Recent Projects, Part 1: Charging Station

Perhaps there's some truth to the so-called "nesting instinct" in the final stages of pregnancy, because I've been very uncharacteristically motivated to organize, de-clutter, decorate, and craft in anticipation of the baby's arrival. Since Christmas, every weekend has been taken up with such activities.

Christian has been enthusiastic about helping me in these endeavors, which is a notable occurence in itself. For those who know him well, his enthusiasm usually doesn't extend beyond the couch or the computer.

The first crafty project I feel proud to share is the charging station we made. Over Christmas, I looked for one in stores but found them to be too large, too tacky-looking, too small, or sold-out. That's when I decided to make one myself, because my agitation at seeing masses of unkempt power cord on the counter would not abate.

I found a decorative photo box on clearance at Target (sort of like this one, but brown). It consisted of a slot for a photo album, which I removed, and a lidded compartment on top. We coiled our cell phone power cords and connected them to a small brown extension cord we happened to have lying around. All of this was placed in the lower slot of the photo box. In the lidded compartment, Christian cut two small holes to thread the cell phone plugs through, and attached two decorative scrapbooking "bookplates" to the holes to give it a finished look. I placed some decorative paper in the photo cutout on the top of the box. Presto! An attractive charging station that's just the right size for about $10.

If you can't find a photo box like this one, you could use any fairly deep, decorative box with a lid. Just cut a platform to fit the box out of sturdy cardboard or wood. Use spray adhesive to cover the platform with decorative scrapbooking paper or fabric. Glue pieces of a dowel (which you can pick up at Wal-mart for less than a dollar) in the corners of the box and put the platform on top. Cut holes in the platform for gadget plugs, and a hole in the bottom half of the box for the extension cord.

The Great Name Debate

The name of our son, whose arrival is imminent, has been decided: Esp*n Joshua Buhl.The only problem is that one small detail that we cannot agree on: the last vowel in his first name. I'm pushing for Espen, but Christian is adamant about Espyn.

I first encountered the name Espen in graduate school. A fellow classmate, married to a Norwegian, named her son this. The name struck me, and I've liked it ever since. I like how it's unusual, but not totally unheard of (at least, not unheard of in Scandinavian countries). For me, it evokes the trendiness of names like Ethan and Aiden while maintaining originality.

It also brings to mind the word aspen, a tree (and a city) found in the western United States, which will always carry special significance for me since I spent the first several years of my marriage beyond the continental divide. The meaning, "bear of God," seems pretty cool, too. I didn't think much about the similarity to the sports network ESPN until Christian told me that's what all his coworkers mentioned when they heard it. Granted, Christian works on a college football video game, so a sports link is unavoidable.

My reasons for wanting to keep the original spelling, Espen:

1. Names with alternate spellings have always bothered me.
2. The name Espen is already fairly unusual. Why make it more so by changing the spelling?
3. The "-yn" ending is often found on feminine names.
4. Googling espen yields actual men with this name. Googling espyn yields girl's myspace pages and the like.

Christian's reasons, as far as I can discern, for wanting to use the alternate spelling, Espyn:

1. For Christian, the more unusual and unique, the better (hence the name of our daughter, Eowyn).
2. Using "-yn" links it to Eowyn's name, which Christian thinks would be cool.

When I was shopping for wooden letters to paint and hang in Esp*n's room, Wal-mart had only one "E" available. They've been sold out ever since (that was a month and a half ago). Christian takes this as a sign of fate. As for me, I don't want to name our son based on Wal-mart's inventory, or because we're too lazy to buy another "E" and paint it.

We're both standing our ground on this. But the moment is fast approaching when we must finally decide.

Post-Christmas, Post-Cheer

Having listened to many, many holiday carols this past Christmas season, I can tell you my all-time least favorite song: "The Christmas Shoes" by Newsong.

Picture this: a group of down-on-their luck holiday carol writers, giddy from an excess of spiked egg nog, lament their lack of a holiday hit. "We've lost too much market share to songs with actual meaning!" says one. "How about this idea?" offers another. "Let's create a song that pulls together every sentimental cliche we can think of. It will be so emotionally manipulative, it's sure to reel 'em in!" And lo, "The Christmas Shoes" was born.

This song features a young, penniless, soon-to-be orphaned boy trying to buy a Christmas gift for his mother, who lies on her deathbed and is sure to "meet Jesus tonight." And what does the boy want to buy for his mother, you ask? Why, a pair of shoes, of course! Having pretty shoes is important to Jesus, apparently. Naturally, the singer offers to pay for the boy's purchase, teaching us all an important lesson about the true meaning of Christmas...which is what, exactly? I certainly hope it's not "leave your dying mother alone so you can beg others to buy stuff she doesn't need."

In case your heartstrings are not sufficiently tugged by the song, be sure to check out the novelization and the made-for-TV movie.

You may ask, what is my favorite Christmas song? Well, near the top of the list is "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch."

Hypnobirthing (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb)

All glory to the hypnotoad

Lesson learned: don't knock that hippie stuff 'till you've tried it! Actually, go ahead and knock much of it. But this new-age sounding 'birthing' technique (which eschews negative terms such as 'labor', by the way) has already helped me, and I've not even had any contractions yet--erm, I mean uterine surges.

Yes, I'm already a believer. Even Christian, and that's saying a lot! We've both had occasion to use the self-hypnosis techniques when we've suffered from sinus pain and congestion that refused to yield to any amount of drugs, nose-blowing, or flushing with saline spray gadgetry. At his wit's end late one night, Christian resigned himself to sitting up in the living room until utter exhaustion took him. "Wait!" I said. "Let me try that light-touch massage we just learned about in class tonight!" I wasn't expecting much, but it worked. Christian was amazed that the sensation of the massage overwhelmed his pain and he was able to fall asleep.

A few hours after midnight last night, I laid awake in misery. The Sudafed that I risked Espen's well-being to take before bed had done nothing. Neither had Tylenol or saline. Rising to go to the couch and wallow in self-pity, a thought occurred to me--what if I try that relaxation CD from the Hypnobirthing class, the one I've been putting off listening to? Again, not expecting much, I turned it on. And to my surprise, I soon found that listening, deep breathing and relaxing had supplanted my pain, and I could even breathe through my nose again.

I've been asked many times: what is Hypnobirthing? Am I going to cluck like a chicken during labor? Will I be unconscious or in some weird trance? No--the bulk of what I've learned boils down to deep relaxation techniques. You learn methods of self-relaxation, mainly slow breathing and visualization, that allow you to birth with more control and more comfort. You are always aware of your surroundings. Supposedly, self-hypnosis is similar to the sort of focus one slips into while engrossed in a book, watching a movie, or driving a familiar route.

One of the first benefits I gleaned from the course is that I no longer look forward to Espen's birth with fear and anxiety. With Eowyn, that was a big issue for me. The closer I got to the due date, the more I anticipated with dread that she needed to emerge from my body somehow, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. Now, I'm actually anticipating Espen's birth with excitement. The absence of drugs makes me happy.

According to Hypnobirthers, our pain during labor is the product of cultural misinformation and fear, developed over centuries of Western society's mistreatment of childbirth. They point to women in non-Western cultures who labor without fear or agonizing pain. Not that labor isn't intense and hard work, but it doesn't necessitate anesthesia or terror. This whole spiel had me skeptical. So, the main thing causing pain in labor is a cycle of fear, tension, and pain? Yeah, right.

To quote Yente: "Of course right!" (Check back in a month or so and we'll see if all this confidence in hypnobirthing has truly paid off).

Death by Chocolate

In the last week I've consumed more sweets than in the past several months combined. I have attended two separate Thanksgiving dinners, one UCF football game, one birthday/anniversary party, one baptism brunch and one book club meeting, where I've eaten pumpkin pie, pecan pie, trifle, pumpkin cake, red velvet cake, vanilla cupcakes, cinnamon rolls, egg nog ice cream, a vanilla ice cream bar, berry tart, chocolate drop cookies and shortbread. Usually I've taken much more than a moderate serving, and had leftovers on other days besides.

I expected that the holidays would introduce more than the usual calories and sugar to my diet; what I didn't anticipate was just how many desserts would be available, and how low my threshold of self-control would be. Being pregnant, I'm hungry constantly, and dessert beckons at every turn. My pregnancy weight gain so far has been on a healthy track, but the week-long binge does not bode well for my next appointment on Monday. I'm not particularly looking forward to stepping on the scale.

Last night I laid awake, guilt-ridden and vowing to throw out the remaining ice cream, pie and cookies and replace them with fresh fruit and vegetables. During this time of year, and with the abundance we have at our disposal, it seems there's always a reason to celebrate something with a sugary confection. Most of the year, I don't allow myself to purchase ice cream or cookies, and I rarely bake desserts. It should be clear why these measures are necessary for me, given this past week's track record.

No, I haven't yet thrown out the remaining desserts in the house.

More volatile than the stock market

There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.
--Longfellow

The range of Eowyn's mood swings has been taking its toll on me. It's been difficult to keep perspective on it. On days when she wakes up from her nap cheerful and easygoing, all is right with the world and I feel blissfully happy to be a mother. We laugh and sing while we pretend with her baby dolls, read books, and play on the swings. I cook dinner without incident while she pretends to cook, too.

But--it feels more often than not--other days she wakes up in a delicate temper. Tickling might make her scowl, or she'll throw her books in frustration. She cries to be in her swing, then cries to be out. She clings, screaming, to my leg as I attempt to provide our dinner. She clamors to be held, then protests to be put down again. Those days, I count the minutes until her bedtime, when I can have respite from the emotional energy it takes to handle her.

After she's in bed (and often through the long afternoon) the self-doubt and finger-pointing begin. What am I doing wrong as a mother, that she is like this? Why can't Christian be home before 8:00 to help me? Is it because he just doesn't care enough about us? The evening often plays out with fits of crying and venting of anger and frustration on an unsuspecting husband.

At this moment, I can see clearly the ridiculousness of the situation. Eowyn is like a prairie field, covered in bright sunlight one minute, the next minute tossed by a tempest which leaves as quickly as it came. But when I'm in the middle of the storm, it is just so difficult for me to remember that there is ever a beginning or an end to it.

I'm praying for perspective and grace.

One of the reasons I'm looking forward to Christmas

In these pictures, Eowyn is playing at the stove, complete with oven mitt. She has become very intent on pretend play, and can occupy herself with such play for long stretches of time. This is quite remarkable, from my perspective as a mom who had taken her daughter for a mini-shadow. I'm excited for Christmas, as I'm hoping to give her a play kitchen and perhaps a little grocery cart she can push (you may notice in the background a laundry basket--it has various objects inside--because she loves to push her toys around the house).

In the bottom picture you may also notice that Eowyn's face is in less than pristine condition. Over the course of a week, she fell into the corner of the coffee table, tripped and splat on the sidewalk twice, and antagonized Rizzo into snapping at her cheek. Her face is now the worse for wear.