"Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth."

I was seven years old sitting on my father's lap holding a map that he'd drawn on a napkin. He'd laid out the site of one of the concentration camps that he'd spent much of his childhood in, because he was trying to tell me a funny story about sneaking past the Japanese guards with my Uncle Paul so that they could steal a bottle of soy sauce. Because soy sauce tasted better than rocks, he explained. And rocks tasted better than dirt. Unless it's one of those days when you've barely been allowed to eat anything all week, and then they pretty much all tasted the same. Especially when they had to be divided between eight younger brothers and sisters.

Oh, and also. Your pregnant mother.

He widened his eyes as he mentioned that last part, and I remember thinking that I might, for the first time, actually witness my father cry. (As it turned out, his body wasn't physically capable of dancing with that corner of his heart.)

Did his mother find out that they'd stolen the sauce, was the only question that my seven year old brain could come up with.

"She'd died just before that," he said. "Trying to give birth in the camp."
____________________

I'm having an especially hard time this week.

Sea Monkey is no longer playing passive aggressive, and has moved on to openly kicking the shiz out of me twenty four seven.

I feel perpetually sick.

Stuffy.

Nervous.

Nauseous.

Emotional.

Exhausted.

Pukeriffic.

It's not helping that suddenly everyone who ever shared with me their forty thousand six hundred and seventy two pregnancy horror stories now claim that their nine months were the easiest trimesters in the whole wide world world and also they only gained ten pounds and delivered in, oh, about thirty six seconds, probably because they took three birth classes and had sixteen doulas and four birth plans that involved swimming pools and chants and standing on all fours while whistling She'll Be Comin' Round The Mountain When She Comes.

Yeehaw.

You see, if I just did this or read that book I'd be much better. Which they know, because they're mothers, like, five times over, and it's no. big. thang. Really, it's pretty easy. Or, it should be easy. Wait, you're not having an easy time? DID YOU TRY THE WHISTLING?

So. This should be easier. I know this should be easier. I'm educated. Well established. In shape. I have every amenity and advantage at my fingertips. I have no right to feel overwhelmed. That's just being ungrateful. This is a tremendous gift. The only thing truly important is the baby's health. I have no place complaining or being scared. I realize that compared to women around the world, hell, women on the other side of town, that this, really, this should be a mother effing cakewalk.

Also, you're not supposed to curse in front of a fetus, they say.

Not even effing.

Rhododendron Chandelier

I haven't started planning the nursery (since we haven't figured out if we're coming or going), though I can't seem to shake this piece from my brain. I particularly like the scale (it's humungo), and I'm kind of thinking of a space stripped down and airy, along these lines (minus those superfluous frames) with a wham bam shizam light fixure. Or mobile. Or sculpture.



Something with interesting texture.

Also, we're starting to think about names. We're pretty much set on Aston if it's a boy, which according to Andrew it's going to be or he's buying a shotgun and a chastity belt and enrolling her in Jiu Jitsu. I don't have any gender preference at this point, probably because I'm too nauseous to focus on anything outside of vomit prevention which I'm hoping and praying will subside someday soon? Like before the kid goes to kindergarten?

Hoping.

If it is a girl Andrew likes Elliot (we'd call her El), Evyn (we'd call her Ev), Charley Ashlyn, Alex, and Harlan.

I'm leaning toward Sea Monkey myself.



p.s. Can you recommend me a good running stroller (preferably one that fits from birth through toddlerhood)?
p.p.s. Are blackout curtains really essential?

Before + Progress: The Historic House By The Water: Garage, Part 2

It was this.



Then this.



Now this.



Let's see that again.





And once more.





Yes, cleaner and more functional fo sho, and no longer harboring a one legged squirrel.

Life changing it's not.

I've been a little preoccupied with building that sea monkey and all, which apparently requires a lot of vomiting. And using the bathroom sixteen times a night. And falling dead asleep fifteen minutes after I wake up in the morning.

It's much more time consuming than you'd think.

The Trust Fund Question Again

Guess what?

My real estate ventures were not purchased with a trust fund. They were not funded by a cocaine empire. I didn't win the lottery.

I get asked this question in some form or another at least once every few weeks, and this will be the last (and only) time that I answer it.

There is no secret.

I worked an insane amount and invested at a young age.

I slept on the floor many nights. I didn't know what television was. I drove a Hyundai. I ate Early Bird dinners and clipped coupons. I skipped trips to the dentist. I stayed up all night writing business plans and designing and renovating places. I listened to anything that anyone tried to teach me about business, and then I purged seventy five percent of it. I paid close attention to the people around me who failed. For years I did nothing but work. And invest. And then I worked some more.

Then I reinvested.

And I was very lucky.

Then I reinvested that.

And I was lucky some more.

The end.

They Can Only Do Harm

First Beat

We saw the heartbeat the other day. It was insane. It looked like the world's tiniest lima bean strobe light.

Which gave me an idea.




Just a little Eazy E and Barbra Streisand.

No. Not really.

More like a heavy dose of Bach with a little inappropriate eighties punk when Andrew isn't paying attention.

Before + Progress: The Historic House By The Water: Garage, Part 1

When we moved into this house The Garage became our Bermuda Triangle slash Black Hole slash Island Of Misfit Toys.

Andrew and I finally cleaned it out last weekend.




The previous owners thought that nailing sticks against the walls was the same thing as installing shelving, and so when we shoveled the place out and ripped half of it down, we were surprised to discover that OHMYGOSH there was a window! and a floor! and a small squirrel with a broken leg!

Who was quite nimble, managing to escape not only a Bermuda Triangle rescue attempt but the four dogs in our backyard who thought that he resembled a cheese stick.




This weekend Andrew whitewashed everything except the brick and we bought half a dozen humungous gray storage bins that are are so huge they're large enough to fit a body.

Or two bodies, if you're not pregnant and your stomach is not the size of North America.




We'd originally planned on making this space into my studio, but since we are gearing up to move soon the updates don't make any sense. But we should be finished with our clean up and painting over the next few days, which should make the space more usable for our renters.

And hopefully give me less embarrassing pictures to post.

Must Be The Prenatal Vitamins

How did my hair get this long?!

I'm extremely happy to report that I have an Aveda appointment tomorrow, which is my first since May.

I'm kind of considering chopping the locks.



As I was taking these pictures, I realized what a number the sun did to my color this summer. It's naturally a chestnut brown, a cross between my father's charcoal Chinese Indonesian shade and my mother's golden white English blonde. So it should be no surprise that my hair is easily confused.

I'd like to straighten the situation out, but the baby books all say different things about highlights from they're absolutely okeedokee to your fetus won't score over a 1200 on it's SAT if you step within two blocks of a salon.

Then again they also say that food cravings are all in your head.

Tell that to the carrots and egg rolls and diet root beer floats. THAT I'VE BEEN EATING TOGETHER.



p.s. Is anyone else's Blogger main page all Willy Wonky? It seems to correct itself when you click through the site, but for seemingly no reason my main page's right column has moved itself to the bottom. If anyone knows how to fix this, please let me know!

Could Have Been Worse

Andrew and I are kicking our house hunting into high gear for obvious reasons, one being that his grandmother and my mother were

both.

born.

twins.

There's no indication that I'm carrying twins, just to be clear, but then there's no indication of much at this point, except that I'm now an entire cup size larger. And I'm not supposed to go extreme water rafting.

Don't ask how I found that out.

Anyway, since there is little in the way of new real estate inventory, we've been driving around stalking For Sale By Owners, and have even taken to pulling the car alongside perfectly unsuspecting strangers and asking if they'd be interested in selling their homes. Or if their neighbors are interested in selling their homes. Or if their neighbors' neighbors are interested in selling their homes. Or maybe we can just pitch a tent on their porch and claim homestead?

I am with child and all.

Last weekend we were doing our usual For Sale By Owner circuit and I noticed a house that's been sitting on the market since before we moved to the area, almost two years ago. It had steadily dropped it's price around $150,000 during that time, but it recently dropped it another $50,000 more. I still wasn't sure if the numbers would work, but I thought we should go take a look at it anyway. Just to see.

We set up a showing, and from the moment we stepped inside we were in love. It was nothing like what we'd expected. The entire back of the house was glass that opened up to a lake. Six bedrooms. The most amazing studio. Beautiful materials and incredible views. Three year old roof. Private beach access. It was unbelievable, really. We were blown away.

And the owners. They were sooo nice. They were sooo nice. Like, the kind of people you want to invite to dinner and have cigars with nice.

Right then I was almost sorry we'd seen it, because, you know, it cost a bazillion gazillion dollars, and we're like a trillion gazillion short. But that's when they said, "Oh, and by the way, we just dropped the price another $100,000." And we were like, yeah, we saw you had another big price drop, and they were all, "No, ANOTHER, $100,000." Shut up.

A couple of hours later we wrote up an As Is offer.



It was still $60,000-ish off of their asking price, so when they called us the next evening to let us know they were accepting it without even countering we were stunned. And ecstatic. We were having the week of our lives! We hit the ground running, and by the morning I had inspections lined up, contractor meetings planned, insurance quotes on their way, and all of our paperwork ready for our lender.

I love where we live now, but I couldn't wait to move.

And then.

The inspections came back.

That roof? The one that was three years old? Was actually six years old and leaking. EVERYWHERE. So badly that it had begun rotting away the sheathing. There was staining all over the place, with the worst parts being around the chimney, the last place I'd ever want to battle with a leaky roof. It was apparent that at least one person was aware of the situation, because someone had tried to cover the ceiling stains with white spray paint. Which isn't very nice.

But that wasn't all.

The house failed the Wood Destroying Organism report. Not just failed it, but failed it miserably. As in, the entire bottom four feet of the exterior would need to be removed and entirely replaced. That's a motherload of wood rot for a house that was built in the eighties.

The thing is, alone these repairs only add up to around $15,000. Not enough money or work to scare me away, and the seller even offered to take care of it or credit us. The problem for me is that these are major red flags for a relatively young home. And there is a better than not chance that we'd end up rebuilding the entire structure. Or finding black mold lining the walls. Or be replacing a $50,000 six year old roof.

In the end, we walked. Actually, we ran.

It stinks, but it's better than the alternative. So, it's back to the drawing board.

In other news, I made the painful decision to man up and take photos of the growing tadpole. These are three and six weeks of progress, which is mostly bloat. Allison, who asked for them, squealed for five minutes straight after I told her the pregnancy news, finishing with, "You're going to get so fat, and it's going to be AWESOME."



I love best friends.

Anyway, here's a shot for those of you who prefer, you know, clothes.



That's it for now. Let me know if you have a beach house you want to sell for ten bucks.

Two Become Three

I'm pregnant.

No one is more stunned or elated by this turn of events than I am.



Andrew and I conceived about thirty seconds after I tossed my pill pack.

My doctor had warned that when we were ready to try getting pregnant I would need to take my body temperature and figure out my ovulation and track my hormonal levels and have sex standing on my head while watching three R-rated films simultaneously, and then, maybe, possibly, if we were really good people in our former lives, we'd have a four and a half percent chance of reproducing, and that was assuming we did a rain dance for the fertility gods within fifteen minutes of doing the deed.

So I still have no idea how babies are actually made.

We weren't doing any of that, and believed our single encounter was purely practice sport so, in true form, I was walking around drinking Hummer size lattes, without a prenatal vitamin in sight, completely oblivious to my new status as incubator extraordinaire. I also ate soft cheese, undercooked meat, and all kinds of fish high in mercury. I should have just hit the blow or swallowed a tobacco farm while I was at it.

Anyway.

It wasn't until we were out shopping one afternoon that I noticed something different.

"I'm bloated," I told Andrew. "I can't even see my abs."

The next day we were getting ready to go out to dinner and I looked at myself in the mirror.

"I'm really bloated," I told Andrew. "I'm going to take a pregnancy test."

He rolled his eyes and I laughed. But. You never know.

I went in the other room. Did my business on the stick. Before I could read the directions, there it was.

PREGNANT.

I gasped.

PREGNANT.

Did I do it wrong?

PREGNANT.

Maybe coffee affects these things.

PREGNANT.

"Ohmygod," I whispered.

"Ohmygod... Ohmygod... OHMYGOD... OHMYGOD... OHMYGOD... OHMYGOD... OHMYGOD... OHMYGOD..."

I was yelling now.

Andrew was in the other room putting his pants on. He hollered, "You're such a horrible liar." And then, "Where should we go for dinner?"

I was about to change his entire life.

I came out of the bathroom, one hand over my mouth, one holding up the pregnancy test.

He looked.

He squinted.

He glanced at me.

He looked again.

For a second I thought he might ask me my name or if it was the year 1942. He seemed completely confused.

PREGNANT.

Then, he half grinned and said quietly, "You're pregnant." As if he was informing me of this status, and not the other way around.

I nodded. "I'm taking another test."



Two boxes later, we decided that it was true.

Probably.

We are absolutely over the moon. And out of our minds.