Things are looking a little bit better in the pissed-off pregnant woman department. Feeling a wee bit healthier at the moment (fingers firmly crossed) and so I decided to make attempt #2 on the Orangine Jelly project. Official result of attempt #2: failure. I think I may have failed to distribute either the pectin or the added citrus juice properly or something. There are clumps of jelly-like material floating throughout - kind of like those warm springs on the Jersey Shore when that plankten-gel stuff floats about in the water. Gross. Bad to swim in, worse to eat.

Attempt #3 will likely happen this weekend. I'm not sure how I'm going to approach the problem, but my mom is here for the week so I'll run it by her. I'm starting to wonder if the carbonation is somehow interfering. I'm going to look up more of those beer jelly recipes I saw and see if inspiration doesn't strike. Several years ago (like, ten) my mom was canning peaches and had leftover peach flavored syrup that was pretty thin. We got an idea to cook it down to thicken it and then can the result so we could have nice peach syrup for pancakes and cakes and whatever. Didn't work. The syrup never cooked down and certainly never got thicker. We figured it was the MSG-type stuff she used to preserve the color of the peaches that were the original source of the syrup in the first place. It was disappointing to be sure, but we both felt like we had discovered something important - even if to this day we can't really articulate what it was: "Remember that peach syrup."

"Yeah. Weird that it didn't thicken."

"Sure was. Must have been the fruit fresh, don't you think."

"That's the only thing I can think of."

"Weird."

We have this conversation, seriously, like twice a year. We'll never tire of that story - this is the stuff of which memories are made and familial bonds are tied.

Mom is here this week to do the "$500 Decorating Challenge." I was bitching and moaning about how much I hate our new house and she said she'd come "do it up" for us. We set a budget of $500 for which she said she could do the living room and dining room. Not buy new furniture, mind you, but do that Use What You Have magic and then buy some key accessories that would make our hellish, nature-assaualted house a home. Last night she tried to sell me on velvet chair covers. As a woman with a toddler and a baby on the way, I did not have to think hard to see that this was a bad idea.

Mom's been an empty-nester for a while now and she's struggling with her cream carpets and taupe furniture and the onslaught on grandchildren. Maybe a week with my darling, but messy, boy will help reorient the project. The boy brought me worms as a present on Sunday ("Mommy, I picked flowers and worms for you!") so velvet anything is out of the question.

A lot of my identity is wrapped up in being capable. Whatever needs to be done, I can handle it. I can lift it, carry it, drive it, feed it, pay for it, process it, write it, cook it, clean it, remove it, hide it, reserve it, finish it, present it, wrap it, talk about it, put it away, whatever. Except for lately, that is. Lately I feel...fragile. Breakable. Frail. Delicate. And I don't like it one bit.


I think I've pretty well established here that I'm not one of those women who finds pregnancy to be a charming state. I don't glow. I don't feel beautiful or strong or at one with nature. I feel shitty. And I feel less than capable. How can it be that the one thing that I can do that's the most womanly makes me feel less than who I am?


When I was pregnant with my son a woman I worked with tried valiantly to convince me to start a pregnancy journal so that I would always remember how I felt during "this special time." I responded that my first act of maternal love would be to forget how I felt so that I could get over any lingering resentment I felt toward a child whose very creation rendered me so utterly ill, so incapable in so many ways. Saying those words I felt certain would doom me to any number of calamities. This is what befalls a woman who bemoans her pregnancy the universe would say, but I couldn't help myself. The gift of a healthy child cost me a lot and I was angry.


This time around things are a bit different, if only because I now understand that it is possible to love a child whose existance began with such despair. It's possible to love that child madly and I have no doubts about my ability to mother well this babe growing inside of me. Still, I haven't "announced" really, despite my rapidly growing belly. I don't want to hear the congratulations, with the expectations that I'll smile beatifically in return. I don't want to talk about nursery plans or names or the terrible state of maternity fashion. I want to not feel cheated - of a Hallmark gestation, of a "Baby Story" narrative of fun and happiness and discovery, of a Toni Braxton-esque stretch-mark- and vomit-free pregnancy suitable for documentation in the mainstream popular press. When my husband rests his hand low on my stomach waiting for those first kicks and swirls I want to want him there. Most of all, I just want to be me again. Me, strong and capable, with a husband and a toddler and, yes, a baby.

We had a wonderful time on South Carolina's Harbor Island. My boy loved the beach, which surprised me because neither of his parents are huge ocean-lovers. He called the water "the big pool" and wanted to play amongst the waves every day. For my part, I confronted phobias #2 through #856 by walking well into the water to board our friends' boat and, a couple days later, try out another friend's jetski. I have always been deeply suspicious of the ocean (the movie "Jaws" came out when I was at a really impressionable age) and I really felt proud of myself by taking part in the festivities as much as I did. It helps that there is a huge difference between high and low tide in that part of the world and one could walk hundreds of yards into the water without getting in much deeper the waist. For variety, the island also boasts a lovely community pool with a gorgeous playground and sand volleyball court. We went on midnight "turtle hunts" - not really hunts, of course, but searches to find loggerhead turtle hatchlings, of which I spotted a couple. Tiny, adorable little things they are. It pains me to think that only, say, one out of every hundred will live out the week. We also played with dolphins who came to scope us out, saw 'gators, accidentally uncovered a colony of sand dollars and went shrimping and crabbing (less productive than fun - one shrimp and one crab do not dinner for 20 people make). Our friend Kenny went fishing in the surf and caught a baby blacktip shark, which I found less than charming - my philosophy is that where there are babies, there are mamas. As we were preparing to leave the house we saw a five or six foot black tip swimming about three feet off the water line in just the area where we played every day. A perfect day for vacation to end. My only real regret is that I wasn't feeling up to visiting any of the many lowcountry and Gullah restaurants in the area. Maybe next time (an excellent reason to return).


I feel I owe an apology to all of the fine people who were caught up in the black out last week (including my parents and both of my sisters). We've covered here my history of vacation-related disasters (illness and other bodily harm, automotive problems, terrorism, etc.) and, although I'm pleased that nothing happened to me on this trip - a rarity in the annals of my leisure time - I regret that my vacation clearly caused a calamity to be suffered by so many others.


Finally, in canning news, I think I may have had a brainstorm on the Orangina jelly issue. I think I need more acid. I'm going to use the same recipe as last time but squeeze in the juice of a couple of oranges and maybe a tangerine. That ought to help put things together. Regretably, I'm going to have to throw away the syrup from last time - I just can't think of a use and I want to re-use the jars. We'll just chalk it up to experience and the pursuit of knowledge. I'm still feeling pretty nauseated just about every day so I'm not sure when the next trial will happen but it shouldn't be too long.

Well, Round 1 of Project Orangina Jelly didn't quite work out as planned. I can't think of a single reason why, in theory, it shouldn't work so I'm laying the blame on the recipe and will have to tweak it. Maybe mess around with the ratio of sugar to pectin. That is usually the culprit with these kinds of problems. So now I jave lots of super-sweet Orangina syrup for which I cannot think of a single purpose. I don't want to waste it, though, so I'll hang on to it for a few weeks and give it some thought. Unlike, say, failed raspberry jam - which can always be used as a sauce - this doesn't seem to automatically suggest an alternate use. (Regretfully, it rather reminds me of the sickly sweet beverage one must drink in the glucose tolerance test for gestational diabetes - further reducing it's charm, in my book). Any thoughts? Round 2 will commence in about two weeks.


Also, I have been informed that my son wishes to have an "airplane" birthday this year. I'm a little stumped as to how he knew 1) that his birthday was approaching, 2) that I have been giving thought as to the nature of the celebration and 3) that party "themes" are fairly typical. I can only recall one birthday party that he's ever attended - to which I did not accompany him and at which all the other participants spoke primarily Portuguese. I was assured that he had a lovely time, but apparently it made more of an impression than I thought, what with it's "Hot Wheels" goody bag and all. So airplanes it is. I can see it now...flight plan invitations, jet shaped cake, pin the propeller on the biplane and so much more aviation fun.

I had a moment of clarity today, and not in the good way.


My son has not yet figured out that he can climb out of bed in the morning and wander at will, so he still calls for either his father or me upon waking. "Mommy? Is it wake-up time? Can I get up now?" Most often we'll respond telling him to come join us in bed for a cuddle. This morning, though, I went into his room instead seeking my good morning kisses.


"Don't want kiss today," he said. "Silly baby! Of course you want kisses. Smoochsmoochsmooch." "Noooooooooo!" "Yessssssssss! Smooch!" Until he ran off screaming in search of his father.


So I'm left sitting on his bed when it hits me like a ton of bricks. Does not "no mean no?" Every Girl Scout leader, guidance counselor, softball coach, health teacher, feminist professor has told me it's so. So we spend our lives in turn informing the guys on the football team, the boys in the band, the cute kid in Chemistry Club that, yes indeed, "no means no." Even if I originally said "yes." Even if you think I still mean "yes." Even if I said "yes" to everyone but you. No means no.


So I force kisses on my son who has said "no." There's a mixed message for you. Soon enough he'll be learning from every boy scout leader, health teacher, coach and counselor that when a girl says "no" she must be taken seriously. The thing is, so must a boy when he says "no." And I must be his first teacher - the one that primes the pump for all who will come after me. I must take his "no" seriously so that he takes me seriously when I try to teach respect for his own body as well as for respect for those he will love or desire in a way he can't even imagine yet. As his mother I have a large part in helping him accumulate the relationship/gender politics baggage he'll carry through his life and, as uncomfortable as I might be thinking of my little three year old as a sexual being, I can help him avoid this whopper.


So, from now on, if he says "no kisses," no kisses it'll be. Even though I'm bigger, stronger and faster (and, truthfully, a little disappointed that he doesn't want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss him) that's the way it has to be, for him and his future.