Dear Baby,

Today was a rough one. It started when I woke to several emails from my boss asking me to fix a mistake I had made. This was not just any error but one that I had duplicated the week before (These emails contained an exclamation point and repeated words; never a good sign.) What’s even worse is that I admire and respect my boss so the fact that I screwed up makes it well, worse.

I tried to shake it off and after work I took you to Frick Park, one of my favorite places ever. I love this park because I can run (okay, mostly walk) with you in your stroller while the dog (your brother, Rush) runs off-leash, which he does, like a crazy puppy, up and down hillsides and through streams. There I met a friend who I had not seen in awhile who patted my stomach and commented on all the weight I had gained (and not yet lost) from my pregnancy (This friend does not filter very well).

It is about this time that I realized that I had lost my car keys. We spent nearly the next 2 hours searching for them. I might also mention that at the beginning of our search you decided that you had had quite enough of sitting in your BoB stoller. During those 90-plus minutes of searching I carried you and felt like a horrible, disorganized mother. You were whimpering in my arms and I could tell you were tired and hungry and just wanted to go home.

Although we finally found the keys we couldn’t just go home because we were out of dishwashing liquid. So off we go to the Co-Op to get the chemical-free dish soap which I have to buy because I keep reading how bad chemicals are for babies. While I was in the car your brother (i.e. the dog, who at this point is covered in mud and dirt after 2.5 hours in the park) squeezed though his net blocker-thing that is supposed to keep him in the back seat, and made his way over your baby seat and to the front where he sat on my books. Did I mention that he encountered on his way to the front is now covered in mud?

I wanted to do many things at this point, none of them good. Instead I remembered a passage I had read from a book I’m reading. So I focused on the little things

1. Every morning when I come into your nursery to get you, you smile.
2. I bought some mint at the co-op and even though it was buried in a grocery bag, I could smell it the whole way home.
4. I actually found my keys in the park.
5. You are 4 months old today.
6. Even though I wanted Cool Ranch Doritos, I instead bought an apple, carrot, and ginger juice at the co-op (the co-op doesn’t sell Doritos so I was kind of forced to make the healthier choice).
7. Most night when you are falling asleep you wrap your index and middle finger around my index finger.

Dear Baby,

It’s been one of my life’s ambitions to capture the beauty of trees.

I’ve tried writing about trees, photographing them, and sketching them (Sadly, I draw lollipop trees.) There is a room in the Musee D’Orsay (my favorite museum) that is dedicated to Camille Corot (my favorite artist). With his bare hands and a paint brush, Corot could make the leaves on a tree breathe. This one might be my favorite.

A few weeks back I came across someone as equally talented as Corot. Mitch Epstein published this series of photographs in the New York Times Sunday magazine.

I’ve been thinking about trees because the weather starting to turn and I can’t wait to take you outside for your first picnic.

Dear Baby,

It’s Friday during lent and that means that any decent Pittsburgher worth their salt should spend their lunch hour roaming the city streets in search of the best place to score fish fries, pierogies, and haluski.

My friend, Hollen, created this cool Google map to make our journey a little easier.

The mural in the backroom at D's.

Baby Girl,

Tonight it was your dad’s birthday and so, like all special occasions in our family, it involved a trip to D’s Six-Pax & Dogz in Regent Square.

This is where we come for all special occasions in our lives. We came here on our first-ever date. We came to D’z a year or so later after our first really bad fight. We came on countless Sunday-night dates. (First we would go to D’z to pick up beers and dogz, then to the Regent Square Theater for their Sunday night films. Hitchcock month is my all-time favorite.)

We came here the night that we got engaged (and even thought about having our rehearsal dinner here) and the night of the 2008 presidential election. We came when we found out we were pregnant with you.

I’m not sure if it’s the Dogz, which are good (I’m quite partial to the Chicago, while your dad likes his smothered with ketchup and onions) or the beer selection, or the crowd at the bar, the mural, or the fact that the guy who usually works the counter always knows our order. Anyways, it’s our place.

Dear Baby Girl,

For the last week or so, before bed, your dad and I have been dancing around the living room with you and singing. Last night, while we were dancing and singing, we could have sworn that for the first time you were singing back to us. It happened while we were playing this song. I’m quite fond of this video in particular

Dear Baby,

On Sunday I was feeling a little overwhelmed:

• Your nursery isn’t ready yet. (There are clothes everywhere and lots of really frilly dresses. I have to be honest, I don’t
  think you should dress any person or pet in a really frilly anything unless they are able to voice an opinion on the matter.)
• Your car seat hasn’t been installed yet.
• I haven’t finished the three books yet that I wanted to write.
• And I’m nervous about you and your arrival and at the same time I can’t wait for you to get here.

So I did what I normally do when I’m feeling completely overwhelmed: I went to the movies by myself. I went to see “50/50″ and, baby, I can honestly say that this is a film you will want to see someday. It is honest and awkward and true, and that, I think is what makes it so wonderful.

Make 50/50 a must-see to rent or own or watch someday.

Now that I’ve offered up the third installment in your Rules to Live By, Things You Should Never Say including “When are you due?” and “Oh, are you having triplets?”, I will offer you the one exception to the rule.

Every morning before heading to work, I like to stop at the Starbucks for a green tea with soy. It’s my morning ritual. Another ritual is that pretty much every weekday morning during a 12-month period two years ago a young girl who likes to sit in the Starbucks and listen to music with her headphones on, would point to my stomach and yell (she didn’t know how loud she was talking because of the headphones) across the store “Baby, Baby?”

At which point, everyone in line for their morning caffeine would turn around to look at my stomach and wait for my response.

“No,” I’d say. “No baby. Just fat.”

I don’t think the girl meant to be rude. I really think that she just didn’t know any better. To give you some indication of how absolutely addicted I am to Starbucks. I would subject myself to this complete and utter humiliation every morning just to get my fix. For a while, I tried everything I can to avoid making eye contact with her just so she wouldn’t notice me. I even tried staring at the ceiling.

So imagine how excited I was when 8 or so months ago when I learned that I was pregnant. One of my first thoughts was that I could now go into the Starbucks and when headphone girl pointed to me and yelled out “Baby? Baby?” I could look her straight in the eye and say “Yes, thank you. As a matter of fact, I am.”

Around four plus months, just when I started to show, I wore my tightest t-shirt and went in to order my drink. There, in her usual seat by the door, was headphone girl. Head down. Swaying to the music.

I unzipped my coat so that she could get a better view of my bump, and walked to the counter.

Nothing.

I ordered.

Nothing.

I got my drink.

Nothing.

I took off my coat and walked back and forth in front of her several times.

She didn’t even look up.

I left the Starbucks completely dejected.

The next day I wore an even tighter t-shirt, but to no avail.  In the last seven months she has not once yelled out “Baby?” In fact, she hasn’t even looked my way.

I feel cheated. Pissed. I’m not sure if this girl suddenly realized that it might be rude to yell out “Baby? Baby?” to every woman she sees with a paunch, but I don’t care. I have one coming.

So to you, headphone girl at Starbucks, feel free to break Rules to Live By #3. Please. Yell it out so loud that you even drown out the barista. “Baby? Baby?”

You’ve only got a few weeks left.

Dear Baby,

So this might seem insane to you, but I’m in school right now, trying to finish my last semester, so that I can graduate in December. If you could time your arrival, sometime around Thanksgiving, preferably the Friday before, would be an ideal time. Your dad is going to take off a few weeks of work to help us get through the rough patch of finals that first week of December. After that, I am all yours.

You would not be alone in calling me insane. After all, why would anyone go to school during their last trimester of pregnancy? The thing is I feel like if I don’t finish now, I might never finish. I want to provide a good life for you. I think achieving a master’s degree is one way to do that.

The thing is, I’m struggling mightily in my grammar class. “Grammar?” everyone asks. “But aren’t you a writer?” Yes and yes. I’m a writer, sure, but I never really paid much attention to the mechanics of the thing and it’s been such a long time since I diagrammed sentences in sixth grade at Wintersville Elementary. The most frustrating part is that I want to do well in this class, not just because it’s required to graduate, but because I want to learn it. I love learning. I love language and I don’t want to butcher it.

The worst part is my professor doesn’t seem to think I’ve got the chops. I went to his office yesterday to ask for help understanding the difference between phrasal verbs, prepositional verbs, and phrasal-prepositional verbs and he said that he spent an hour on this in class and he didn’t think he should go over it again because I would just get even more confused.

I didn’t leave. I told him that he had to help me, that I wanted to learn this. And so, after sighing mightily, he went over it again and listened to all my questions and even agreed to meet me again on Thursday to answer even more of my questions.

The midterm  25%-of-our-grade exam is next Thursday and I thought some canned pickles might make me feel better.

So here’s the recipe:

* I’m not sure of the source. A friend gave me this recipe.

Mom’s Fridge Pickles (Makes about 1 quart)

1 cup white vinegar
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp. sea salt
1/2 tsp. freshly ground pepper
6 whole cloves
2 bay leaves
1 tsp. crushed red pepper flaks
t tsp. dill seed (We didn’t have dill seed, so I used straight dill and it came out well.)
4 to 5 small kirby (pickling) cucumbers, peeled in stripes and sliced into 1/8-inch thick rounds
1 small white onion, thinly sliced into rounds

1. Combine vinegar, sugar, salt, black pepper, cloves, bay leaves, red pepper flakes, and dill seed in a quart jar. Place a lid on the jar and shake until the sugar has dissolved.

2. Layer the cucumbers and onion in the jar. Use a wooden spoon to press the pickles down so you can fit more in. Place the lid on the jar, shake it well, and refrigerate at least 4 hours, shaking the jar occasionally to keep the ingredients mixed and prevent the sugar from settling on the bottom. These pickles will keep in the refrigerator at least one month.