Planning for the arrival of the baby has matched the planning patterns of my wedding. Chris and I went into a flurry of planning within 24 hours of what would be, coincidentally, a nine-month engagement, but experienced a burnout once we had most of the important details decided upon or even secured. With less than three months to go until my due date, I'm still in a planning lull and haven't felt the urgency to even make a list of "remaining things we should do before the baby is born," let alone tackle any more baby-related projects. However, because the hospital's Pre-Admission Registration form asks who will be the baby's doctor, and I'm supposed to turn in the form at my 30-week appointment next Friday, I found some motivation in my lack of urgency.
Picking a pediatrician was one of the few instances where I haven't picked a care provider out of the in-network list of my insurance provider - I luckily had a reference from a local friend who gave birth a few months ago. She raved about this woman, whose office is around the corner from our house. When I called to explain that we're looking for a pediatrician for a baby due in October and to confirm she's taking new patients, the nurse offered to schedule a "meet and greet" with the doctor. Although I later researched what you might want to ask a potential doctor (admittedly a half an hour before the appointment), Chris and I didn't have specific questions or even felt the need to interview her, per say - I really just want to be able to recognize my baby's doctor when she walks through the door of the maternity ward.
If all I was basing my assessment on was intuition, my short meeting with the doctor was enough to confirm that I would feel comfortable with her caring for my baby. Like my obstetrician, she's friendly and upbeat and seems passionate about her work. She explained that if there are no complications during delivery and the baby is healthy, she'll be at the hospital within 24 hours to do the first exam. (If there are problems, the pediatrician will be there for the birth and will work alongside the obstetrician.) I said I was sorry Chris wasn't able to make the meeting because of work, but joked that when she comes to the hospital, she should look for the dazed and tired-looking guy. She laughed, but reminded me that most dads, especially the first-timers, looked like what she described as "shell shocked."
The funniest part of our conversation, though, had nothing to do with my pregnancy. She was giddy about the recent arrival of a co-worker's "surprise" baby girl. Huh? Well, after the 20-week ultrasound, they were told they were having a boy. Oops.
Kiera, Matteo, Oliver and Soren
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
28-week appointment
I'm on the homestretch! At 28 weeks, I've officially started the third trimester.
My second semester finished on a positive note with an East Coast tour of Haddonfield, Washington D.C. and New York City. Since I was convinced at certain points that the bliss of the second trimester (supposedly not nauseous, full of energy and still nimble) was just a myth, I was surprised by how great I finally felt. There were times I actually felt like my pre-pregnancy self (with the exception of the growing stomach and being uncomfortably full after eating anything larger than a sandwich). Clocking 15,000+ steps a day taking my dad's black Labrador Retriever, Bess, for walks, I even wore the dog out! I'm sure the excitement of seeing old friends from college and Minneapolis kept my energy level artificially high, but I was able to keep up with everyone while traipsing around New York and D.C. But I've also learned to quit while I'm ahead. I arrived back in Minneapolis on the last day of my 27th week and satisfied with my last hurrah, told myself I'm okay with sticking close to home the next three months and trying to relax.
I was home in time for my 28-week appointment and a routine glucose screening (typically administered between 24 and 28 weeks). While I'm not a diabetic, gestational diabetes can occur during pregnancy and the condition rarely includes symptoms and can cause health problems for the baby. Like many conditions or symptoms that pop up during pregnancy, the main cure, funny enough, is giving birth. Imagine that.
I'd heard stories relating varying degrees of the unpleasantness of the glucose test and was lead to believe it should be something to be dreaded. But like everything else related to pregnancy, I decided it had been blown out of proportion. The unnatural orange color of the glucose mixture I was given was a bit off-putting, but it tasted, well, like sugar and just reminded me of drinking a melted orange-flavored ice pop. An hour later, a nurse drew my blood and the sugar level in my blood will be measured to determine how well my body processes sugar. However, since the test is only a screening, a positive result means I would have to undergo a glucose tolerance test where I drink 100 grams of glucose (double the amount the first time around) and then wait three hours.
During my hour wait, I met with my doctor, who was her usual chipper, positive and reassuring self. She measured my stomach (24 centimeters), listened to the baby's heart beat (145 beats a minute - well within the healthy range of 120-170) and then went over concerns or questions I had. Despite how nervous and paranoid I was at the beginning of my pregnancy, I've morphed into somewhat of a pregnancy Myth Buster (borrowing the term from a Discovery Channel TV show Chris loves). Chris and I are talking about doing away with the faux painting job in our dining room, hallway and guest bathroom, but I assumed painting would be off limits. Not so said the doctor. Pregnant or not, she advised only painting in a well-ventilated room (meaning windows open) and said I'd be fine. Although she joked that I didn't have to tell my husband that she'd given me the go-ahead to paint. ;)
My second semester finished on a positive note with an East Coast tour of Haddonfield, Washington D.C. and New York City. Since I was convinced at certain points that the bliss of the second trimester (supposedly not nauseous, full of energy and still nimble) was just a myth, I was surprised by how great I finally felt. There were times I actually felt like my pre-pregnancy self (with the exception of the growing stomach and being uncomfortably full after eating anything larger than a sandwich). Clocking 15,000+ steps a day taking my dad's black Labrador Retriever, Bess, for walks, I even wore the dog out! I'm sure the excitement of seeing old friends from college and Minneapolis kept my energy level artificially high, but I was able to keep up with everyone while traipsing around New York and D.C. But I've also learned to quit while I'm ahead. I arrived back in Minneapolis on the last day of my 27th week and satisfied with my last hurrah, told myself I'm okay with sticking close to home the next three months and trying to relax.
I was home in time for my 28-week appointment and a routine glucose screening (typically administered between 24 and 28 weeks). While I'm not a diabetic, gestational diabetes can occur during pregnancy and the condition rarely includes symptoms and can cause health problems for the baby. Like many conditions or symptoms that pop up during pregnancy, the main cure, funny enough, is giving birth. Imagine that.
I'd heard stories relating varying degrees of the unpleasantness of the glucose test and was lead to believe it should be something to be dreaded. But like everything else related to pregnancy, I decided it had been blown out of proportion. The unnatural orange color of the glucose mixture I was given was a bit off-putting, but it tasted, well, like sugar and just reminded me of drinking a melted orange-flavored ice pop. An hour later, a nurse drew my blood and the sugar level in my blood will be measured to determine how well my body processes sugar. However, since the test is only a screening, a positive result means I would have to undergo a glucose tolerance test where I drink 100 grams of glucose (double the amount the first time around) and then wait three hours.
During my hour wait, I met with my doctor, who was her usual chipper, positive and reassuring self. She measured my stomach (24 centimeters), listened to the baby's heart beat (145 beats a minute - well within the healthy range of 120-170) and then went over concerns or questions I had. Despite how nervous and paranoid I was at the beginning of my pregnancy, I've morphed into somewhat of a pregnancy Myth Buster (borrowing the term from a Discovery Channel TV show Chris loves). Chris and I are talking about doing away with the faux painting job in our dining room, hallway and guest bathroom, but I assumed painting would be off limits. Not so said the doctor. Pregnant or not, she advised only painting in a well-ventilated room (meaning windows open) and said I'd be fine. Although she joked that I didn't have to tell my husband that she'd given me the go-ahead to paint. ;)
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Beautiful as Always
Years ago in Berlin, I had a small group of friends who spent a considerable amount of time together. Berlin winters nights were long and dismal, where it rarely snowed, but "chilled to the bone" was still a reality, and the continually overcast skies made you understand that seasonal depression was more than just hype. Until the trees started budding in mid-May and outdoor cafes sprung to life amid 10 p.m. sunsets, we were drawn to the cozy confines of our small tenement house apartment kitchens for long candlelight dinners or to one of the many bars or pubs that dotted our neighborhood, which had become the desired neighborhood for young people of any nationality ever since the wall came down.
Conversations were always lively, highly intellectual (so we liked to think) and often political. My friend Mimi and I had landed in Germany eager for a year of teaching German school students English on September 11, 2001. We quickly realized that this where-were-you-when-Kennedy-was-shot-like day in history would define our entire time in a country whose citizens are politically astute and have the typical love-hate relationship with Americans - love the people, hate the politics.
Of course I don't remember all that we talked about during those long nights, but a few things stand out in my memory. Mimi and I passionately talked with our hands and this became somewhat dangerous with wine glasses in hand. And defying logic, the wine only seemed to increase Mimi's appetite for an intellectual conversation. Any time my brother or I told a story about our mother, we always imitated the dialogue with one voice - a squawk - because that's how her voice (or yelling at us for misbehaving in one way or another) sounded in our heads, even if we would admit that's not what she actually sounded like. Everyone thought this was hilarious, until Peter pointed out that Barbara also had a one-size-fits all voice for characters in her stories - a deep, kind of dumb-sounding voice she used to imitate any male she was talking about, whether it was her dad or "some dumb jock." A triple major in college and a PhD candidate, Peter pleaded with her not to inadvertently cast men all in the same light with her "accent."
The conversations could go on for hours, and many were, probably, alcohol infused. So I have funny and warm memories of how we talked, but really only one conversation of any memorable content actually stands out.
I don't remember what precipitated the wisest piece of advice I've ever heard a man give about women, (and most of the advice I've heard over the years has been misinformed, inaccurate or just plain absurd) but late one night in an Irish pub, Peter turned to my brother, Scott, the only other male in our group, and told a story about one of his sisters.
Both were quite a few years old than he, and one of them, a high schooler at the time, was getting ready for a date, while Peter, only a middle schooler who still didn't understand yet what the big deal was about dating, was thrust into the role of wardrobe critiquer. The sister would reappear from her room in a series of dresses and Peter did as he was instructed and told her what he thought. As I remember, he thought she looked fine in everything she tried on, but tried to offer some constructive criticism (mind you, constructive, most likely, in the mind of a middle-schooler) and in her nervousness over her date and frustration in not finding an appropriately flattering outfit, tears ensued.
Peter finished his story with one line of advice, "Scott, I learned, the answer is ALWAYS 'Beautiful as always.'"
The line was the most neutral catch-all ever and after years of use, had yet to land him in trouble. He evolved from bratty little brother to being adored by his sisters, and in later years found that the line worked equally well with female friends, as well as love interests. He could be a charmer without being slimy, or a flirt without being a flirt. He knew the difference between "honesty is the best policy" and when someone really isn't looking for your honest opinion. Meanwhile, the line dodges any landmine questions guys hate being asked and still delivers an acceptable response. It can even be a filler during awkward greetings when most men end up putting their feet in their mouths for lack of anything else to say.
What do you think of me in this outfit? Beautiful as always!
Did you notice my new haircut? Beautiful as always!
If you haven't seen someone in awhile and you think that she looks different, but you can't guess what it is, or aren't even sure how you feel about the new look, don't offer a guess or even a lukewarm opinion. Keep it simple. If you think, "Hi, how are you? You look great!" is overused, then "Beautiful as always" should be the only other line out of your mouth. If you're lucky, she may even provide the answer for you. "Thank you. Finally someone noticed that I lost a few pounds! All that time at the gym has paid off."
A fine line exists between patronization and flattery, but when delivered with a tone of sincerity, you can't go wrong.
Back when I knew Peter, pregnancy was far from my mind and I hadn't considered how well the line also works with pregnant women. In a friendly, non-sexualized way, it acknowledges the physical beauty of a person who, oddly enough, has become de-sexualized.
I'm convinced even the most self-confident of women become self-conscious about their bodies during pregnancy. The first few months are especially difficult because you're gaining weight and don't look pregnant, and early on, you probably haven't even announced your pregnancy yet, so you may be more paranoid that friends or co-workers think you're "letting yourself go." Even when you start to show, which becomes a blessing, you're still gaining weight elsewhere, and if you're particularly unlucky, your face, hands and feet start to swell. Maintaining a healthy physique, growing belly aside, is an uphill battle against hormones that wreak havoc on your appetite and zap you of any remaining will power to exercise.
Even at 27 weeks and supposedly past the phase nausea, few foods are actually satisfying and what I do eat ends up making me feel uncomfortably full, and that fullness just makes me feel heavy and fat. Sure, great clothes can make you feel better about yourself. Thus, one friend's only piece of advice upon learning I'm pregnant was to tell me to buy one pair of really awesome jeans. Peter's sister's date could have been a disaster, but if she had found a dress she thought she looked awesome in, her attitude would probably have been, "His loss," and not "Why does no guy like me?" Even I, who is admittedly not fashion savvy and dislikes shopping, believes that clothes can be comforting. I take consolation in the fact that I've found some maternity clothes that are comfortable and more or less fit, (if just there'd be a larger line of petite size maternity clothes) but nothing I own makes me feel awesome or even sexy. I did find a pair of ultra hip jeans at a Grand Avenue boutique called Hot Mama, but at $218, I wasn't going to pay that much for awesome.
I'm aching to hear beautiful as always.
With my self esteem only being buoyed by an incredibly supportive husband and an eager anticipation of becoming a mother no matter what the sacrifices, imagine how you would react to being greeted with "Hello, fat girl," or an order to "Move over chubby" when you're pregnant. The well-meaning jokster thinks, hee hee, how funny, she's not chubby, she's hardly showing. Meanwhile, even though I know it's a joke and the person doesn't really think I look fat - just pregnant - my heart still sinks because I really am feeling chubby and if I'm feeling chubby at 18 weeks, how do you think I'm going to feel at 39 weeks? Behind the exuberant pregnancy facade there's my husband who knows how nerve-wracking being weighted at the doctor's office is, because I'm concerned I've gained too much weight, or the friend who stood patiently outside the changing room at the Gap while I tried on multiple pairs of pants (two sizes larger than my normal size) and nearly cried because I couldn't find anything flattering and I was bitter for having to spend the time and money on bigger clothes.
Ask me all you want about pregnancy and I'll happily talk your ear off for hours. But keep the unflattering commentary on my body to yourself. I know it's just a line, but "beautiful as always" will flatter me every time.
Conversations were always lively, highly intellectual (so we liked to think) and often political. My friend Mimi and I had landed in Germany eager for a year of teaching German school students English on September 11, 2001. We quickly realized that this where-were-you-when-Kennedy-was-shot-like day in history would define our entire time in a country whose citizens are politically astute and have the typical love-hate relationship with Americans - love the people, hate the politics.
Of course I don't remember all that we talked about during those long nights, but a few things stand out in my memory. Mimi and I passionately talked with our hands and this became somewhat dangerous with wine glasses in hand. And defying logic, the wine only seemed to increase Mimi's appetite for an intellectual conversation. Any time my brother or I told a story about our mother, we always imitated the dialogue with one voice - a squawk - because that's how her voice (or yelling at us for misbehaving in one way or another) sounded in our heads, even if we would admit that's not what she actually sounded like. Everyone thought this was hilarious, until Peter pointed out that Barbara also had a one-size-fits all voice for characters in her stories - a deep, kind of dumb-sounding voice she used to imitate any male she was talking about, whether it was her dad or "some dumb jock." A triple major in college and a PhD candidate, Peter pleaded with her not to inadvertently cast men all in the same light with her "accent."
The conversations could go on for hours, and many were, probably, alcohol infused. So I have funny and warm memories of how we talked, but really only one conversation of any memorable content actually stands out.
I don't remember what precipitated the wisest piece of advice I've ever heard a man give about women, (and most of the advice I've heard over the years has been misinformed, inaccurate or just plain absurd) but late one night in an Irish pub, Peter turned to my brother, Scott, the only other male in our group, and told a story about one of his sisters.
Both were quite a few years old than he, and one of them, a high schooler at the time, was getting ready for a date, while Peter, only a middle schooler who still didn't understand yet what the big deal was about dating, was thrust into the role of wardrobe critiquer. The sister would reappear from her room in a series of dresses and Peter did as he was instructed and told her what he thought. As I remember, he thought she looked fine in everything she tried on, but tried to offer some constructive criticism (mind you, constructive, most likely, in the mind of a middle-schooler) and in her nervousness over her date and frustration in not finding an appropriately flattering outfit, tears ensued.
Peter finished his story with one line of advice, "Scott, I learned, the answer is ALWAYS 'Beautiful as always.'"
The line was the most neutral catch-all ever and after years of use, had yet to land him in trouble. He evolved from bratty little brother to being adored by his sisters, and in later years found that the line worked equally well with female friends, as well as love interests. He could be a charmer without being slimy, or a flirt without being a flirt. He knew the difference between "honesty is the best policy" and when someone really isn't looking for your honest opinion. Meanwhile, the line dodges any landmine questions guys hate being asked and still delivers an acceptable response. It can even be a filler during awkward greetings when most men end up putting their feet in their mouths for lack of anything else to say.
What do you think of me in this outfit? Beautiful as always!
Did you notice my new haircut? Beautiful as always!
If you haven't seen someone in awhile and you think that she looks different, but you can't guess what it is, or aren't even sure how you feel about the new look, don't offer a guess or even a lukewarm opinion. Keep it simple. If you think, "Hi, how are you? You look great!" is overused, then "Beautiful as always" should be the only other line out of your mouth. If you're lucky, she may even provide the answer for you. "Thank you. Finally someone noticed that I lost a few pounds! All that time at the gym has paid off."
A fine line exists between patronization and flattery, but when delivered with a tone of sincerity, you can't go wrong.
Back when I knew Peter, pregnancy was far from my mind and I hadn't considered how well the line also works with pregnant women. In a friendly, non-sexualized way, it acknowledges the physical beauty of a person who, oddly enough, has become de-sexualized.
I'm convinced even the most self-confident of women become self-conscious about their bodies during pregnancy. The first few months are especially difficult because you're gaining weight and don't look pregnant, and early on, you probably haven't even announced your pregnancy yet, so you may be more paranoid that friends or co-workers think you're "letting yourself go." Even when you start to show, which becomes a blessing, you're still gaining weight elsewhere, and if you're particularly unlucky, your face, hands and feet start to swell. Maintaining a healthy physique, growing belly aside, is an uphill battle against hormones that wreak havoc on your appetite and zap you of any remaining will power to exercise.
Even at 27 weeks and supposedly past the phase nausea, few foods are actually satisfying and what I do eat ends up making me feel uncomfortably full, and that fullness just makes me feel heavy and fat. Sure, great clothes can make you feel better about yourself. Thus, one friend's only piece of advice upon learning I'm pregnant was to tell me to buy one pair of really awesome jeans. Peter's sister's date could have been a disaster, but if she had found a dress she thought she looked awesome in, her attitude would probably have been, "His loss," and not "Why does no guy like me?" Even I, who is admittedly not fashion savvy and dislikes shopping, believes that clothes can be comforting. I take consolation in the fact that I've found some maternity clothes that are comfortable and more or less fit, (if just there'd be a larger line of petite size maternity clothes) but nothing I own makes me feel awesome or even sexy. I did find a pair of ultra hip jeans at a Grand Avenue boutique called Hot Mama, but at $218, I wasn't going to pay that much for awesome.
I'm aching to hear beautiful as always.
With my self esteem only being buoyed by an incredibly supportive husband and an eager anticipation of becoming a mother no matter what the sacrifices, imagine how you would react to being greeted with "Hello, fat girl," or an order to "Move over chubby" when you're pregnant. The well-meaning jokster thinks, hee hee, how funny, she's not chubby, she's hardly showing. Meanwhile, even though I know it's a joke and the person doesn't really think I look fat - just pregnant - my heart still sinks because I really am feeling chubby and if I'm feeling chubby at 18 weeks, how do you think I'm going to feel at 39 weeks? Behind the exuberant pregnancy facade there's my husband who knows how nerve-wracking being weighted at the doctor's office is, because I'm concerned I've gained too much weight, or the friend who stood patiently outside the changing room at the Gap while I tried on multiple pairs of pants (two sizes larger than my normal size) and nearly cried because I couldn't find anything flattering and I was bitter for having to spend the time and money on bigger clothes.
Ask me all you want about pregnancy and I'll happily talk your ear off for hours. But keep the unflattering commentary on my body to yourself. I know it's just a line, but "beautiful as always" will flatter me every time.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Tokens from 30 years ago
As I prepare for the arrival of my first child, I've stumbled upon mementos from my own birth over 30 years ago. First there was the light blue newborn shirt emblazoned with "Life Begins at Lower Bucks Hospital" I found in a box of my Grandma Harbach's things.
When I was born, she lived in a four-bedroom house, but later moved to a two-bedroom unit in a retirement community and finally to a room at the Nursing and Rehab Center. I had the task of coaxing her into significantly paring down her possessions and trying to help her prioritize what she really needed, which was quite difficult for someone who had dementia and a lot of stuff. With only a few days to help her make the move into the nursing home, it was easy to get distracted among the other pressing tasks, such as weeding through drawers full of documents for not just important things like retirement and bank accounts, but also for utility bills for a house she didn't own any more and vaccination records for a dog decades long dead. While simultaneously shredding papers, I convinced her to part with her cookbooks and piles of recipes clipped from magazines and newspapers (while wondering whether or not this would be me in 60 years) since she wouldn't be doing any cooking for herself anymore, but not with the fur coat with a rip in the side. I made sure she had clothing for a variety of seasons and managed to give the rest away. Some framed photographs and albums came with her, while the rest went into storage. I had boxed everything up for her and put tags on the few pieces of furniture that were to be moved to her new room and I thought I had laid eyes on every item that she was keeping, down to her socks and underwear.
But this past May, my brother and I went over after the funeral to the storage bay of the maintenance garage where the retirement home staff had stored her things they had so thoughtfully boxed up for us, and there was the tiny blue shirt "Life Begins at Lower Bucks Hospital." Scott and I laughed in disbelief. Why she had kept something like that all those years? And how did this one item make it through all the moves to a room in a nursing home?
Now I'm helping my dad downsize the contents of my childhood home and the trip down memory lane is interrupted by the need to let go for the sake of saving our own sanity and our dad's at whatever point he decides to move. In the bottom drawer of a dresser my brother and I are going to sell on Craig's List, we found a copy of an article that appeared in the newspaper my mom wrote for at the time of my birth:
An Editorial Opinion:
Welcome Kirsten!
Upon reading the first line, I decided that, sadly, not much as changed in the world the past three decades. But I am heartened by the idea that despite the turmoil in the world, the arrival of a new baby is positive news and something which we can celebrate. I won't have a column of space in the editorial section of the local paper to craft some witty announcement of Baby P.C.'s arrival, but perhaps with this blog I'm following in the writer footsteps of my parents - 21st century style.
When I was born, she lived in a four-bedroom house, but later moved to a two-bedroom unit in a retirement community and finally to a room at the Nursing and Rehab Center. I had the task of coaxing her into significantly paring down her possessions and trying to help her prioritize what she really needed, which was quite difficult for someone who had dementia and a lot of stuff. With only a few days to help her make the move into the nursing home, it was easy to get distracted among the other pressing tasks, such as weeding through drawers full of documents for not just important things like retirement and bank accounts, but also for utility bills for a house she didn't own any more and vaccination records for a dog decades long dead. While simultaneously shredding papers, I convinced her to part with her cookbooks and piles of recipes clipped from magazines and newspapers (while wondering whether or not this would be me in 60 years) since she wouldn't be doing any cooking for herself anymore, but not with the fur coat with a rip in the side. I made sure she had clothing for a variety of seasons and managed to give the rest away. Some framed photographs and albums came with her, while the rest went into storage. I had boxed everything up for her and put tags on the few pieces of furniture that were to be moved to her new room and I thought I had laid eyes on every item that she was keeping, down to her socks and underwear.
But this past May, my brother and I went over after the funeral to the storage bay of the maintenance garage where the retirement home staff had stored her things they had so thoughtfully boxed up for us, and there was the tiny blue shirt "Life Begins at Lower Bucks Hospital." Scott and I laughed in disbelief. Why she had kept something like that all those years? And how did this one item make it through all the moves to a room in a nursing home?
Now I'm helping my dad downsize the contents of my childhood home and the trip down memory lane is interrupted by the need to let go for the sake of saving our own sanity and our dad's at whatever point he decides to move. In the bottom drawer of a dresser my brother and I are going to sell on Craig's List, we found a copy of an article that appeared in the newspaper my mom wrote for at the time of my birth:
An Editorial Opinion:
Welcome Kirsten!
In this age when we're plagued with problems in Iran, turmoil over China and rising inflation, it is a pleasure to announce the arrival of someone we think who may well be able to meet these challenges in the future.
She's Kirsten Susannah Harbach Partenheimer.
It's a very big name for such a little person, but her parents, Louise Harbach, editorial writer, traveler and murder mystery connoisseur, and Wayne Partenheimer, prosecutor and former journalist, feel she will grow into it.
Kirsten arrived on January 6 at 8:38 a.m., which, to her mother's delight, was before deadline, and just like her mother and father, she had some immediate comments about the state of affairs in this world.
Kirsten had not yet made her career choice know, but her parents feel she may well follow in their footsteps. The family Labrador Retriever, Comfort, hopes Kirsten will follow in his footsteps -- all four of them.
Even if she doesn't select a career in journalism or the legal profession, as proud parents we feel she'll select a worthwhile endeavor that will not only enrich her life but make things a bit nicer for all of us.
Upon reading the first line, I decided that, sadly, not much as changed in the world the past three decades. But I am heartened by the idea that despite the turmoil in the world, the arrival of a new baby is positive news and something which we can celebrate. I won't have a column of space in the editorial section of the local paper to craft some witty announcement of Baby P.C.'s arrival, but perhaps with this blog I'm following in the writer footsteps of my parents - 21st century style.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
