"It" is a "She"

Using my best emotional blackmail tactics, I persuaded my OB to sneak me in for an unscheduled (and unpaid for) scan last Friday for a quick determination of baby's gender.

In the end the majority (61%) of you were correct . The Chinese calender was also correct, as were Matt and I, many relatives and, of course, Thomas.

"It" is in fact, a "she." The little girl I've dreamed of, and imagined myself having for many years is a reality. Check out those runner's calves!

Now if we could just decide on a name...

Untitled Tattle

Ok, I admit it. I've got nothing to write about other than my pregnancy/impending motherhood, and there's no point pretending otherwise. I've decided against starting up running again, mainly because I feel so darn uncomfortable just walking a few miles that I can't imagine running would be pleasant. All power to those women who run into their 9th month - seriously. I am in awe. These days I need to pee approximately every 20 minutes (TMI? - you'd better stop reading now!)...often the powerful sensation to pee again hits me immediately - i.e. when I've just stood up from the bowl. I kid you not. It's obviously a false sensation, but it feels every bit as authentic and uncomfortable as if I have three pints of lager sloshing around in my bladder.

Even though I'm not running, I'm still 'keeping a hand in,' as is recommended. I continue to read the magazines avidly every month, continue to go up to the track on Wednesday evenings to watch enviously as my teammates run their intervals, continue to talk about running every chance I get with whomever will listen. But as the pounds pile on, and I find myself completely winded after galloping up the four flights of stairs to catch my #7 train in the mornings, I do worry that my beloved hobby of running is becoming more and more just a distant memory - an abstract concept, less and less a true part of my identity. The fact I ran a 3:30 marathon just 6 months ago now seems like the most bizarre notion.

It's odd to have one love of my life entirely and equally eclipsed by another. I'd have never thought it possible.

Everything seems to have moved on apace in the past 2-3 weeks. I feel like I've ballooned, and the baby is moving around like a crazed thing every day; a most hilarious sight and sensation that has absolutely no parallel. Just this past weekend I switched my thinking from 'pregnancy' to 'actual miniature human person on its way:' a subtle but critical shift in perspective. The inaugural 'baby gear' shopping spree and giant hand-me-down packages arriving in the mail via generous relatives prompted this development, methinks.

Since becoming pregnant I've leaned that no less than seven good friends/peers are also expecting. Each time I find out about yet another one, it's like being given a little gift. An amazing maternity gift - one comprising the promise of immediate and future shared experiences, companionship and joy. I am one ridiculously lucky person.

Two planes, seven ferries, four islands, five hotels, three hikes, one celebrity sighting and a wedding later...

We're back from a terrific break to N. Ireland and Scotland.

My friend's wedding day was the stuff of fairy tales, with the ceremony held in her family's gorgeous wee church (circa 1595) followed by the reception in beautiful Belfast Castle.

We spent just a couple more days in Belfast, a city I've always liked a lot. Two highlights were sitting in a private snug in one of our favourite bars in the world (& we've been to a few!) - The Crown Liquor Saloon, and, while in the Europa Hotel (the most bombed hotel in Europe) spotting my favourite TV actor John C. McGinley.

The rest of the holiday was spent exploring Bute and Argyll in Scotland by car and on foot. I was very happy to find out that I'm still capable of some not-inconsiderable hiking.

At low tide we were able to walk to Davaar Island off the coast of Campbelltown in Kintyre via a causeway. Save for a few hundred sheep, we had the entire island to ourselves. We had been assured that the '7th cave on the right' held a reward for our scrambling over rocks for an hour to get there - a painting of Christ on the cross drawn in secret by a local man over 100 years ago. We were not disappointed.

The Isle of Bute was fantastic. The landscape is not as dramatic (i.e. mountainous) as on Arran or Skye, but it's no less beautiful. On our last night there, we took off from Rothesay on a random drive around the island (it's hard to get lost, it's that small) and ended up on our own private huge sandy beach watching a stunning sun set.

Everywhere we went in Scotland - particularly Bute - I could not stop thinking about the landscape in terms of running potential. I may have begun to annoy Matt with my constant interpretation of how every trail, road, field and hill would make a super running route. Do you think they have a running club here? ...if I moved here, I'd have to start a club...imagine having this scenery on my daily runs!...think how prepared I'd be for Boston, running these hills every day, etc. etc. and so on...

This trip has whetted my appetite to explore the whole of the Western Isles and Hebrides at some point in my life. In spite of the unreliable weather, I've decided this has all the ingredients of my ideal vacation: beautiful scenery, outdoor activities, long days in which to enjoy these activities (the sun rises at about 4am and doesn't set until about midnight in summer!), fascinating history and historical sites, and a very powerful personal connection. Let's hope Matt, I and the kid(s) can comply with this ubiquitous, friendly roadside sentiment in the not too distant future.