more I delve back into my extremely fuzzy memory, I think it wasn't me, but Mini-Pear.

I was ever so slightly aware of some post-nasal drip situation which suddenly exploded into the cavity of my mouth.  I staggered to the bathroom to spit out this horrific chunk of blood.  It wasn't so much as a nosebleed, but a need to continually spit blood that was clearly generated from somewhere above as opposed to below my mouth.  So not tasty.  And so boring (and cold) standing over the bathroom sink waiting for it to all finish! 

Anyway, now I'm all alone at home (don't read anything pathetic into that statement - I just had the last truffle and am very much looking forward to my day devoid of a plan).  Mr. Pear has gone off to work, Mini-Pear and my mother have absconded to Disneyland.  They just called to say they've arrived and that the overcast weather apparently hasn't put a damper on everyone else's plans to visit the park.

Maybe I lost some sense along with all that blood this morning, for I am just now feeling slightly horrified that I wrote my mother's cell phone number on my child's arm with a sharpie marker just in case they get separated.  Surely I could have pinned a little note to the bottom of her shirt or something instead.  Apparently I am one of those wacky paranoid mothers. 

Despite my plans to do absolutely nothing today, I did take the dog for a walk to drop off some mail.  There is nowhere to leave it for the carrier at our house, as they shove all incoming mail through a slot in the garage door.  Occasionally, I'll leave an outgoing envelope or two affixed to the flap with a bulldog clip, but now that the ne'er-do-wells from across the road have started parking their car right in front of our house, I am loathe to leave the bright red Netflix envelopes hanging around waiting to be stolen.  I thought I'd listen to a podcast and do a longish loop.  Podcasts and walking are fine, but I really need to stop listening to This American Life.  Something is usually guaranteed to make me laugh and so I either end up chortling along to myself like some sort of easily amused buffoon, or I attempt to quell my laughter which usually results in my face contorting in such a manner that I've been stopped and asked if I'm okay. 

I never know how to answer that one.

I can do better than a post a week, can't I?

Mum and dad are visiting.  Sitting in the corner writing to an imaginary audience on the internet feels anti-social (maybe because it is).

We went to the desert.  I refused to relinquish control of the driver's seat.  Nobody liked that, but damn if I was going to sit in the back and breathe through the hairpin turns and whoops-you're-dead steep drops off the side of the two lane roads.  We stopped at the top of Mount Palomar so dad could drool at the bikes.  I think the bikers were drooling over my dusty old Saturn - that really makes the mountain roads a bucket of fun.

Yesterday I was down at the library looking for a book on the latest crackpot educational theory to capture my interest.  For the first time, I noticed that literature on incarceration/corporal punishment/prisons happen to be shelved right next to the books on educational theory.

Just something to consider...

When the mouse is away...

Mini-pear is off at the Magic Kingdom with her Aunt and Uncle, so mama gets the day off.  I would have slept in but, as usual, my stomach dictated what time I woke up.  Bah.

I did take advantage of my rapidly dwindling kid-free time to go shopping for some maternity clothes, having popped out very suddenly over the last week or so.  We're also experiencing a little heat wave so my droopy yoga pants were not going to cut it.  Not that I really found much of anything.  Old Navy's theme for spring appears to be sort of inspired by Mexico.  I don't mind blousy embroidered peasant tops, but given my shape (and the shape of most pregnant ladies) at the moment, it made me look as if I'd hastily stitched a mumu out of a vintage tablecloth.  Not a good look for anyone.  I bought 2 black t-shirts and a pair of black linen capris that may or may not last as long as I need them to. 

And now I'm experiencing buyer's remorse because what person in their right mind buys an entirely black wardrobe when they live somewhere as sunny as this?  It's going to get real sweaty around here.

My efforts at meeting Mr. Pear for lunch were thwarted by a very long business meeting.  I resisted the temptation to eat out on my own, opting to make a very large salad and a smoothie once I got back to the house. 

Now that the mail finally arrived, I'm patting myself on the back for having saved my lunch money, as it appears we have started receiving medical bills related to my being great with child and all.  Adding these bills onto those related to our family's love affair with the dentist was enough to make me wish I'd pulled all my teeth out long ago and taken a vow of chastity. 

I don't have anything exciting for you.  Not much happens when you make great efforts to slow everything down and maintain a low profile.  I could tell you about how much really bad television I'm streaming off the internets, but that would be divulging far too much.

In which she is too clever by far...

PPP:  Want to finish up that Pompeii book?

Mini-P mumbles something non-committal, possibly "Nah".

PPP:  I really want to find out what happens!

Mini-P [with dramatic eye roll and dead pan delivery]: The volcano explodes.  Everybody dies.

PPP:  I guess that's a no, huh?

Mini-P heads out of the kitchen shaking her head.

My balloon is bigger than your balloon

Despite how often they thwart our nudist tendencies by flying over the back garden at dinner time, we've never actually seen the hot air balloons take off.  The location varies, depending on wind conditions.  This weekend, coming home from our reconnaissance mission to the local BMX track (Mini-pear has her eye on another hobby, while Mr. Pear dreams of reliving his glory days), we happened upon a launch just down the road from us. 

After a wobbly start in which impossibly skinny little beach bum kids attempted to guide its progress without getting catapulted into the air by guide ropes themselves, the wicker baskets were eventually righted, their middle aged cargo given a hand in scrambling over the edge, and they were off - in completely different directions.

It's not her birthday yet!

In spite of this, my mama opened her birthday giftie! 

No more surprises, so I can post a pic;)  It's mini-pear modeling, so the actual shawl is not quite so big.  I think it would be nice if it was big, though.  I think this would be really snuggly knit on much bigger needles with fat slubby handspun, but I also like this smaller, delicate version.

I had some fun with this as, over the years, I've discovered I quite enjoy knitting lace, although I'm still not sure if I'd be so enamored with it as a garment if not for the technical and rhythmical process of knitting lace.  Maybe lace is just not quite my style...yet.  I think I'd wear this though - with a little t-shirt and jeans, or with a little elegant shoulder-less dress.  At any rate, what I am most proud of is that I made a few mistakes knitting this project, yet I did not have to rip it all out and start all over again.  In fact, I think one would be hard pressed to find the (now corrected) mistakes.  It was tricky and shoulder-clenchy and I made much use of my crochet needle in the correcting, but this project (and the corrections in particular) have left me feeling like I can knit anything.  Even if I have never made a hat, or the blanket I had in my head when I first approached little Australian Alice at the knitting shop in Chapel Hill and asked her if she  gave lessons.

Ahhh... Eh.

The other morning I called to Mr. Pear from the kitchen, "You can't stay in bed all morning!"

The fact that I was already up and in the kitchen before he got out of bed is noteworthy in and of itself.  Close readers know that this teenage mommy does not get out of bed until Mr. Pear brings her a hot cup of something.  However, I was feeling extraordinarily well rested and therefore, rose quite cheerily and made my own hot cup of tea and hot buttered crumpets (I brave the Trader Joes parking lot for these and these alone).

"Oi!  Pear!!!" I called a little louder.

"It's not going to give me bedsores!"

It's true.  We have a new bed and, among other things, the new bed is engineered not to give one bedsores.  We could lay in it all day long, every day, if we wanted to, to no ill effect.

It is not organic.  Nor is it a futon.  Nor is it king-sized, but it is some ultra-cushy Swedish memory foam that makes me conk out practically the minute my head hits the pillow (which is also new and made of that cushy Swedish memory foam).

However, I think it might be too comfortable.  I fall asleep immediately and don't move for hours.  This makes my muscles feel a bit funny when I do get up.  And usually, I get up because my bladder is bursting because I haven't tossed and turned and gotten up to empty it before the bursting point.  Then I have to hobble to the toilet and hobbling makes me feel old and decrepit.  The new bed is also, we have discovered, not very conducive to cuddling.  Our fancy Swedish memory foam pillows are quite heavy, so I can't tuck my arm under them when I am the cuddler.  I have to lay with my arm sort of mushed in between my burgeoning torso and Mr. Pear's back.  It is clearly to one's advantage to be the cuddlee in this situation.  I can't lay all the blame on the pillows (especially when they cradle my head so gently and require no nocturnal punching and rearranging).  When we had our other bed, we would take advantage of the inevitable tossing and turning and switching sides to cuddle back in.  There is no tossing and turning in this bed, so no opportunities to cuddle back in.  Therefore, I wake up feeling...well, feeling not very cuddled.

And, even worse than the cuddling (is it?  the lack of cuddling is pretty bad), I think it may be too soft.  A familiar backache has reintroduced itself.  It is the same backache I get after sleeping for more than a couple of nights on the expensive cushy mattress at my parent's house, and the expensive cushy mattress at my father in law's house, and yikes!  the expensive cushy mattress I slept on when I lived with The Fridge many, many years ago and basically all the beds I ever slept on until I met Mr. Pear and his very firm futon. 

Or it could be the unfamiliar backache of a lady with a big expanding belly falling asleep on her back and crushing everything in between.  Yeah, it could be that.  Or it could be something else...

Bad time to buy a bed, I think.  I mean, it's a good time, because I really needed it and could not sleep on the crappy futon anymore, but a bad time, because what if this ultra comfortable bed is the right bed for me, but I just don't know it because my body is in a transitional phase at the moment and therefore, unable to judge my new bed.  What if????

We have 120 days to change our minds.  There was a bed just like this one at the friendly Swedish bed shop, but a little less cushy.  I think that one might be the perfect bed.  Or maybe it would be for a pregnant lady, but not so for a no longer pregnant lady.

The anguish.

ETA:  Duh!  Swiss, not Swedish!

I know I didn't put Batman Begins on our Netflix queue.