Personal Blog of Author Kathryn Thompson
by Kathryn
Yesterday Seattle hit an all-time high temperature of 103. It’s humid and hot and we’re all boiling in our way-too-pregnant skins. In an area with fewer than 13% of the homes having any kind of cooling system, we’re sweating and relying on help from our friends to keep us from dropping like flies.
“My kids want to beat the heat too but they disapprove of my particular methods. Magoo doesn’t want to stay at Costco forever. Laylee asked me to “try harder” to make the house feel cool.”
by Kathryn
Yesterday in church we were sang Onward Christian Soldiers as the closing hymn and as we finished, I leaned over to Dan and whispered, “KABOOM!”
“What?” he looked at me in confusion.
Oh. I thought he knew. Remember at the end of the Little House on the Prairies TV series when they marched through Walnut Grove singing that song and then they used dynamite to explode the entire town to keep it out of the hands of the big bad developers who were forcing them out of their homes?
Yeah. Dan doesn’t remember it either. When I told him about it, he said it was probably a plot device by the set construction guys so they wouldn’t have to dismantle the whole set once the series was over. A few sticks of well-placed dynamite, some hymn-singing citizens, one giant detonation lever, and their work was done.
I’m a bit cynical about that and also unsure if any of it really happened. The last time I watched the show I was probably 10 or 12 and you know what happens when I recap shows I haven’t seen for years and years. Either way, that’s how I remember it and I cannot sing or hear that song without picturing the whole town going up in an explosive inferno.
by Kathryn
We sat down to eat some lovely Mexican lasagna for dinner when I decided I COULD. NOT. EAT. IT. without sour cream. I left the family sitting at the dinner table and ran to the grocery store to pick up that one thing. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Time me.”
Well it’s a good thing that Dan laid down on the couch and decided to time me with the inside of his eyelids (not the most accurate of timing devices) because I completely lost all track of the time while pillaging the aisles of the grocery store.
Sudden cravings for anything unhealthy and remotely appealing took over my body. Along with the sour cream, I picked up yogurt, bagels, bread… frozen pizza, sherbet, popsicles, Jones soda, Cheez Whiz, sugar cookies and other things I haven’t purchased since probably college.
I sheepishly unloaded my purchases at the counter.
“I’m pregnant.”
Serious look from the cashier.
“Sometimes I just need things.”
Serious look followed by some sage advice, “Don’t eat it all tonight, okay? And when you’re done, go back to vegetables and other healthy foods.”
“I’ve only gained 4 pounds so far this pregnancy.”
Serious look.
When I got home and started unloading, Dan asked how my trip was. “Fruitful,” I responded. The Chief Cookie Buyer in our household stared at my haul with wide eyes. “Certainly was.”
Smart boy did not offer any sage advice. He mustn’t if he ever hopes to see another morsel of HFCS, Trans Fat or food coloring enter the house again.
I bought nectarines too, sort of to camouflage the rest of it. It was by far the most expensive and unhealthful tub of sour cream I have ever purchased.
by Kathryn
We’ve got 2 months left and we still have no name for this little chica. We’re getting more and more creative with our names. We look for them everywhere. Movie credits are fertile hunting grounds for names, especially if you want to name your kid something like Ishi Tomahachigok Thompson or Matt “The Mutt” Thompson.
Driving back from our vacation we looked at road signs and business names. Wendy, Denny, Schwab, and Chevron could all be possible candidates. At one point I read aloud a sign that said, “Stay Off the Median.”
“Meedy-Anne,” I suggested, “That’s not a bad name.” Dan gave me the shifty eye-roll. Well, it’s better than “Rest Stop” or “Bump.”
Lately I’ve been referring to her as “the protuberance” although for no splickable reason I pronounce it “protRuberance.” It just sounds better and everyone knows what I’m talking about.
“I can’t push my stool up to the computer because of the protRuberance.”
“The protRuberance makes it difficult for me to cook without burning my navel.”
“My protRuberance is going nuts. Just look at it wiggle and jump!”
I work so hard to choose names for my kids that are beautiful to me but not popular in the general population. I want to be unique without being crazy. I’ve realized lately that almost everyone is trying to do the very same thing so if I find a name that’s really unusual and beautiful, chances are it will be THE name 3 years from now and my little Adeline will join a sea of Adelines heading into elementary school in the next decade.
What I should really do is stick to names that were so over-used during my childhood that none of the moms in our generation want to use them. Then my kid will be totally unique. Or I could just name her Protuberance. It has a nice ring to it, sort of like Constance only more visually evocative.
by Kathryn
I wanted to actually make something for dinner, like a real meal that didn’t come in a box and did not contain any magical life-vest-orange mystery dust.
by Kathryn
Since I don’t drink and rarely do anything that requires me to be over the age of 16, I have very few opportunities to be required to show identification. It generally only happens if I’m pulled over for speeding or if I’m at the grocery store buying wine for cooking.
Well yesterday I bought some wine for a risotto I was planning to cook and for the first time in history they didn’t ask me for ID. Maybe it was because the cashier knew me. Possibly it had something to do with the fact that I was toting 2 children along with me and waddling, very obviously pregnant with a third. I choose to believe that I’m starting to look as distinguished as befits my 30 years of age, despite the fact that this pregnancy has me breaking out like a preteen after a chocolate binge.
Then later that night Dan and I went to see the new Harry Potter movie, mostly to enjoy the air conditioning while cuddling child-free. When I purchased the tickets, the boy at the counter asked to see my ID.
“What is this Harry Potter movie rated?” I asked incredulously.
“PG-13.”
And I’m thinking, “This kid really questions whether or not I’m over the age of 13? From the way I feel at this moment, the baby inside of me is practically 13.”
“And you’re carding me to get into the movie?”
He looked confused. He stared at me in a way that only a 15-year-old boy can when confronted with the prospect of carrying on a conversation of more than two words with an adult woman.
And then it hit me as he handed back my credit card. He was checking ID to make sure the card wasn’t stolen. “You need the ID for the credit card, huh?”
He nodded uncomfortably, looking sort of down and away.
So yeah, if you want to get into a PG-13 movie anytime soon, pay cash or have your ID close at hand.
by Kathryn
We’re getting a new roof today. I’m not talking new shingles. They’re actually tearing off our entire roof with what sound like giant nail files and throwing it into a bin placed conveniently below one of our front windows. Dan woke the kids up this morning to reassure them that everything was okay when the home pedicure started . OKAY?! OKAY?! There are giant pieces of crap flying off our roof into a bin and WE CAN WATCH IT FROM THE FRONT WINDOWS???!!!! They consider it to be more than “Okay”. This may be the best day of their lives.
We have a giant “bird’s” nest in the attic and every year in the spring some morning around 4am we hear a terrible splintering splitting noise as the giant “birds” come back to rip the cedar shakes off our roof and re-enter their home. The nest is located right above our bed so we know when they come back and it’s an unnerving feeling. We’ve had the ancient disintegrating roof cleaned and repaired but the “birds” always come back and our roof cleaner has gotten to the point where he won’t come back to clean until we hire someone to put on a new roof. It’s on the verge of falling to pieces.
When we had our inspection done on the house before buying it, the inspector (who was apparently fully owned by our shrewd realtor) told us the roof was only 5-years old. This helped push the deal through but was a bit disheartening when we moved in, had leaks and found out that it was actually 20 years old and remaining on its deathbed only through frequent resuscitation and hospice care.
So we stretched out the inevitable for 3 years and now we start the joy, the adventure, the second mortgage that is a new roof.
Well, when I told the contractors bidding on the roof job about the “birds,” they all laughed at me. They said there was no way that any kind of bird could tear up a roof like that. It had to be something with hands… like a raccoon… an animal which builds giant nests… like a raccoon. They asked if there were any raccoon sightings around. “Oh yeah,” I said. “They live in the forest behind our house and we see them in our yard all the time.”
Yeah. Apparently they don’t live “in the forest.” When we told the kids that raccoons were living in the attic, they could not have been happier. But they were also terrified with excitement. “What if they claw their way through the ceiling in the night?!” they grimace/grinned.
“Yeah. What if!?” I periodically think as I lay in bed at night listening to the house creak and staring up at the ceiling.
So this morning as Laylee saw the first large piece of brown debris fly over the edge of the house she exclaimed, “OH WOW! I bet that was one of the raccoons!” PETA be merciful. Mama needs a new pair-a-shingles.
by Kathryn
We’ve been doing some serious road trippin’ lately. To hear some tales of the road, pop over to Parenting.com.
by Kathryn
My abdomen has gotten to the point where it both looks and feels like a tightly-packed rubber bag full of small and very active ninjas.
It’s a strange feeling and one I know I’ll miss when it turns back into vacant jelly belly in just over 2 months.
Baby Wanda and I are becoming very close in all the ways and although I sometimes still think she’s a boy, rarely feed her vegetables and can’t for the life of me think of a suitable offline name for her, I find myself liking her very much… especially when she keeps the nunchucks and throwing stars stowed safely in her back pocket.
by Kathryn
We had a blast last week at Grandma’s house, a place where Mom and Dad have to work hard to stay oblivious to the crazy things the kids are doing.