Generosity

My dear colleague at work brought me 20 fresh eggs from her grandmother's chickens today.

I have been singing "Omelette. . . " to the tune of "Alouette" ever since.

Oh, my sandwich . . .

It is a little ridiculous how much of my morning is spent thinking about lunchtime, but that is the fate of a pregnant woman. It's all about the food.

Right now, for instance, my dear husband is making lasagna; prepped tonight, it can be baked tomorrow night with enough time left over for a family dinner. Of course, we had to pick up Lebanese take-out for dinner tonight so that he has time to make tomorrow night's feast, which seems a little counter-productive, but oh well. The smell of sauteed mushrooms, garlic, onions, and bechamel sauce is making me dizzy with hunger, and I just ate dinner.

But I really wanted to talk to you about my sandwich: A couple of weeks ago, I found a new mantra in one of the many woman's magazines to which I endlessly subscribe. The subject of the article was about healthy lunches and argued something along the lines of, "It takes just as much time to go to the deli, order a sandwich and bring it back to work as it does to pack your own lunch at home." This is such a simple concept, but I can't tell you how many times I have talked myself into picking something up on my lunch break because I was feeling too rushed before leaving the house for work.

As a result, making the perfect sandwich has become my new morning goal, especially because the lunch options around my office are limited indeed. I have been stealing five minutes and slapping together lettuce, tomato, pickles (yes, it's a cliche, but I can't help myself), cheese, and occasionally even some lunch meat. And oh those sandwiches are good.

Weekend's End

While Friday evening swishes past and Saturday positively sails, Sunday evening arrives with a resounding thud. Time to get everything done that I didn't do on Saturday and start thinking about the work week ahead. (On this week's agenda: practicing my lines as master of ceremonies at an event with 3,000 invited guests. It will be lots of fun to speak/mangle Romanian in front of THE president of Romania.)

But despite the upcoming work whirlwind, this was a wonderful weekend. I have been feeling so much better these past few weeks; my appetite has returned with a vengeance along with a tiny bit of energy. Not enough energy that I can clean the house to my satisfaction, but at least I managed to squeeze in a few minutes straightening, dusting, and scrubbing the mildew off the shower walls. It seems strange to feel grateful for such mundane chores, but I do.

During the arsenic hour just before dinner time, I taught Ms. Bee how to play with paper dolls. I had bought the "Little House" paper doll book about six months ago and had saving them for when I felt we could enjoy them together with minimal paper ripping. She obviously can't do any cutting, but enjoyed making the fashion choices and dressing "her dollies". I live for these kinds of relaxed, one-on-one, moments with my daughter.

I am always working for the weekend.

True love is

At breakfast, giving your daughter one half of your hard boiled egg when you only cooked one.

Books #30, #31, and #32

The Book of Negroes, by Lawrence Hill: Despite the very unsettling title I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys reading about history. Too often, American slavery is represented in literature as a footnote to a broader story, or even worse, romanticized. This book holds nothing back, as it chronicles the survival of Aminata Diallo, a young girl who is kidnapped by slave traders and sold into slavery in the American south.

Guests of the Ayatollah, by Mark Bowden: I stayed up way past my bedtime finishing this book last night, but I just couldn't stop reading until the hostages were rescued. Thank God that they were. It is shameful that it took so long.

The Audacity of Hope, by Barack Obama: I really, really like that our president has thought about the major issues affecting American society. It's a surprisingly interesting and fast read.

The end of Dr. Who

My evenings are going to be a lot quieter now that I finished watching the very last episode of season four of Dr. Who. No new shows until 2010. Oh, the Doctor. I will miss him and his ability to save the universe in each and every episode.

There is nothing I want to watch on Romanian TV unless you count the Romanian folk music channel. It broadcasts 24-7 and consists entirely of a group of Romanian singers wearing folk costumes standing in a row and taking turns singing karaoke to Romanian folk music. Sometimes they sway from side to side or maybe shimmy a little bit. Periodically someone holds up a glass of wine. I don't think it's a prop as much as a way to keep the inanity going. There is always a fat guy who fills his embroidered shirt near to bursting.

To my untrained ears, it seems as though you can tune in at any hour of day and the same song is playing, but of course this cannot be. The thing is, if I turn it on accidentally, I am instantly lulled into a kind of stupor until my husband says, "What is that you are watching?" "Musica noastra" ar fi musica mea.

So instead I am reading three different books at the same time, which means it'll take three times as long to get them all finished. I started Mark Bowden's "Guests of the Ayatollah" last night and spent nearly three hours transported in horror. In addition to chronicling the hostage taking with excruciating detail, Bowden's book gives an interesting perspective into what is happening in Iran nowadays. To the pages!

Childisms

We have been reading a lot of the Disney princess easy reader anthology. (5 stories in one! 5 princesses in one book!)

With an abundance of choices in one slender volume: Cinderella, Snow White, Belle, Aurora or Jasmine, for Bee, other story books pale in comparison at the moment. Unfortunately for me, the reader, the stories are easy readers, comprising simple sentences, a mere string of facts shadowing the general princess plot lines.

They. Plod. Along.

However, in the final story, Jasmine receives a pet tiger from her father to make her happy. (You can't read too much into this.) She names it Rajah. He keeps her safe from harm.

Every time I read this story, and indeed that is frequently, Miss Bee asks me, in a serious tone of voice, "Who is Harm, Mommy?"

As if Harm were a Disney character to be vanquished, one more step on the journey to a happy ending. If only.

"Harm is just another word for trouble, Bee," I cautiously explain. But still, she persists in asking. She is certain that Harm is a person. And in some places I am certain he is.

My darling daughter, if you only knew, that it is my one wish, my one prayer--to always keep you safe from harm. May you never meet Him.