Beach Day

When the group from the Presbytery of Chicago was here last month, we all went to the beach on their final day to relax.  Though Richard and I are the sun god and goddess of Colombia (yeah...), we stayed under the shady huts most of the time.  We did make it out once though when our friend Andrea, a professional photographer, offered to take some family shots. 

Here are a couple of our favorites:

And even though we want to be super-sun careful, Peanut did want to catch a few rays... :)

Birthing Classes

We would really like to go to birthing classes.  All the books you read encourage you to go, but I promise we do not need encouragement.  We would really like to go.  The problem is, they don't seem to exist here, or at least not in the format I imagined.  When I asked our OB/GYN she told me to call a woman named Piedad who would be glad to do "profilaxis" classes with me.  To me that sounds a lot like prophylactics, and I thought about quipping something about how those were obviously not at issue now, but I chose to let the moment pass...

At any rate, in talking with Piedad she said that the routine with me would consist of exercises to help strengthen me for birth as well as breathing, positioning, etc.  This sounded as close as I had heard for birthing classes, so we signed up.  The challenge is, I am still waiting for the breathing, positioning, etc, and we are now under 30 days until B-Day.  On the plus side, I am sure I have stretched/exercised more in the past few months, and more regularly, than in most of my life.  I also get the bonus of a massage for about 20 minutes or so after I finish all my exercises - not a bad deal at all.  

However, Richard and I are still pretty clueless as to what is going to happen when this whole labor thing gets under way.  We have done a lot of reading.  We have gotten a lot of meaty emails from Vanessa.  We have even watched some (very scary if you ask me) videos on the web, but it just doesn't feel the same.  I had always imagined being in a class with a lot of parents-to-be, sharing nervous smiles and maybe even making friends that would be connections post-partum-Peanut, but that does not seem to be in the cards.

Piedad swears we will get to some breathing and positioning soon.  I am just hoping that we are not having the joy of cultural misunderstanding just now as time becomes even more important to me.  At any rate, I am relying on the "this is a natural process" thing, planning my distractions, readying the hospital bag with massage oil and good tunes, and figuring that whatever gets me through is/was the right thing to do.  

Still, we would take classes.  Honest.

Tenacity

We have mentioned this before, but it truly bears repeating.  Folks here are REALLY used to knowing whether an upcoming baby will be a boy or girl.  We get asked by everyone (often several times having forgotten that we don't know), but none more than Maria José, the daughter of the Presbytery secretary, Doris.  Maria José is terribly cute, about 7 years old, and nothing if not tenacious.  

At first she did not actually believe I was pregnant.  Her mom told her, but since I didn't show for quite a while, she was simply not convinced.  I had noticed her looking at me awfully hard, her mom mentioned that she had double checked to see if there was some joke being pulled on her, and once she finally screwed up the courage to come up to me and ask herself.  "Are you really pregnant she asked me?  Are you sure?"  I have mentioned here before that I had this question my own self on occasion after the morning sickness stopped but the showing and kicking had not yet begun, but I answered very confidently that I was quite certain.  No worries, no tricks here.

Well now that I am showing Maria José fairly runs up to me and greets Peanut, offering a little rub and even a kiss on the belly.  Then she looks up at me and says, "Ahora sí se ve, ¿verdad?" (Now you can tell, ya know?).  However, though she is now completely confident that a baby really is in there, she is dying to know whether it is a boy or a girl.  I have told her any number of times that we are waiting to find out, but she never fails to ask...just in case we are holding out on her.  We see her several times a week, and she asks every single time.  Finally last week I changed it up a little...

MJ:  "¿Es niño o niña?"  (Is it a boy or a girl?)

Me:  "Sí."  (Yes.)

MJ:  (gasp of surprise and hope...)  "¡¿Es niña?!"  (It is a girl?!)

Me:  "O niño."  (Or a boy.)

MJ:  (gasp of surprise and hope...)  "¡¿Es niño?!"  (It is a boy?!)

Me:  "O niña."  (Or a girl.)

MJ:  (sigh of frustration and furrowing of brow)  "Pfff...entonces, ¿es niño o niña?"  (ACK...so is it a boy or a girl?)

Me:  "Sí, es niño o niña."  (Yes, it is a boy or a girl.")

MJ:  "Aaaaaaaaahhhhh!"  

She might be tenacious, but ain't nobody saying I'm not either...  :)

G.I.T. and the Corral

My dad came to visit this past week.  He now signs his emails G.I.T. - Grandfather in Training.  He was only here for a short time, but he too brought a boat load of things down (okay, an extra suitcase, but these suitcases are jammed people) courtesy of a lot of pre-shopping done by my step-mother Libby.  I am now suited out with all the accouterments for breast feeding and pumping, my fair share of Combos and protein bars, first-aid supplies, and...of course...Cheerwine.

We took dad to church, to our grocery store, to the Museum of the Caribbean, and of course to the office on the grounds of Reformed University, but mostly we just hung out.  Dad loves to observe and people watch, so he was pretty content wherever we were, whether it was waiting for lunch in the food court, checking out the patrons of Crepes and Waffles, or marveling at the differences between north and south Barranquilla.  We were really sorry that Libby, Rob, and Jean could not make it down with him, but being a G.I.T. is tough work and there was some pretty heavy lifting going on.  It might have been safer for them at home this time. 

Here is the evidence...

G.I.T. and the Corral from Richard Williams on Vimeo.

Moving to Finland

Okay, so it is possible that we are not moving to Finland.  It is also possible that if I actually consider moving to Finland you all should quickly remind me that I have lamented our tendency to swing between regions with extreme temperatures rather than settling down in a nice, temperate zone.  However, Finland does have some pretty nice maternity/paternity/baby deals.

For instance, if you are a mom-to-be, you have the right to go on maternity live 50 days before your due date (at the earliest) and you have a maternity allowance paid to you for the first 105 days after your baby is born (not including Sundays or holidays - and if your employer pays you while you are on leave then the government pays your employer the maternity allowance).  The allowance is based on your salary, but there is a minimum, and if you were a student and not working or were not employed then you get the allowance (minimum) all the same.  Now, I have no idea how much it costs to live in Finland, but I still ascribe to the theory that some money is better than no money - can I get a witness?

On top of these benefits, I was amazed to see that every Finnish family-to-be (by birth or adoption) gets a pretty kicking "maternity package."  While the snowsuit, hat, and insulated mittens and booties might not be as critical here in Colombia, the balaclava would fit right in (in its own way...) and the onesies and jumpers and mattress/cover/sheets (and more) would be grand.  I would add a sun hat, sunscreen, and earplugs for overly amplified church services, but a little tweak here, a little tweak there and it still seems like a very good deal.  The package is valued at about 275 Euros (around $362 USD and $663,233 COP), so it is clearly nothing to sneeze at.  And if you do sneeze, you can use the included muslin squares to wipe your nose afterward.

It seems they thought of everything...

(PS. The real "mother/parent-lode" seems to be in Sweden where you get 480 days - that is 16 months - of leave with 80% of your salary for the first 390 days and the remaining 90 days at a flat rate.  A minimum of 60 days of this leave must be shared with dad, but you can divide it up however you wish.  Okay, so Sweden anyone?)