two weird hans-related things; also, a sentimental ode to my sister
i have known i am pregnant for a month today. what a month. i don't think i've ever been the recipient of so much good will in so short a time.
just before i found out, i was in a hans-related valley, made deeper by the belief that i was now going to be unable to ovulate like an average person again. (what a relief that i could still conceive, even if i've become an irregular egg-emitter.) there's no question that the advent of the tadpole makes the loss of hans easier to bear, which seems a little odd to me, because it's not as though the tadpole will ever replace hans. i fully understand that they are two separate people. and yet it does make the load lighter. weird.
we've been diligently working our way through season six of the simpsons, and it seems that in every episode that season there is an appearance by hans. hans moleman is a tiny, infirm, toothless, shrivelled man with coke-bottle glasses who (it was revealed in season two, i believe) is actually 35. as much as we love the simpsons, i never thought about hans the simpsons character in any relation to my son until he was gone. now, i get a little warm feeling every time hans moleman appears on screen - immediately followed by an "awwww!" of sympathy because the hans character always has some great misfortune befall him, and where it used to be funny, now i feel sweetly bad for him. also weird.
in a little bit i will fly the coop and pick up justin's grandmother and take her home to babysit my nephew while my mother and sister and justin and i go to dinner for my sister's birthday. she will be 29 tomorrow (which is very, very weird to me, as i still remember bringing her home from the hospital). we are going to empress taytu, an ethiopian restaurant; we will sit under the fake thatched hut inside the restaurant on low, woven stools around a small stand that will hold our communal food bowl. we will eat without utensils, instead using a torn piece of the spongy bread supplied to pick up each bite. neither my sister nor mother have ever had ethiopian food, or eaten in the traditional style, so we thought it would be a special experience. i love to go there with groups of people because it's a good example of how breaking bread together (in this case, literally) binds people together. i hope they enjoy it. and if they don't enjoy it, i hope they at least get some mileage out of the story they'll have to tell about it.
my parents' grand plan was to have two children, 2-5 years apart. a year and a half after they married, i arrived, and they were half way to perfection. but the second child never materialized (i found out only after my parents divorced a few years ago that my dad had slow swimmers, which makes me feel a little bit miraculous that i'm around*), so they began to pursue adoption with the state. they survived the home visits and my interview with a social worker (i was six and slightly smarty-pantsy, so they must have been a little nervous), but the wait for a baby took forever. then one day their attorney called them and said he knew of a situation and might be able to arrange a private adoption if they were interested. my sister was born a month later, on a saturday morning (at least the way i remember it - i do distinctly remember a tingly feeling when my mom answered that phone that morning). three days later, we got dressed up (i had a new yellow, knit top and skirt with an appliqued house scene on the top in reds and blues - hey, it was 1976 - give me a break) and rode in the attorney's motor home to the hospital. we had to wait outside in the motor home while he went inside, and then the next thing we knew he was climbing in with my sister in his arms. four months later, on my dad's birthday, we all went to the county courthouse, and the judge met with us in his chambers and made her adoption final.
her birthday is part of why i'm remembering how she came into the world, but it's also been on my mind because of her son, who looks so much like her, especially his twinkly, crinkly blue eyes. it's impossible to look at him and not remember my sister eating snow off the doormat or washing out her socks in the toilet. today she gets in fewer scrapes, but she is the sweetest, kindest person i know. i'm so lucky she's my sister.
*although maybe not that miraculous because six years after my sister was born, and thirteen years after me, my brother came along. my poor mother was 39 and certain that she must be pre-menopausal - was she in for a shock when she went to the doctor. my dad got snipped shortly thereafter.
just before i found out, i was in a hans-related valley, made deeper by the belief that i was now going to be unable to ovulate like an average person again. (what a relief that i could still conceive, even if i've become an irregular egg-emitter.) there's no question that the advent of the tadpole makes the loss of hans easier to bear, which seems a little odd to me, because it's not as though the tadpole will ever replace hans. i fully understand that they are two separate people. and yet it does make the load lighter. weird.
we've been diligently working our way through season six of the simpsons, and it seems that in every episode that season there is an appearance by hans. hans moleman is a tiny, infirm, toothless, shrivelled man with coke-bottle glasses who (it was revealed in season two, i believe) is actually 35. as much as we love the simpsons, i never thought about hans the simpsons character in any relation to my son until he was gone. now, i get a little warm feeling every time hans moleman appears on screen - immediately followed by an "awwww!" of sympathy because the hans character always has some great misfortune befall him, and where it used to be funny, now i feel sweetly bad for him. also weird.
in a little bit i will fly the coop and pick up justin's grandmother and take her home to babysit my nephew while my mother and sister and justin and i go to dinner for my sister's birthday. she will be 29 tomorrow (which is very, very weird to me, as i still remember bringing her home from the hospital). we are going to empress taytu, an ethiopian restaurant; we will sit under the fake thatched hut inside the restaurant on low, woven stools around a small stand that will hold our communal food bowl. we will eat without utensils, instead using a torn piece of the spongy bread supplied to pick up each bite. neither my sister nor mother have ever had ethiopian food, or eaten in the traditional style, so we thought it would be a special experience. i love to go there with groups of people because it's a good example of how breaking bread together (in this case, literally) binds people together. i hope they enjoy it. and if they don't enjoy it, i hope they at least get some mileage out of the story they'll have to tell about it.
my parents' grand plan was to have two children, 2-5 years apart. a year and a half after they married, i arrived, and they were half way to perfection. but the second child never materialized (i found out only after my parents divorced a few years ago that my dad had slow swimmers, which makes me feel a little bit miraculous that i'm around*), so they began to pursue adoption with the state. they survived the home visits and my interview with a social worker (i was six and slightly smarty-pantsy, so they must have been a little nervous), but the wait for a baby took forever. then one day their attorney called them and said he knew of a situation and might be able to arrange a private adoption if they were interested. my sister was born a month later, on a saturday morning (at least the way i remember it - i do distinctly remember a tingly feeling when my mom answered that phone that morning). three days later, we got dressed up (i had a new yellow, knit top and skirt with an appliqued house scene on the top in reds and blues - hey, it was 1976 - give me a break) and rode in the attorney's motor home to the hospital. we had to wait outside in the motor home while he went inside, and then the next thing we knew he was climbing in with my sister in his arms. four months later, on my dad's birthday, we all went to the county courthouse, and the judge met with us in his chambers and made her adoption final.
her birthday is part of why i'm remembering how she came into the world, but it's also been on my mind because of her son, who looks so much like her, especially his twinkly, crinkly blue eyes. it's impossible to look at him and not remember my sister eating snow off the doormat or washing out her socks in the toilet. today she gets in fewer scrapes, but she is the sweetest, kindest person i know. i'm so lucky she's my sister.
*although maybe not that miraculous because six years after my sister was born, and thirteen years after me, my brother came along. my poor mother was 39 and certain that she must be pre-menopausal - was she in for a shock when she went to the doctor. my dad got snipped shortly thereafter.
posted by laura at 5:24 PM
5 Comments:
Happy Birthday to your sister!
I have similar memories of bringing my brother home, although we're only 2.5 years apart. Happy birthday to your sister!
That's such a lovely story:) Happy birthday to your sister - she must feel pretty lucky too:)
What a wonderful story! You have a fabulous memory. Happy Birthday to your sister!
What a wonderful post, and I just hope someday I have children who remember each other washing socks in the toilet. It's so clear how much you love your sister.
And how loving a mother you are to empathize with poor Hans Moleman. The tadpole has such a wonderful family to look forward to.
Post a Comment
<< Home