Hello Bobby

They say you know that baby is bound to arrive any day when you feel a strong nesting impulse kick in. Perhaps because I neglected the urge to bake nut rolls, cook piles of freezer bound goulash, and clean the house from top to bottom this week, I had no sense of when baby #2 would actually make his appearance.

The efforts I did make were less focused on the place we live, but on the people who live it. I made sure Mommy and Daddy got enough sleep. And I took a stab at transitioning big sister from a toddler to a little girl. We tried out her big girl bed, we've been attempting the potty, and I've been bartering away the bottle. She's learned the words patient, and frustration, and gentle, gentle, GENTLE! But unfortunately, she's still sleeping in baby's crib, drinking milk out of baby's bottle, and cramping the space in baby's diaper drawer with her own.

Regardless, when you surprised us by coming into the world yesterday, we were ready for you. 100%. Our loving embrace couldn't have been more eager to snuggle you away from the cold Chicago winter. And along with the camera, which was packed in my hospital bag for the past couple days, I brought a placeholder bedtime book to help reinterpret your birth story.

Good Afternoon Bobby
Loosely based on Goodnight Moon 

In Mommy and Daddy's blue room.
At 1:30 AM, Mommy broke her tummy's water balloon.
And she woke up Daddy to go vroom vroom!
And your sister was sleeping, sound in her bed.
And Mimi was on her way to watch her in our stead.

At the hospital, I was introduced to the delivery room
Where there was a nurse named Martha
And a Dr. named Schied.
And sweet thoughts of your welcome to the world cries.
I laid there waiting for the regular pains to commence.
Schied said we'd be there all day, so they gave me 'pid' to hop the fence.
And then they came. Oh, how they came fast.
And Mommy called for them to bring her relief at last.
Dr. Johnson took his merry old time. But at last he made it.
A prod and pinch later, labor became easy with his cool kit.
I still shivered. I still grasped the bed in pain.
But in comparison to your sister, I stayed perfectly sane.
Before long, it was time to push.
Dr. Halperin told me to do it from my tush.

You were born at lunchtime. 12:41 PM to be exact.

Weighing a whopping 6 pounds, 7 ounces.

Measuring 20.5 inches long.

The sun is coming out. It's a chilly, Chicago day.
So I won't say goodnight, I'll say hello if I may.
Hello Mommy.

Hello Daddy.

Hello Drs. and Nurses.

Hello food. And warm bed.

Hello to TWO Opas.

Hello Mimi and Nana.

Hello Eva.

And Mary.

Hello possibilities, hopes and dreams.
Hello World.
Meet my little Bobby.

I couldn't love you anymore, sweet little boy.

Lo /  Mommy.

Mine

The other day, Peter, Mary and I were walking to the park. The top of a pine cone was sticking out of the snow. Peter picked it up and gave it to Mary.
"Do you know what this is?" Peter asked.
"Yeah!" (Her typical confident response.)
"It's a pine cone."
"Yeah. Mine cone."
"No, PINE cone. With a P."
"Mine cone."
She grabbed it and walked on.

In relatively recent news, Mary learned the word mine. Over the past couple months, she has been polishing an understanding of the possessive and with it commenced bold negotiations to claim everything in sight.

On a daily basis, Mary takes pride defining just what is Mary's.
Mary's boots. 
Mary's bed. 
Mary's book. 
Mary's potty.

And in contrast, what is Mommy's. Or Daddy's. Or Goofy's for that matter.
Mommy's boots. 
Mommy's bed.
Mommy's book.   
Mommy's potty. 

But sometimes she oversteps her bounds. Say, when I bring home presents for Bobby from my co-workers.
My piggy. 
No, that's Bobby's piggy bank. 
No mine. I hold it. 
No honey, you can't. It's breakable. 
Tears.
Hugs.
Piggy needs to go back in the box. 
No mine. 
Bye bye, Piggy. 

Or say, when Peter comes home, looking for a kiss from his obliging wife, and Mary runs over to break up the embrace.
"No mine," she says.
"Yours?," I say taken aback. "I'm not yours, honey ... I'm Daddy's too." 

As any parent of a toddler can attest, delivering an education on yours, mine and ours can be challenging. And if you're like me, you dread the first time your child uses the word 'mine' in front of her peers, pushing another little boy away from the monkey on the mural at the public library, laying claim to the place she likes to sit and read. I'm told it's a phase and part of her development and it takes time; that talking through the concept of sharing and taking turns and other kids getting in your space will eventually make the over aggressive possessive disappear. But I'm getting a little anxious.

The problem is, it's crunch time in our household. In just a couple weeks, Mary will need to take turns in a way that she has never experienced before. And I don't mean with her toys; I mean with me. Sure, she's familiar sharing me with work, and the stove, and the running trail, but generally speaking when I'm home, I'm hers. And I have to say, I'm already starting to feel bad; I already feel like there won't be enough of me to go around.

I'm afraid that I'm going to have to postpone doughnut dates, that Minnie and Goofy will go mute, that snowmen won't get built in a timely fashion, and that I won't be there in time to give a hug or dry a tear.

So we've been practicing: the word patient, the concept of frustration, and other people jumping in when a very pregnant Mommy needs a break. At this point, I'm telling myself that it will all work out, and that my big baby will quickly mature into my little helper, eager to share her world with her little brother. But nonetheless, I want her to know that even though at first it might feel like Mommy is a shared commodity, my heart and my calendar will always have a special place just for Mary. I want her to know that my love for her is endless. And I want her to know that she will always be mine as I will always be hers.

Lo.

Kicks

In 1987, my parents got a video camera. There and then started a decade or more of home movies that capture candid synopses of our developing personalities.

While it was never scripted that I should have the starring role, I found a reason to make my way into every frame. My Dad would purposely zoom in on Adam to freeze his adorable toddling in time, or on my sister, asking her to elaborate on the poetic letter to Santa that she was transcribing. And out of nowhere I would jump in. I never had anything prepared - the song and dance and one woman kick line were always spontaneous, random, ridiculous. But I clamored for the lights and the camcorder, viewing it as my entree into Hollywood. Call it middle child syndrome, it's just who I was. And arguably still am.

Last week, while sitting in a high profile meeting with my VP, Bobby started kicking me. I was trying to pay attention to my boss' every direction, but my stomach was jolting from one side to the next. Commanding a cease fire had no effect. I sat there wondering how long it would take for the conversation to shift toward the party Bobby was throwing in my belly.

This week, while running, Bobby found no reason to sit back and relax. For every one of my bounces, he seemed to take two as he tread in place in utero.

Last night, while reading to Mary, Bobby curled up a little closer to my heart, partitioning his territory from his sister's. I could feel the sibling rivalry commencing.

As he grows in these last couple weeks leading up to his debut, he's demanding more and more of my attention. And rightly so. I'm 34 weeks along in my second pregnancy and suddenly reality is hitting. I'm having another baby. And the question remains, am I ready?

There are moments that I feel bad. When I was pregnant with Mary, I feel like I documented every moment and felt every kick. At night, I would lay down and talk directly to her, telling her about the life she was about to enter. In comparison, in the past eight months, I can count the number of times I've focused solely on Bobby and inherently solely on me.

It's work. And in particular it's the project I'm working on. Yes, our made to order burgers are now being served in Downers Grove, Illinois. And they are delicious.

It's the holidays: the tree trimming, present wrapping, menu making, and cookie baking.

And it's Mary.      

I just can't get enough play time, story time, craft time, bath time and snuggle time with her. And I know, in a way, just as I sometimes think about life when it was just us two, I will cherish the days when life was just us three.

But Bobby, I want you to know, that this Christmas, the best is yet to come. And I love that your little scene stealing kicks are getting stronger every day. I believe you have a little bit of your Mom in you, and I can't wait to tilt the video function of my iPhone onto your sweet little face come February.

My belly and heart are filled with nothing but love for you and excitement for your arrival.

Lo.

One Down, Two to Go

One of the things I love about my job is its proximity to the Test Kitchen. And with it, a certain redefinition of the typical corporate meeting. Powerpoints include stunning, mouth-watering visuals. Prototypes aren't etched on flip charts, they are edible. Speeches, even the long soliloquies, tend to be salivating. And there are less pen strokes, more fork lifts. Simply put, my job tends to be quite delicious.  

The problem is, earlier this month, the food quotient of my career became an enemy. Something in my stomach flipped and the charge to show, test, taste and take notes on burger after burger, thin patty after thick patty almost lead to several job-ending upchucks right in the middle of my beloved Test Kitchen. 

In the nearly three weeks since I have last written, headaches, nausea and fatigue have ruled the better part of my days. But in an effort to diminish the pervasive plague's role in my life, there were other great things that happened.

Mary learned how to go down a slide by herself. 

And alongside a friend.

We went to the Zoo. 

And to the beach. 

We got to hang out with old friends. 

And meet some new ones. 

We had a short visit from one cousin. 

And a longer visit from another.

We boated with Kiki.
And plunged into chilly Lake Michigan waters.   

The grass grew. 

And it was cut. 

The house got dirty. 

And it was cleaned. 

The gherkins were harvested and pickled. 

Bubbles.
Bubbles.
And more bubbles.  

I held my breath as I tasted the control patty. 

I thought non nauseous thoughts when I tasted the thicker, juicier burger. 

I focused on just taking a bite of the pickle when I tasted the deluxe. 

I drank lots of water.
And I avoided several near projectile situations.  

My top button popped. 

I moved into roomier jeans. 

And I got a first glimpse of the little peach rapidly growing inside me. 

Yep, number two is 13-weeks on its way. And Peter and I couldn't be happier; both that Mary will be a big sister in February and that I'm finally over the rocky waters and back loving my McJob. 

Lo. 

Raging

As a pre-teen, a lot gets blamed on hormones. A sudden mood swing, the slightest sign of forgetfulness, a bad game, poor grade, and that unexplained temper tantrum all can be chalked up to a case of raging hormones; that time of the month; and three letters: P. M. S.

The thing is, I feel like I never had the typical chemical swell of most junior high students. Either I had enough optimism and energy to combat my hormonal cadences or I just never experienced the dramatic variability like others. However, I did pay attention as my friends used their hormones as the ultimate alibi: to miss a day of school, grant themselves license to offend, or justify a weight gain. There was likely no veracity to my claims, but I embraced the catch-all excuse with everyone else. Nah, it wasn't the Entenmann's Crumb Top donuts, I'm just bloated. You know; that time of the month.

It was only recently that I had my big hormonal aha! moment. The pregnancy, labor, delivery and postpartum corridor hit me like a chemical tornado of mood-altering, head-aching, body-shaking, sweat-producing, cramp-causing, milk-dripping, eye-leaking, sentiment-sapping shock. So this is what those cursed hormones can do.

As an unscientific student, far more concerned with the artistic representation of the cell,  human anatomy, or periodic table than the actual information contained within each of my science projects, the biology and chemistry that my body is going through is Greek to me. I get the gist of things, but the nitty gritty - who knows.

From what the doctors and nurses told me, something called oxytocin made the hours of 9 PM and 7:20 AM 11 days ago miserable; it produced involuntary, uncontrollable tremors, painful contractions, and buckets of sweat. It was some combination of adrenaline and endorphins that helped me expel a baby from my body. The ebbs and flows of estrogen have made my tear ducts quite prolific. And perhaps the combination of all four of these chemical reactions has led to jolts of anxiety, a stomach that won't settle, and several female moments.

Finally, I can pin the unexplainable aberrations on the ultimate culprit: hormones. So a couple nights ago, during one of those female moments that happened to turn tearful, I did just that. The interrupted sleep had caught up with me. Another long day under house arrest had enhanced the exhaustion. Eating dinner with one hand and just a fork had proven difficult. A wail broke our conversation, the smell of honey mustard chicken sparked the hunger of someone else, and just like that I let the 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' rule slide. As a gentle tear dropped on Mary's head I told my dining partners, 'Our dinners will never be the same. Daddy and I will never be the same.'   

Peter smiled at me and said, 'Oh. But that's just because I love you more than ever.'

One small tear led to several more heavier, wetter ones. I looked down at my beautiful little girl, so satisfied in her sucking, then at my husband who was looking at me like I was the mother of the year, and realized how silly and unlike me I sounded. Darn hormones. 

But in retrospect, I have to say there was truth in the statement. Having a baby does change everything. The routine that you clung to for comfort, the extensive to do list, your pace, your priorities, your relationships, your quiet dinners for two. They all change. But so far I have found, even through a couple tears, that the changes are for the best. Given the heightened sense of accomplishment, love, gratitude, and peace that I feel at the end of each day, there is no doubt that the addition of Mary, whimpers, wails, blow outs, epic feedings, and all, makes our little team stronger than ever.

Lo.

The Night You Were Born

When my sister and I were young, we shared a room. We had matching twin beds, matching night stands, matching sheets, and matching bed times. But occasionally, we tried to outstay our 9:00 PM curfew by throwing ourselves what we called a 'Library Party.' It was a secret, exclusive affair, hosted by my sister on her bed under the big Noah's Ark painting. After our parents tucked us in and turned off the lights, our flash lights would go on, our books would come off our shelves, and my stuffed animals and I would climb onto Erin's bed. She would start reading me book after book with big plans to make this an all-night affair. For a half an hour or so, I would revel in our rebellion, but shortly after my innate need for sleep would lull me back to my own side of the room.

As perhaps fate would have it, I never managed to pull an all-nighter. In high school, if my work wasn't done by 9:00 PM, I would wake up early in the morning and finish it. In college, I couldn't understand why or how the architects and engineers could stay up all night to finish their projects. I was never around for the really juicy stories from the party that took place on the other side of midnight. And no amount of work, stress, or anxiety has fended off sleep for me recently.

However, on Wednesday night, I pulled my first real all-nighter - a crowning achievement. And with it, I developed my first Library Party book to read to Mary. 

On The Night You Were Born 

Adapted from the original, dedicated to my Mary Clare 

On the night you were born, I made homemade pizza for your Grandma, Daddy and me. 

Then we drove to the hospital, went straight back to Labor and Delivery, and checked in. 

On the night you were born, they gave me this medicine called Cervidil, which was supposed to just soften my cervix overnight. Mommy thought it was going to be a painless process, that I would get a good night sleep in the hospital, wake up refreshed, have a cup of tea, and then get the show on the road the next morning. 

On the night you were born, I was wrong. So wrong. 

On the night you were born, the Cervidil pushed me right into active labor while I cursed the choice of pizza for dinner and my one Tum allotment. 

On the night you were born, I scrapped by birthing plan and demanded an epidural. 

On the night you were born, I was denied, because the Cervidil and the anesthesia didn't complement each other. 

On the night you were born, I didn't sleep a wink. I drifted in and out of consciousness. In and out, then deeper in and less out of pain. 

On the night you were born, your Daddy held Mommy's hand and did all that he could to make me feel better. 

On the night you were born, there was a sweet nurse named Gia who helped your Mom get through some of the tougher pains too. 

On the night you were born, they pulled out the Cervadil and low and behold, I was already 6 centimeters dilated. I got raving reviews from my nurses and they finally paged the anesthesiologist. 

On the night you were born, the anesthesiologist took his grand old time, as Mommy curled up in more and more pain. 

On the night you were born, as the doctor with the drugs was trying to work his magic, I felt your little head and told the doctor to stop, 'I have to poop!' 

He said, 'that's not poop, check her.' 

On the night you were born, Dr. Halperin arrived and checked me. She said you're not getting drugs, you're going to have a baby. 

So along with a team of nice nurses, she told Mommy to push, push, PUSH! 

And I did, did, DID! 

Until you popped out and into our world. 

On the day you were born, in Early Riser style you woke up with the Midwestern sun at 7:20 AM. 

That same day, you got measured and weighed, 5 pounds 7 ounces, 20.25 inches, you stamped your tiny foot prints, and you got your first bath. 

You met your grandparents, Aunt Claire and Uncle Trent. 

We ate sushi and toasted you with my favorite champagne. 

You got showered with blessings and well wishes from your family and Mommy and Daddy's friends. 

You marveled us with your big blue eyes, full head of hair, and petite frame. 

And you made Mommy and Daddy cry. 

On the day you were born, you changed my life and filled my heart with a kind of love that is in indescribable - the kind of love that makes any amount of pain, drug-free and all, bearable. 

I would say, 'The End,' but it's just the beginning. 

Lo / Mommy. 

Overdue

When Peter and I toured our Parish's grade school several weeks ago, the student ambassadors referred to their non-core classes as 'specials.' I coaxed them to say it again:
'What did you call Art Class again?'
'A special.'
I smiled, reminiscing about my days at St. Edmund's. We had used that term as well. We called all the classes that only appeared on our schedule two or three times a week 'specials' too: Gym, Language Arts, Chapel and Chapel Rehearsal, Art, Library, Woodshop, Music. You name it, they offered it at St. Edmund's.

The first through third graders were the luckiest though - they had the best 'special' of all: Sewing, Cooking, and Crafts. It was just one class, the title rolling off your tongue in one breath, but broken into three trimester-long parts with three very special teachers. It was my grade school's version of early home ec. And it was so special that it only happened once a week, always leaving us craving more.

The first trimester was spent in Mrs. Goetz' fourth grade room, crafting. With her, we learned how to use glue guns; how to make a little game of catch using cardboard cones, string and a bouncy ball; how to turn four little pieces of canvas and green yarn into a frog that you could squeeze open to reveal the Hershey Kiss that he held inside; and how to bead nationality necklaces using clothespins personally decorated to look like your early ancestors. When I designed my German man to look like a Nazi in second grade though, it caused quite a stir. I learned a little more about swastikas than the Sound of Music offered that day.  

During the second trimester, we rotated to Mrs. Stone's Language Arts classroom, where we learned the finer points of sewing. We went home with pillows, purses and little stuffed birds - perfect Mother's Day gifts.

Finally, toward the end of the year, we moved to my favorite of the trifecta, cooking with Mr. Friedman, the art teacher. We received lessons in preparing fettucini alfredo, swedish meatballs, Rice Krispie treats, and more. It was before the days when allergens and food sensitivities were banned from schools. Certain kids would complain about the menu du jour:
'I'm lactose intolerant.'
'I don't eat red meat.'
'I'm allergic to peanut butter.'
'Well, more for us,' said Mr. Friedman.
I remember how amazing it was to eat a small portion of fettucini on a paper plate in the middle of the day - a treat normally reserved for an apres ski family dinner at Nino Barsotti's.


Over the past ten days, I feel like I created the dream schedule for my eight-year old self. No mandatory core classes, just a never-ending rotation of specials, but with some minor variations: Chapel was replaced with Mass, gym with jogging, Library with its Western Suburban counterparts, and music with labor and delivery mix reshuffling. And what used to be just once a week, is now a daily occurrence - I've been cooking and crafting ad infintum. I removed the sewing part of the equation though. I was never that good at it anyway. I have filled page after page in the latest edition of my scrap book. I have drawn, painted, and framed. The other day, I even went to Joann Fabrics for supplies, which let me just tell you, hosts a pretty interesting crowd midday. I expanded my daily dinner repertoire to include a specially packed lunch for Peter everyday, hosted a couple inspired dinner parties, and have more on the baking docket today.

The problem is, it's the equivalent of Grandparents and Special Friends Day this weekend - my parents, Nana and Opa, are en route. Just like the annual day at St. Edmund's where I got to showcase all my special work to Double G, Grandma and my babysitter - the masterpieces I had made, the songs I had learned, the poems I could recite - today or tomorrow, my parents are looking forward to seeing my nine month-long project. Except little Miss Mary isn't quite ready yet. While all the other projects I've been working on for the past week and a half are ready, my stubborn little girl has decided she needs a little more time in the oven.

You know how it feels to travel all day - long flights, layovers, an estimated arrival time that is way past your bedtime. And then when you finally reach your destination, the bag that the flight attendant made you check just isn't coming around the turn style. Everyone else slowly, but surely sees their bag, picks it up and goes home. But you have to wait and wait and wait. Well, this morning, as yet another 2013 baby popped up on my Facebook newsfeed, I had that exact feeling. Like my precious cargo just won't appear. And I'm done waiting; ready to file a complaint.

Mary, if this were Library, you would definitely be getting an overdue notice.

Lo.

Nesting

On Wednesday, I started my maternity leave. But to be precise, I'm still not a full fledged mom. I'm still awaiting, willing the arrival of our little one who is apparently quite content staying in utero for the time being.

This pre-due date week is a perk that my company gives to mothers. A wonderful one, which I suppose is meant to offer you time to make all the remaining, necessary preparations for the new addition to your household. To nest per se - an instinct that I have found to be very real, particularly amongst type A people, like myself.

The problem is that my nesting began a couple weeks ago, so by Wednesday afternoon, much of my to-do list had already been accomplished. I've cooked, cleaned, organized, and shopped. I caught up on a year's worth of scrapbooking and a month or more of delinquent personal correspondence. I've continued to cram for my labor and delivery test on March 6. And I even drew up a birth plan. But by yesterday afternoon, I was tapped. So instead of playing mom-to-be, I diverted my attention toward the feathering of my own little nest in the middle of the couch in the basement, where I laughing out loud to episode after episode of Arrested Development, which let me just tell you is still funny the third time around. 

This morning, feeling guilty for the R and R that I allowed myself yesterday, I renewed my commitment to nesting. I asked myself, what would my Mom have done before the arrival of her kids? The answer to that came in a text a couple minutes later: 'I worked until I went into labor.' Right. So I looked another generation back. What would Grandma Barry have done before the arrival of each of her eight kids?

Make meals to feed an army and freeze them? Yes. 
Stay comfy in her 'intermediates?' Absolutely.
Screen the door for strange utility men who you don't want in your house? Certainly.
Make some nut rolls? Most definitely.
Bake dozens of cookies? Of course.
With many future dinners already occupying the freezer, and while already dedicated to stretch pants and screening, I turned to baking today. And a typical Barry baking day at that. Three nut rolls: one for the freezer, one to give away to a deserving visitor, and one for breakfast tomorrow. And three dozen maple twists, which I fondly remember lining many of Grandma's cookie trays.

I concluded that another part of nesting is continuing to feed your baby bird, so I wasn't shy about sampling.

Since my typical TGIF tweet seems irrelevant without a workday to say goodbye to, I'm shouting a more appropriate exclamation: TGIM. That is, thank God it's March.

Lo.

Maple Twists 
Makes 3 dozen 

Ingredients for Dough: 
2 1/2 cups of flour
2 sticks of unsalted butter, chilled and cut into pieces
1 1/2 packages of dry, active yeast
2 tablespoons hot water
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 1/2 egg yolks (I cut this recipe in half, thus the dividing of an egg.)
3/4 cup sour crean
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon salt
1-2 tablespoons of ice water

Nut filling: 
2 tablespoons cinnamon
1 1/2 cups finely chopped walnuts 

Icing:
2 cups confectioners sugar
1 tablespoon melted butter
2 tablespoons milk, or just enough to make the icing a smooth, spreadable consistency. 
1/2 teaspoon maple extract
Directions:
In a small bowl, combine the yeast, water and sugar. Let the yeast dissolve for 10 minutes. It should look like brownish mush when it is ready.

Using a pastry blender, in a large bowl combine the flour and butter until the mixture resembles course meal. In another small bowl, combine egg yolks, sour cream, vanilla, salt and yeast mixture. Stir till just blended. Make a well in the middle of the flour in the large bowl, and add the wet ingredients. Blend into dough using your hands, until it comes together. You might need to add 1 or 2 tablespoons of ice water to get it to stick together. (I did.) Wrap the dough tightly and refrigerate for at least three hours or overnight.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

When the dough is ready, combine the ground nuts and cinnamon and set aside. Remove the dough and cut it in half. Spread about 1/4 cup of sugar on a large, lightly floured cutting board, and roll out dough over the sugar, incorporating the sugar into the dough. Roll the dough until is about 1/8 of an inch thick, and about the size of a 20x12 inch rectangle. Sprinkle the walnut mixture over the dough. Fold into third like an envelop, gently pressing the final fold to seal the dough slightly. Cut the dough into 3x1 inch strips and carefully twist each slice about three times around. Set on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 375 for 15 minutes or until just turning golden brown. Cool completely.

Combine the icing ingredients and dip the tops of each (cooled) cookie in the icing. Refrigerate for 45 minutes or so until icing is set.

Large Nut Rolls 
Makes 3 Nut Rolls 

Ingredients for Dough:
3 1/2 cups flour
1 egg, beaten
1/2 packet of yeast, dissolved in 2 tablespoons hot water and 1/2 teaspoon sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1 stick (8 tablespoons) of unsalted butter
3/4 cup milk, divided into 1/2 cup and 1/4 cup
1/4 teaspoon salt

Nut Filling:
3 cups finely chopped walnuts
3/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 cups applesauce

Mix together the nut filling, set aside.

In a small saucepan, over medium heat, melt butter with 1/4 cup milk, salt, and sugar. Remove from heat and reduce the temperature by whisking until its still hot, but bearable to touch by hand.

In a large bowl, combine flour with dissolved yeast, 1/2 cup milk and egg. Add the milk mixture and knead until the dough is soft and supple. Cut the dough in three parts.

Roll out the first part of the dough on a lightly floured surface. It should reach the shape of a rectangle about 18x12 inches.  Spread about a third of the nut mixture all over the top of the dough, then carefully roll up the dough over the nut filling as tightly as possible. Wet your hands and gently seal the ends. Place seam side down on a cookie sheet. Repeat the process with the remaining dough and nut mixture. If you use a big cookie sheet, you should be able to fit all the nut rolls on one of them.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Then bake for 45-50 minutes or until golden brown.

Medical Advice

Folks, we are getting SO close.
SO uncomfortable.
SO anxious.
SO ready.
We're at 38.5 weeks and I'm told that any day now I could go into labor and into the hospital as Mary works her way out. At this final stage of pregnancy, it's all about getting ready for judgment day - those hours of pain in the hospital, which I know won't be pleasant. But I believe I have a great support network around me, ready to help me through it - a network that includes my doctors.

Over the past nine months, I've really come to like my OB group. There are six doctors in the practice, and I have seen all but one of them. For the majority of my pregnancy I saw the three senior physicians who have been bringing babies into this world for a combined 110 years or so. Each of them made the process less overwhelming, added his own sense of humor to our medical dialogues, and had an affinity for Notre Dame. Three winners.

For my most recent appointments though, I made an effort to see the women of the practice. I wanted to make sure I at least knew the face and manner of the doctor that could be in the room with me at the final hour. Not surprisingly, both were very thorough. In fact, I was a little taken aback by just how thorough Dr. R. was on Thursday afternoon.

Our post exam conversation went a little something like this ...

So, do you have any questions?
Am I just going to keep getting fatter until Mary arrives?
It's mostly water retention at this point. You will notice increased swelling.
My ankles already noticed it.
When do you think I will go into labor? 
It's hard to say. But sometimes, some women build such a nice home for their babies that they don't want to come out.
(I knew she liked the morning runs!)
We generally let women go till 41 weeks. If they haven't made progress at that point, we will schedule an induction.
I read that inducing labor isn't ideal - that it's better for you and the baby to go into labor naturally. (Yes, you'd be proud - I've been reading.)
True. And there are ways that you can entice labor to start. Some of these are wives tales, but generally, they work. Let's see ... keep up the running and walking. Drink red raspberry leaf tea. Sex. And something else that can help is having diarrhea. The contractions of the bowels can spur on labor. Try White Castle. Lots of women have been having success with White Castle. Now, I'm not saying go to White Castle every day for the next two weeks - but give it a try.
(Mouth agape. My doctor is literally telling me go to White Castle to get diarrhea. Thank heavens she didn't tell me to try McDonald's.)
I nodded. Thanked her for her sage advice and got dressed.

Yesterday, I tried a couple of the tactics, but to no avail. It's still early after all, and I still have stuff to do: a couple more finishing touches to put on the nursery, a bag that needs to get packed, a few more chapters to read ...

And several more meals, just for two, to cook. Peter's birthday Clam Chowder, made by me, but under the guidance and coaching of my husband, was the best of this week. 

When it comes to 40+ weeks though, for the first time in my life, you might just find me pulling out of the drive-thru with a bag of sliders and a milkshake in tow. And if the mission is a success, I plan to suggest a new marketing slogan to White Castle - 'medically proven to make little miracles happen for the past  92 years.'

Lo.