Tuesday, September 29, 2009

First Fall-Like Day

I don’t know why this strikes me as so strange—but it occurred to me when I hit 37 weeks that I have a real baby in my uterus. “Real” as in “more or less complete.” If the baby were born today, she’d be a viable, real baby with lungs developed enough to breathe on her own—and that viable, real baby is what I’m currently carrying around. This may not make much sense; and she's been a real baby for a while now. But it’s just strange to think that it’s an actual, full baby in there, one who could, at her whim, make a grand entrance tonight if she wanted to.

Let’s hope she doesn’t want to. We have almost exactly three weeks worth of preparations to do. However, today is a rare fall-like day—gloomy sky, cool temperature—and, if I were our baby, I would definitely want my arrival day to be one of true fall, not an 80-plus-degree fake-fall day. I would want to arrive on a day when a pumpkin might conceivably decorate our porch in the atmosphere in which pumpkins were meant to live. (Although pumpkins clearly love California—we saw endless patches of bright pumpkins as we drove to SF this weekend.) I would want to arrive on a day when I would have to be swaddled in a warm blanket for my trip home from the hospital, on a day when my new, tender eyes wouldn’t have to squint in the hot sun. I would want to be greeted in my new home by gourds and Indian corn. Seriously, if I were our baby, I’d get the show on the road right about…now.

Let’s hope the baby doesn’t get any ideas. I don’t know what I would do with a surprise early labor. I really don’t. I had an appointment with our midwife today, who informed me that I am 1.5cm dilated and 50% effaced; the baby is at -2 engagement. She’s definitely getting ready. So, too, are we.

Monday, September 28, 2009

“Last” Trip





This weekend Andrew and I went to San Francisco for our “last” weekend away before the baby comes. Now that my due date is less than three weeks away, we’ve decided we should probably keep our radius from the hospital to about, oh, five miles. So we wanted to have one “final” trip before we hunker down close to home.

I’m compelled to use quotation marks for words like “last” and “final” because I’m confident we will still take weekend trips once the baby arrives. Not right away, of course, but eventually, especially when she’s still small enough to be more or less easily portable. But this weekend did have the feeling of some kind of closure, ending, a final trip—without quotation marks—of the kind we know. It surely won’t be the last trip we take that’s just the two of us, but it was the last one where we won’t be arranging for caretaking before setting out—and worrying about the baby once we’re gone. In her pre-born state, she’s both with us and not with us, and as long as I can feel her moving (which she did, constantly, the entire weekend), we don’t have to worry at all.

We left Saturday morning and drove first to Japantown. A day of trekking around the city simply wasn’t realistic in my large state, so we just took it easy. We had a delicious lunch at a restaurant in the Japan Center then browsed in some shops, reminiscing about our amazing trip to Japan as we strolled (slowly). We were excited at a new discovery—a Daiso store has opened in the Japan Center. Daiso was one of the most popular 100-yen stores in Japan, though here it has the somewhat less melodious hook of “Everything $1.50!” The store was much smaller than the ones we’d gone to in Tokyo, but it still carried a stunning variety of cuteness. We came away with a selection of things including a small cat charm that, according to its tag, “is the good-luck charm for keeping evil spilits away and bringing up babies. It believed to offer protection for a safe birth and good luck for babies.” We can definitely use all of that.

Eventually we checked into our room at the Hotel Huntington on Nob Hill, our favorite San Francisco hotel, so I could get ready for my pregnancy massage at the Nob Hill Spa—a little pregnancy indulgence. We go to the spa to swim in the pool every time we stay at this hotel, but I’d never had any treatments there, and now I wonder why. The massage was fabulous; the masseuse found the tiny, quarter-sized spot on the middle-right-side of my back that tends to ache constantly and did her best to bring it back to normal. Afterwards, she said, “Your body still needs work.” What I think it really needs is to not be pregnant anymore.



We finished our day at the Nob Hill Café, where I allowed myself a larger portion of carbs than usual (delicious bread, baked eggplant and penne). Then we relaxed in our lovely room and just enjoyed being together in the city.

Sunday we went to church at Grace Cathedral, right across the street from the hotel. It’s a beautiful Episcopal church, and we’d been inside many times to admire the stained glass windows and the marble labyrinth in the floor (I once even took a yoga class on the labyrinth); we wanted to see what a service was like. The church was celebrating a collaboration it had been undergoing with some Tibetan monks, who processed in with their bright robes. Apparently K.D. Lang was also there, part of the collaboration as well. We’re also pretty sure the woman behind us was drinking a beer.

We returned to the Nob Hill Café for brunch afterwards—if we lived on Nob Hill we’d be there all the time—and then took a taxi to AT&T Park for a Giants game. They won against the Cubs; alas, we did not win one of the Vespas being given away for Fan Appreciation Day. We imagined that the next baseball game we go to might very well be in the company of our baby, who we will dress in some of her extensive Red Sox clothing selections.

And then we headed home. Almost. We were almost to the Bay Bridge when I got a call from my credit card company—a man had called them to report that we’d left the card on the clipboard at the parking garage payment booth when Andrew signed the slip. We returned to retrieve the card; disaster averted. Good karma for the booth attendant; we were impressed that he managed to track us down. And then we headed home. Slowly. Insane traffic leaving the city. But we made it eventually, and fortunately I did not go into labor while stuck in gridlock.

It was a lovely “final” weekend trip, the perfect way to begin our temporary weekend-traveling hiatus. It’s a real countdown now.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

37 Weeks



The bump is definitely more pronounced these days, sticking out in an almost aggressive way. The bottoms of my shirts no longer reach my body.

Because Andrew pointed out the other day that I was "wearing sweatpants" with some degree of alarm, I will point out that these are not sweatpants. They are yoga pants, and I was on my way to yoga when these pictures were taken. However, since I am 9+ months pregnant, I would be fully within my rights to wear these pants whenever and wherever I wanted to, even if they were sweatpants.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Dreaming

A couple of nights ago I dreamed about eating a piece of chocolate cake. I tasted every forkful, every crumb. I was filled with guilt the entire time in the dream, knowing I shouldn't be eating it, knowing it could lead to a monster-sized baby, and yet I continued on.

This is among the most pathetic dreams I've ever had. I've never really had a sweet tooth...until now. My pregnancy-induced glucose intolerance might finally make me into a stridently dessert-loving person once the sugar prohibition is repealed.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Change Is Coming

With just four weeks to go until my due date, I’m becoming a bit overwhelmed by the reality of what’s about to happen. I can’t quite put my finger on any specific piece that suddenly seems so big; but something we knew all along—LIFE IS GOING TO CHANGE—now seems somehow more urgent, more all-consuming. Parent-friends have told us some of their own experiences of how much their normal routines changed with the arrival of a child (no time to read the New York Times; no more going to the bathroom as a solo activity), but of course this is difficult to understand from an outsider’s point of view. No time to read the paper? Surely I’ll have time to read the paper. (I hear you laughing, friends.)

What seems to be my sticking point is that our big change has a date attached to it. Not a firm date—October 17 may very well come and go with no baby, or the baby may decide to arrive before that—but a date nonetheless, a more or less fixed point in the month of October that will mark a genuine before and after, a true life transformation. Is there any other time in life when you can actually count down to such a change?

Over the past few days I’ve been struggling to pinpoint other momentous life events that could truly be considered transformative—events that I knew going in would change me and my life completely. Going to college, I suppose, is one. Moving to New York is another. Leaving New York and moving to Barcelona (and starting my cohabitation with Andrew) is a third. Surprisingly, I don’t really consider marriage one of these events—Andrew and I had already been living together for almost a year, and the marriage marked a deepening and intensifying of our relationship, but things were more or less the same the next day as they had been the day before. The other events fall short of this kind of instant transformation as well. Moving to Barcelona was a huge change, but not necessarily an immediately skin-sloughing transformation; yes, we traveled like we’d never traveled before; yes, we lived around the corner from La Pedrera. But at the end of the day we went grocery shopping, cooked dinner, read books. The day-to-day of our life may have occurred in a beautiful place, but at its core our day-to-day life was the same. During graduate school in New York, I was more independent than I was in college; but I was still taking classes and, for much of that time, cooking inadequate instant food. And though college marked my first time as an adult living on her own, I’m not sure I consider it instantly transformative. I grew into myself (though there was much growing still to be done)—which is different from changing dramatically from one fully-formed, fully-realized person into another.

Maybe this is the crux of it. These events marked transformations, but they happened slowly, gradually—only on the other side, after a great deal of time, could I really comprehend the change. They’re not events so much as stages that shaped who I am, made me aware of what’s important, changed my priorities, beliefs, and view of the world. But to pinpoint actual events—brief moments—that I knew in advance would change everything about me and my life from top to bottom? I see now that there are none. And that is perhaps why October 17 looms on my calendar like a kind of void (a happy void) that I can’t see across. I’m not sure who I’ll be yet on the other side.

I may be overdramatizing what’s about to happen. But I find myself now in the mindset of goodbyes and “last times”—the last time we’ll be in Tahoe without a baby, the last time we’ll spend a whole day reading on the couch, the last time we’ll be two. We couldn’t be more excited to meet our baby—she’s kicking; I heard the heartbeat yesterday; she’s currently about five pounds—but I’m realizing it’s the end of something, too, as though I’m leaving some beloved place behind forever. It was the right time to leave New York; it was the right time to leave Barcelona; but I still cried when I locked, for the last time, the doors to the places where I lived. What I’m feeling is a little like that.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Observation Hours

There was a baby in our nursery this weekend, and a baby in the car seat we now have installed in our car. There was a baby crawling on our floors and taking a bath in our tub. We heard a baby crying during the night, and giggling during the day. Thanks to Michelle and Tessa’s visit, we’ve seen first-hand how our house looks (and sounds) with a baby in it.

We had a lovely visit; we went to the farmer’s market and the pool, and on Saturday we drove to Lake Tahoe, where we met up with Beth, Nate, and their babies—a whole crew of children. We sat on the beach (the lake is back to being unswimmably cold), ate lunch on a blanket on the sand, and swam in the pool at the Hyatt where Beth and Nate were staying. After so many hours of birth- and baby-related classes, this weekend proved to be the “observation” portion of our training for parents-to-be. It’s nice that our observation subjects were so cute, and so fun to be with.



It was pretty cute having Tessa explore the dustiest corners of our living room and kitchen (and there are a lot of dusty corners—babies don’t abide by superficial cleaning efforts) and smile whenever Andrew entered the room. And it was inspiring to see Michelle’s expert traveling setup—a baby, a backpack, a diaper bag. I know it wasn’t easy; but she certainly made it look like it was. It was a good shot of reality to spend these days with the little one—my imagination seems to stop at labor these days, and I’m incapable of envisioning anything that will come after that.

I hope our own child doesn’t turn out to be the wild terror on the proverbial playground, bullying the other kids and exhausting her helpless, clueless parents. I don’t think she will be. She did, however, seem to kick a bit more whenever Tessa cried, as though she was intrigued by the sound and was eager to try it out herself as soon as possible. Soon enough, little one, soon enough.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

A Reno Weekend, Part IV: Casinos & Chuck Close

Bright and early Sunday morning, once we’d left the hot-air balloons behind, we found ourselves seeking breakfast in downtown Reno. At that early hour, the streets were deserted, the casinos and sad-looking souvenir shops still closed up tight. The Nugget, however, a dingy old-school casino, was open, and we traipsed through the small sea of slot machines to reach the diner in the back—a place I’d read had a good cheap breakfast. Unfortunately, my pregnancy-related glucose intolerance made the $1.99 breakfast special—two pancakes and an egg—forbidden. So Andrew got the special and I got eggs and (whole wheat) toast. The food was fine, but this was, hands-down, the dive-iest breakfast place we’ve ever been too. We considered doing some slots on the way out, then decided that a lucky win might put us in physical danger from the few other patrons, so we continued on our way.





There were still several hours until check-out at the Grand Sierra Resort, so we took a nap and then did a little slot-machining in the casino. We won $20, which we should have just held onto, but instead we got greedy and lost it all.

Finally, we were on our way to our last stop for the weekend, the “highbrow” portion of the trip—the Nevada Museum of Art. We weren’t sure what to expect from a Reno museum, but we’d found out that there was a Chuck Close exhibition there, and we wanted to check it out. We were surprised to find a very new museum—it was built in 2003—that reminded us, in appearance and collection, of the CaixaForum in Barcelona. It had that same well-curated, airy feeling, with just enough art for a solid hour or so of perusing. Besides the Chuck Close works—part of a portrait exhibition that also featured a work by one of my favorite artists, Sophie Calle—there was a selection of “grid” pictures by Bernd and Hilla Becher. We’ve seen these images many times, in many museums in many places, and it’s always nice to revisit them. We discovered a photographer we hadn’t heard of before—Carleton Watkins—who took beautiful pictures of Yosemite in the 1800s. By the time we reached the museum’s roof, my pregnant body had had just about enough activity.





Two and a half hours later, we were home, incredulous that we’d been gone for only thirty or so hours; we felt we’d been away for much longer. We packed a lot into our Reno weekend, and it was, for so many reasons, unforgettable.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

A Reno Weekend, Part III: Hot-Air Balloons



Well before dawn on Sunday morning, Andrew and I roused ourselves and headed out into the chilly desert night to see what had initially been our main purpose in coming to Reno this weekend: The Great Reno Balloon Race. We drove to a park in downtown Reno and, blankets in hand, followed the crowds flocking to a large open field in the middle of the park. The field was packed, but we found some space for our blanket and settled in.

Just before 5:00am, five hot-air balloons not far from us began inflating. As they filled with air, they began righting themselves until there was a row of fully inflated balloons in front of us. This was the beginning of the Dawn Patrol, the first event of the day. Though about a hundred hot-air balloons would be participating in the day’s activities, only these five would be ascending in the dark of night—something that’s apparently quite difficult to do, due to quickly changing atmospheric conditions. At the direction of a very dramatic, low-voiced announcer, the five Dawn Patrol balloons began glowing in sequence. “And now, a simultaneous glow, in five…four…three…two…one,” the announcer would say, and all five balloons would light up. “And twinkle, in five…four…three…” he’d say, and the balloons would light up intermittently. Eventually, the balloons lifted off into the black night, continuing to glow at the announcer’s direction as they floated higher and drifted away from one another. We lost sight of them eventually and have no idea where they ultimately landed.





After the Dawn Patrol, we had to gather our things and move to a new location; around us, more and more balloonists were arriving, laying out their balloons in the field. We found a new spot in a different part of the field, where we took a nap until the sun finally rose. When we sat up, we were surrounded by balloons in various states of inflation, and the Mass Ascension soon began.















The Mass Ascension is the highlight of the day, when a hundred hot-air balloons lift off more or less simultaneously. Balloons in every color and pattern, and even a few shapes—the heads of Smoky the Bear and Tony the Tiger, two giant bumble bees—rose into the sunny dawn sky as suitably soaring music (and some suitably Reno-hippie selections, like “Age of Aquarius”) poured from loudspeakers. It was an amazing sight, as beautiful and dramatic as we’d thought it would be, and this alone would have been worth the trip to Reno.







Tuesday, September 15, 2009

A Reno Weekend, Part II: Bulls

After the camel races on Saturday, we were relieved to head back to civilization—which in this case is a dubious term, seeing that we were headed to Reno. But being eight-plus-months pregnant makes me a bit wary of being in the middle of nowhere for any real length of time; at least in Reno we’d be able to find a hospital should little Whittemora (her in-utero name) decide to make an early debut. In any case, along the way we stopped at a dramatic overlook, where we could see mile after mile of absolutely nothing, with a tiny Reno in the distance.







Our home for the weekend was the Grand Sierra Resort, a large hotel and casino containing several restaurants, shops, and other amenities for those inclined to stay inside the resort for days at a time, where we’d gotten a room for $70. We were given a room Andrew deemed unsatisfactory, and were then inexplicably upgraded to a Deluxe Suite, which we estimated was three times the size of Andrew’s studio in NYC. There was a dining area, a living room area, a bar, and a bed. Easily the biggest room we’ve ever stayed in.





But we didn’t have much time to kill there before we had to get to our next event, the definitive “low” portion of our highbrow/lowbrow Reno weekend: The PBR. That is, the Professional Bull Riders Invitational.

Have you ever been to a bull-riding event? Neither had I, and it’s everything you would expect: cowboys trying their best to stay on a huge, enraged, bucking animal without being thrown violently off while being cheered on by many would-be cowboys in sand-colored cowboy hats and a lot of women in shockingly low-cut shirts, indecently short denim cutoffs, and cowboy boots. There was some sort of scoring system in place, but we couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Some cowboys stayed on, some fell off, some got high scores, some got low. There was an MC-type person in the middle of the arena, occasionally breaking out into dances and delivering various jokes and announcements. When I looked at him through my binoculars (we keep them in the car at all times—you never know when you’ll need them out here), I saw that his face was painted like a clown. Andrew educated me on his position—rodeo clown. Of course.



We staged these pictures, but they’re pretty accurate representations of our general reaction to the whole thing:





It’s safe to say that we were the only people there in a spirit of voyeuristic irony. It’s also safe to say that if you name your offspring Cody you’re going to wind up with a professional bull rider for a son. Finally, it’s probably safe to say that someone, somewhere, will be extremely jealous that I got my picture taken with cowboy Wiley Peterson as Andrew and I milled around with the devoted fans after the competition, pretending like we belonged there:



It was all very strange, very Reno. And so our Reno exploration continues.

Monday, September 14, 2009

A Reno Weekend, Part I: Camels

Early Saturday morning, Andrew and I packed up the car and drove two hours east to Virginia City, Nevada, thirty miles or so south of Reno, where the desolate desert landscape convinced us we’d fallen off the edge of the earth. We were headed to this unlikely destination to witness Virginia City’s 50th Annual International Camel Races, an event Andrew had stumbled upon while perusing Reno websites last week. Once he discovered it, we both agreed it was something we had to see. We had so many questions—the largest being, can camels run? So we set out to see for ourselves.

The day kicked off with a parade through the center of Virginia City, which is set at the end of an extraordinarily winding road where you see nothing but scrub and sand for many, many miles. The town itself is straight out of the Old West, with covered wooden sidewalks, old-timey signage, and the feeling that not much has changed in about two hundred years. In the parade were camels, some police cars and fire trucks, a few people playing brass instruments in the back of pickup trucks, and many people dressed up in period garb, including large groups of cleavage-blessed, cleavage-proud women dressed as “boarding house” ladies of the night. The parade lasted for about ten minutes, and then we had lunch. Inexplicably, the table next to ours was filled with Australians—apparently part of the camel race’s “international” component.





We were tempted by, but did not follow through with, this contest:



It took about two hundred years to get our food, which we then wolfed down in order to make it to the camel races on time. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—something professional, I think, akin to horse racing; Andrew had wondered if there’d be betting. I think we both imagined some sort of arena setting. This was not the case. The camel race track was set at the bottom of a hill in a dusty outdoor bowl-like space, with a few bleachers arranged around it; most people simply stood at the white picket fence surrounding the “track.”





But sure enough, those camels were running. Three at a time—and I think it was the same three again and again—ran around the track as best they could, spurred on by camel jockeys. Often the camels had trouble making the turns; it took some maneuvering to steer them in the proper direction.



This was fully entertaining, but the best was yet to come, with the ostrich races. In the starting area, we could see the tiny ostrich heads bobbing and weaving, waiting to sprint out of the gate. The ostriches, too, were ridden by ostrich jockeys, and the birds were, if it’s possible, even more ungainly runners than the camels; one flapped its large wings so forcefully that the jockey could barely stay on.



And then the strangeness was taken to yet another level, with ostrich chariot races. In these, the ostriches pulled their riders in wheeled “chariots,” which were little more than plastic garbage cans with wheels, while the riders did their best to direct the ostriches’ movement by using brooms. One rider—a sixty-seven-year-old woman who had been ostrich-chariot racing for many years—took a spill. Whether these races actually had winners I cannot tell you.



After an hour or so, a strong wind picked up, and clouds of dust gusted everywhere; Andrew and I decided we’d gotten our full money’s worth, and headed to the car. Unfortunately, we never got to see what was in store for the zebra we spotted loitering with the non-racing camels. But we had seen enough. It was the perfect start to our Reno weekend of highbrow/lowbrow extremes.

36 Weeks in Reno


Andrew and I had a fabulous, strange, funny weekend in Reno, which will be the subject of several upcoming posts. In the meantime, here are a few shots of the bump from the last couple of days. She is getting more insistent in her movements—perhaps she’s frustrated by her increasingly crowded conditions. Or perhaps she’s growing at a monster pace (I hope not). What it really seems like, however, is that she’s just getting impatient at being left out. I think this little one is ready to see the world, even if that world is NorCal.

In Virginia City, Nevada:


In downtown Reno:

At the Nevada Museum of Art:

Thursday, September 10, 2009

A Trip Down Name-Memory Lane

This afternoon, Andrew’s office gave us a baby shower, a shower that, fortunately, did not involve playing any sort of video games. We got some lovely gifts—we are getting more ready for the baby by the day.

Andrew had suggested we present to his co-workers some of the names we’ve considered and discarded over the past eight months, so I compiled a list before going to the office. It was interesting to look through our old selections and remember when they’d been candidates, however briefly. I selected the most unusual names—Andrew stirred up office-wide mirth a while back when he told everyone he wanted a “plural” name, like Evans or Brooks. Books was on the list, too—Books Littell. (If I ever decide to write some sort of noirish detective novel, that will be my protagonist.) But the name that got the most reaction this afternoon was Schwesty, a name from Andrew’s side of the family. We’d never seriously considered Schwesty, but it’s been fun seeing people’s reaction to the name. It did not disappoint today.

By the way, we will have a name by the time the baby’s born. We just don’t have one quite yet.

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Practice Labor

Last night, Andrew and I experimented for the first time with some “practice labor,” which entails my holding an ice cube in my fist for sixty seconds while we try different pain management strategies. This was surprisingly difficult—it really hurts—but even the few times we did it were instructive as far as showing what kind of breathing, massage, and encouragement might be the most effective as we (I) attempt to do the birth drug-free.

Of course, I have no idea how to compare the pain of holding an ice cube in my palm to the pain of a contraction—I have no frame of reference whatsoever, but I suspect contractions are worse. Worse, much worse, but also different. And I’ll be in a different frame of mind during labor, too—much more focused and determined than I was as I sat on the couch last night, The Office on mute in the background.

But in lieu of an actual practice labor, we’ll continue with the ice cubes. We have five weeks.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

A NorCal Weekend Excursion

Andrew’s sister, Katherine, and her boyfriend, Patrick, visited us from Florida this weekend, and we did our best to show them the best NorCal has to offer. When Katherine visited us a couple of years ago, it rained the entire time she was here—it was the most rain we’d ever seen before, or have seen since. Fortunately, the weather cooperated this time, refraining from both rain and the 100s.

Friday, we took a day trip to Tahoe, where we all swam in the lake and had a picnic lunch on the sand. The afternoon grew windy, and there were kite surfers in the water, some of them becoming airborne for several seconds at a time. Before heading down the mountain we showed Katherine and Patrick around the Cal Neva. Andrew and I provided our usual contribution to its upkeep and bankruptcy proceedings via the Lucky Duck, Triple 7s, and Wheel of Fortune quarter slots, while Patrick had some ridiculously good luck, at one point winning sixty quarters with his first spin.

Belly in Tahoe


Katherine and Patrick in Tahoe


Saturday, we took them to the farmer’s market, where they were suitably impressed by the summer bounty, and then headed to Sonoma for some wine-tasting (and winery-sitting, for the pregnant among us). We picked up lunch at the Basque Café in the central Sonoma square, then had a picnic at Chateau St. Jean. After wine-tasting there, we went to Matanzas Creek for more wine-tasting and a stroll through the winery’s lavender fields. Next we relaxed at the Wolf Café in Glen Ellen before having dinner at The Fig Café, my and Andrew’s favorite restaurant. The food was, as usual, delicious—I had slow-roasted pork with fennel and apricot stuffing over white bean and cured olive ragout. We spent the night in Santa Rosa.

At Chateau St. Jean


Lavender fields at Matanzas Creek


In the morning, we had breakfast at the Omelette Express, then drove to Guerneville for a stroll through the redwoods at Armstrong Redwoods State Park. It was so peaceful that I suggested to Andrew we arrange a redwoods-based birth; this was not met with enthusiasm. However, we saw a family with a baby who looked so brand-new that it was entirely conceivable that he or she was, indeed, just born in the redwoods. The group’s mood was celebratory—so who knows.

We then headed to Bodega Bay, where Patrick swam in the numbingly cold Pacific while we looked on, shivering. After lunch at a little crab shack, we headed home.

It was a really fun weekend; and of course, now that our guests are gone, the temperatures are slated to rise back into the 100s this week, so our complaints about the temperature will fall on unsympathetic ears.