carl in casimirland.

Boy, those remaining weeks of pregnancy can make you a little irritable, all right.
I'm supposed to be relaxed and maternal and glowing, but I've been a little irksome, on and off. And having to buy a new dress for a wedding because all those adorable maternity summer dresses I've been lent/given DON'T FIT MY STOMACH, (who are they making these for?) is irritating. Wearing the same Old Navy tanks over and over because NOTHING ELSE FITS is getting boring. And I think this (evil, mother-hating) women in Target snortled at me because my stomach was (barely) sticking out of a tank top and preggers yoga pants. (Hello? It wasn't a half-shirt. I'm ripe with child. What was her excuse for looking so dorky?) Thankfully tomorrow is dipping below 3000 degrees Fahrenheit, so we are going to the zoo. We haven't been to many fun places besides the pool and the sprinkler, and I'm actually feeling pretty good again these last couple of days, and more energetic and excited. So that's good. But I do wish certain people would stop feeling my big stomach, even though I can't really yell at them. It would be mean to yell at little four year-old girls at the park, I think. I could probably tell my mom to stop it, though.

I called our window company two days ago to see about a repair under the warranty, and was told that I'd have to talk to Roman. I like to take my signs where I can get 'em. I think I need more though, to change my mind. I was telling Paul about that, and Casimir apparently was listening (isn't he always) because he spent the next hour pretending to call Roman on the phone. When I ask him though, which name we should choose, he waffles between Carl and Roman. Two year-olds are so like that. And sometimes he still thinks it's Caillou, which isn't half bad if you ask me, but maybe we've watched too much PBS. Paul has sarcastically recommended Clement so many times that it's actually starting to sound normal and almost kind of cute, so my name judgment is probably a little off these days.

This Carl/Roman/Henry/Clement/Caillou character is (I think) doing flips and jumping up and down on my cervix like it's a trampoline. He can't really turn around any more I don't think, because I'm eating so many popsicles and he's padding up, but that's what I feel like. I'm totally ready and still carrying on in an anal retentive nesting manner (sanding the butcher block and weed wacking are really necessary before the birth, because we will be so busy afterward, no?), so the baby coming (that makes it sound like he's flying in at the airport) soon would be good. On the other hand, I feel quite entitled to my remaining days, to sleep through the night and get through season two of my PBS Mysetery Inspector Lynley series. I don't think I'll feel really mentally ready until the actual due date, at which time I will ease right into the most effortless labor there ever was had. (affirmations are good.)


And I thought it was just cuss words we had to watch out for. It's funny how all the sarcasm and context in the phrase "Money is our god" gets lost when a toddler picks it up and repeats it at the top of his lungs with his hands in the air. Whoopsie!

A while back Paul was reading that caterpillar book to Casimir- you know the one where the caterpillar eats through apples and oranges and plums and salami until he's not a little caterpillar anymore, but a big, fat caterpillar who builds a cacoon and becomes a butterfly. I guess if you don't have a kid you probably don't read it before bed, but otherwise, you probably know it. I thought it was sort of neat the way Paul switched the caterpillar pronoun from a "he" to a "she," seeing how most of the general characters in kids' books are, shockingly enough, nearly always a he. It was so terribly progressive of him. Until he switched from talking about a caterpillar to narrating about a Mommy. And then he proceeded to tell the story about how, after all that eating, she wasn't a little Mommy anymore. She was a big-bellied Mommy, and went into the hospital and didn't turn into a butterfly, but had a baby.
At least he had the brains not to call me a big, fat mommy in his improvisation. It's not like I eat through that much stuff.

And I'm still slightly freaking out that I'm pregnant and that this results, like shortly, in another child. And I'm having trouble bending over or walking without complaining, so I'm not really sure I know how to talk in any interesting manner about all the stuff that's going on in my brain or about what's going on in the womb and about what's soon to be going on in my birth canal area. I will say I'm totally grateful that I had the forethought to get accidentally pregnant at the perfect time so that the baby is coming when Paul is off for the summer. I can barely wipe myself, but I have help with everything else and get lots of rest. I don't think I could have gotten through that last bout of my intestinal/viral illness issues with this gigantic baby in me and a toddler kicking on the floor without him here. Nor do I think I could get through the first month or so with a new baby and toddler kicking on the floor without him. How people do it without a partner or help or when their partner gets NO PATERNITY LEAVE, LIKE NEARLY ALWAYS AT MOST JOBS IN THIS COUNTRY, I don't know. That's the good thing about getting knocked up by a teacher-- they get their summers off. When you're really pregnant, it does make up for the complete lack of respect they get from society at large and total crap administrators, students, and parents heap on them. At least from my perspective.

Revisiting the fascinating, self-absorbed topic of naming.
I started having doubts about the name we've chosen, seeing that I've had some sort of mental favorite-name list going since about fifth grade, and wasn't sure if "Carl" was quite up to clinching first after all those years of naming anticipation. When I'm sitting in the hospital with the birth certificate application form and the pen, delirious with naming power and fearful of its permanency, will I write "Carl" down? Or will I just make something else up spontaneously in a postpartum haze? What if I forget and use my favorite name from seventh grade and he goes down on the records as Remington, after Remington Steele? After all, Carl was kind of a name we just finally agreed upon; it seemed sort of novel to me since I had only recently decided to like it, and I figured we were set. But then I was worried I didn't like it enough, or wasn't getting attached to it. I think I had the same doubts with Casimir, even though we picked that out like 6 years ago.

And then everyone starts asking what you're going to call it, and I don't know why they bother because they rarely say they like it, and I don't care if they do, but am annoyed by the silence anyway after they inquired about it. Do they think of Karl Rove? or Carl Sandburg? I don't like most names other people choose but I come up with something pleasant to say about them besides silence. Then while driving yesterday, I found myself staring at this license plate with the name Roman on it, and suddenly had an epiphany that I really liked that name. Even though I didn't before. Even though it was the name of a dorky character on Days of Our Lives. Even though the only other Roman I can think of is child rapist Roman Polanski who can't even reenter the United States. And Paul likes it and claims he suggested it before, back when I didn't like it. So suddenly I was all excited about this sudden naming development and my change of heart that was so clearly, so obviously inspired by fate and revealed to me through a buick's license plate. Until I realize that I must have become attached to our original name choice after all, because I now can't bear to give that up. I wish this were the hardest part about having a baby.

Scary developments, hopefully not a portent of things to come.
It was only a matter of time before Casimir discovered the scariest thing in childhood: clowns. We had to put our friendly-faced, music-making clown away, because Casimir had an encounter with one from the Dark Side. He totally loved this little clown whose feet you full down to play a really pretty song. I found the musical clown a little creepy, solely due to being a clown, but it wasn't really scary looking, and the lullaby was so nice.
But then there was the afternoon at Yia Yia's.

Casimir was happily humming, looking through a big bag of old stuffed animals. My mom saves all the ancient stuffed pandas and penguins and bears that belonged to us, my dad, and probably my great-grandparents, complete with half-off, chokable button eyes and probably decades of dust. She loves to tell Casimir who each one belonged to. Although she claims she has no idea where this particular wooden clown came from. That's because it's from Hell, I told her.
Suddenly the humming stopped, Casimir screamed in terror, dropped the bag, jumped up and ran to his Yia Yia hollering a bellow of someone who has looked at evil, hiding his face in her lap and crying. My mom whispered this all to me when I came in later, and told me to check out the trash can to see what scared him. I walked over, peered in, lifted up the back of a little wooden-headed clown and turned him over. Needless to say I dropped that wicked thing instantly and made sure my mom took him out to the trash outside before we left. I was afraid otherwise that something would happen to them after we left.

And then there was the scary haircut. Casimir got his first haircut that was outside of my control. His uncle Bernie freaks out about the opportunity to cut hair as much as I do, and he and Paul really tried to sell the idea of giving Casimir a buzz cut until I gave in. I would let Casimir's hair grow long, but the problem is that it sticks up a lot still, so he would end up looking like that guy in a Flock of Seagulls. So I keep it moderately short with my blunt-edged, schnippy brand school scissors. But I don't do buzz cuts. They remind me of a) joining the army b) recovery c) the early 60s or d) Timothy McVeigh. I'm really not a fan. I gave in because technically, I'm not his agent or stylist and don't own him, Paul wanted to do it too, and Casimir was getting into the idea. I think the idea was that Casimir was going to be just like Paul and his six brothers who had buzz cuts every summer growing up. Bernie showed up with his new razor kit and told me not to be put off by the picture of the dog and horse on the box.
"It's for humans, too," he said.

Uh. For some reason I relented. But as cute as Casimir is, and as trivial as a haircut is, I have to say I just don't like it. I feel like I'm looking at another little kid sometimes. One time-warped from 1965 or '70 . Do kids still get buzz cuts? I haven't noticed. The only good thing is that a) it will grow back b) he seemed to like it c) yeah yeah, it's easy in the summer, and d) their plan totally backfired. He doesn't look like his daddy or paternal uncles in miniature, running around on the South Side in 1975. He looks like he leapt right out of the early 1970s picture of my buzz-cut brother that still hangs in my parents bedroom. And at least he doesn't look like that horse or dog on the razor's box.

Casimir is really into repeating anything we say, and it's interesting to hear yourself parroted right back. For instance, I had no idea I said "cute" so often, but apparently I do, because he loves to point to characters in books, play-doh creations, or dresses in the store and say, "cute!" It's very cute, as you might suspect I'd say. And other times, his jumping up and down, chanting, "Fukit! Fukit!" serves as a little reprimand to mommy to watch what the hell she is saying around the child.

It could be worse. It could be a Disney obsession.
Well the Wiggles are coming to town. Carl/Henry should be here by then, so we enlisted a sitter and I am willing to risk my boobs exploding with milk to attend with Paul and Casimir, because hello? I am not missing that. I could take him with in the sling if he is game, but I might forget he's there while enjoying the numbers and drop him or something. We shelled out a wad of cash to get the good seats, Paul (without any prodding, I might add) was on the evil ticketmaster website the minute the tickets went on sale, and we still are up and far away in the Allstate Arena. Four shows in two days, and you'd think we could get some better seats for $30 each. It's not U2 for god's sake. I was quietly lamenting the fact that I won't be close enough for Greg to sweat on me, but I think Paul was more upset than me. Turns out his brother casually mentioned later something about having the password from someone to buy tickets early, for the special fanclub folk or something. His brother was like, "Oh, I didn't think you'd go. I should have told you."
Didn't think we'd go??
We're only like, the biggest dorks about it, ever. We're not terribly musical. In fact I have zero musical talent whatsoever, but we do really enjoy singing and dancing with Casimir, with the curtains closed. And it's often to Yummy Yummy or Dance Party. And Paul talks about the Wiggles all the time with his brother, since they both have kids. So yeah, what the hell. It reminds of of the time in college when my friend and I were going to see Sting while in Germany. His German roommate Detlev offered to pick up the tickets for us if we gave him the cash, since he had a car. He returned with two balcony seats, because that's what's better, no? "Main floor vas same price. But it vas General Admission for the floor," he explained. "That no good. Too crowded." So we enjoyed Sting from way up in the balcony, watching the Germans with the same $20 tickets gingerly mill around a few meters in front of the stage, afraid to get too close to Sting, apparently. Yeah, worse things have happened. But I don't always have my prioritites straight.

This pregnancy nesting thing is totally taking over again, giving me the urge to purge, organize, clean, and otherwise act out in anal retentive housekeeping ways. I understand the basic, primal need to tidy up, stock the fridge, and have all the baby gear ready and darling onesies washed in the gentlest of detergents. I don't really get why I'm doing things like organizing the desk drawers, or why it's strangely rejuvenating. But I asked Casimir if, as a newborn, he appreciated the super organized closets, sparkling floors, and tidy cupboards when he first came home with us. He replied that, Yes, indeed he did, as I'm sure all infants appreciate their carefully coordinated nurseries.
So I'm continuing on.
Among other things, Casimir's impending birth two years ago got me to finally, like 3 years later, put our wedding photos in an album. Carl/Henry's impending arrival is making me organize Casimir's photo albums, which are already pretty organized. Not that I'm really all that organized at the moment, or occupying any kind of Martha Stewart universe. But I sure am working on the closets, household organization, spring cleaning, and other trivial matters. I only hope I'll have time to wash the curtains. Or maybe it's better if I run out of time there.

I even started checking out the Consumer Product Safety Commission for recalls on any products, before we restrap in our two-year-old carseat and drag up bouncy seats and swings from the basement. But I totally forgot that basically everything gets recalled at some point or another, in some model or form. My god, was that list overwhelming. Shit! Recall the Old Navy overalls, the buttons might fall off if gnawed on by a dog and pose a choking hazard! Several different items in our house alone showed up on a recall list, though they either applied to a different model or earlier make. Screws could come loose on the barn, baby bjorn buckles could fly off, or the plush toy could come alive in the night and begin to eat your child. I would now actually recommend not worrying about recall lists, beyond the carseat. Jeez.

We need to up and move Casimir to France or Spain, or wherever it is that they (supposedly) linger over lunch for like 3 hours. Because I swear to god sometimes he doesn't.stop.eating. I think he's done after a lull and some food playing, but no, he wants more and eats and eats and eats, and an hour later I can't tell if he's stalling his nap or really does want a third tofu dog or another pound of plain yogurt. Sometimes I finally just end the thing after he's consumed more than me, but he'll shout "Eat! More Eat!" like I'm starving him. He knows just where to hit me. I think he just likes to lounge with a good glass of milk over a long meal.

Although, he's doing things like calling his water "beer" to be like daddy, and asking to go to Home Depot, his new favorite store. So maybe he's right here at home, in the Midwest.