To bank or not to bank...
Cord blood, that is the question.
It makes all the sense in the world: bank your baby's cord blood and if needed someday, use it to cure her. It's as simple as that... or is it?
When I first heard of it, I immediately planned on doing it - why wouldn't I? Who wouldn't want to bank the potential to save their child?
Then I found out the cost and I nearly gave birth... to bankruptcy.
Here in New Jersey it costs upwards to $3000.00 for the initial fee and then an additional annual charge for storage.
Three grand is a small price to pay to save your child however it's a HUGE cost to pay up front when your family is about to cut its income in half and increase its expenses significantly.
We are going to look into it, despite the cost, and I hope we'll be able to work it out but I'm wondering if any of you have chosen to bank. Any additional information would be much appreciated!
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The West Calls
I want to move out west, perhaps Idaho or Utah.
Last fall, Matty and I hopped a plane to Boise and spent a long weekend with my aunt and uncle at their fabulous home.
Last fall, Matty and I hopped a plane to Boise and spent a long weekend with my aunt and uncle at their fabulous home.
We woke up each morning to cinnamon flavored coffee
delivered direct to our suite via dumbwaiter:
Toured wineries and enjoyed the
beauty of the Idahoan countryside:
Fell in love with the beauty of mountain lakes:
Wore fur without fear of paint splatters:
And found the coolest road in the universe:
This morning, fall arrived in Hoboken and with it, the strong urge to pack up our life here and move it out West where it belongs. Not only can we get more bang for our buck in the Boise real estate market, but downtown Boise is also home to several adorable coffee shops, a massive Anthropologie, a North Face flagship store, many overpriced fancy restaurants that aren't overpriced at all compared to Hoboken, and oh, to keep Matty more than happy 5 months a year, there's this little ole football team that plays its games on a blue field which just happens to be his second favorite college team, after Rutgers, of course.
But most importantly, I think our chances of raising a happy, fresh faced kid would increase exponentially if we did so amongst potatoes and under the open sky.
I've chosen a few homes; all I need you to do now is to send me large sums of money so I can purchase it on the DL. Yes, I recognize that Matt would need to commute to Denver to get to his company's closest office but hey, once I secure a home for us and it's bought and paid for, he'll have to agree to the move.
Or, well, I suppose he could go to work at another bank. Heck, I'm sure the cost of living is so low in Idaho that he could work as a teller and still support us in the manner to which we are accustomed... right?
And then you can all come visit us here!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Awake
It's 3:23 am and I've been awake for an hour.
This isn't good, considering that in less than three hours I will be at the wheel barreling down the turnpike toward a day to be spent on my feet performing in front of a captive audience of teenagers.
Teaching British Literature to 16 and 17 year olds is physically and mentally exhausting; want to know what it's like? Well, it's kind of like trying to sell fruitcake at a springtime bake sale: not only is it out of season, but most buyers aren't mature enough to acknowledge and appreciate its tradition in season, let alone select it when placed alongside a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies or heck, even a store bought Tastycake.
The fruitcake market relies on a very particular consumer, one who is not the average baked goods buyer but instead one who seeks a taste of nostalgia in every bite. Try as one might to convince buyers to take a chance and bite into its glazed fruited exterior (by claiming, perhaps, that it was baked by a renown fruitcaker or by relying on a flashy presentation or even by projecting an authentic love of fruitcake) is pretty much setting oneself up for bake sale suicide.
At best, sales are going to be slow, if at all; the majority will be pity sales - ones in which the purchaser buys in to the salesperson only to dump the product in the trash once out of sight.
Successful teaching requires not only mastery and passion in terms of content but also the same in terms of sales.
And that sales-teacher needs to be bright eyed and bushy tailed.
And on that note, I'm heading back to bed. It's 3:56 now and my alarm is set to sound in an hour and fifteen minutes. Cross fingers that my eyes close without effort and I get at least another 45 sleep filled moments before it's time to get up and make the fruitcake.
This isn't good, considering that in less than three hours I will be at the wheel barreling down the turnpike toward a day to be spent on my feet performing in front of a captive audience of teenagers.
Teaching British Literature to 16 and 17 year olds is physically and mentally exhausting; want to know what it's like? Well, it's kind of like trying to sell fruitcake at a springtime bake sale: not only is it out of season, but most buyers aren't mature enough to acknowledge and appreciate its tradition in season, let alone select it when placed alongside a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies or heck, even a store bought Tastycake.
The fruitcake market relies on a very particular consumer, one who is not the average baked goods buyer but instead one who seeks a taste of nostalgia in every bite. Try as one might to convince buyers to take a chance and bite into its glazed fruited exterior (by claiming, perhaps, that it was baked by a renown fruitcaker or by relying on a flashy presentation or even by projecting an authentic love of fruitcake) is pretty much setting oneself up for bake sale suicide.
At best, sales are going to be slow, if at all; the majority will be pity sales - ones in which the purchaser buys in to the salesperson only to dump the product in the trash once out of sight.
Successful teaching requires not only mastery and passion in terms of content but also the same in terms of sales.
And that sales-teacher needs to be bright eyed and bushy tailed.
And on that note, I'm heading back to bed. It's 3:56 now and my alarm is set to sound in an hour and fifteen minutes. Cross fingers that my eyes close without effort and I get at least another 45 sleep filled moments before it's time to get up and make the fruitcake.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
**Weekend Update**
Matty came home from work last night to find me curled up in a ball on the couch, bemoaning my outcast state. He immediately knew what was on my mind and tried to make me feel better by saying that all the girls were asleep in London and therefore I wasn't missing out on anything.
I looked at the clock and laughed; it was 5:30 pm EST/10:30 pm London time. Asleep? Yeah, right - not my girls. As a matter of fact, I had just finished texting with Karen and Abs and Gmailing with Yol while they were at dinner; I told him nice try but he would have to do better than that.
And so he did.
He sat down on the couch and told me that in just a few months, when springtime rolled around and Bebe was out in the world, he would send me abroad for a girls weekend and gladly stay with the baby or I could take her with me.
I have the world's greatest husband and yes, I'm going to take him up on that offer... especially after the text message I woke up to this morning from Abs, saying that she that she had some news and "was on the water for the girls weekend".
At first, I thought that meant that the girls were out rowing or boating on the Thames (Abs was huge into rowing for a while) instead of shopping (shocking!) so I fired off a quick text asking which they were doing. Her return text began with an LOL and continued to say that what she meant was that she was off the wine.
That's when my mind began to spin... I fired back, asking for what reason and this is what she returned:
"the same reason as you!"
Abs is pregnant!!!!
I burst into happy tears and screamed for Matt to come back to the bedroom. He was super excited, too, and told Bebe that she was going to have a Scottish bff, just like her mom. That began a long series of texts back and forth across the pond (to the tune of 25 cents each - incoming and outgoing) between me and all of the girls until we exhausted our pointer fingers and thumbs.
It meant the world to me that the girls "kept in text" with me all weekend without knowing how much I needed it. They don't read my blog often or if ever (Karen tries to keep up but Abs and Heather and Yol are not Internet addicted like I am and prefer conversations in real time ) so it's not like they read yesterday's post and were prompted to show me extra extra attention this weekend.
I can't believe that Abs and I are going to have babies together; because our group friendship began when most of us were single gals and our thoughts were far from babies, I was so nervous about being the first. Having a partner in motherhood is the best news I could have received this weekend.
Hmm, Abs and I are 5 months apart in our pregnancies... now, if the rest of the girls could just follow suit, beginning with Yol and Lindsay, then Karen, and then Heather... well, that would be just about perfect!
Friday, September 17, 2010
Rebirth
Right now, four of my dearest friends are gathered in Richmond Upon Thames. It's 9 o' clock in the evening and I'm sure they are gathered at Abbie's local, enjoying a fantastic pub dinner and a few bottles of Sauvignon Blanc.
Abbie's husband, Jamie, is no doubt due to pop in any minute now to join the three Scottish lasses and the lovely South African for a pint (and to try his best to keep them under control so that the next time he goes in for a drink, he won't receive another report from the bar keep that his wife "needs to kept under control...").
Up until now, I've managed to hop the pond and be the fifth wheel on these girly weekends. I've flown to London, Glasgow and Edinburgh to spend just a few days (or hours!) in the company of my friends and likewise, they've joined me for mad NYC shopping weekends, beach days, and cabin retreats. What can I say? We're a package deal.
Until now.
Tomorrow morning they'll recap their night out over tea and porridge at Giraffe but there will be a coffee missing amongst those four teas.
A coffee and me.
As you know, I'm 26 weeks pregnant but it's not the pregnancy itself that kept me joining my girls, it's the expense.
With a baby on the way, we're trying really hard to watch our finances. When Karen first emailed us all to say she would be in from Abu Dhabi on business in London, I immediately went to Kayak and checked ticket prices, telling myself that if it was under $500, I would convince Matty that I needed to go.
But the price wasn't under $500. It was no where close; the cheapest ticket was $900 and even I couldn't justify that at this time, particularly not when we spent a ridiculous amount on our summer tickets to Scotland.
So here I am on the couch watching Oprah while my girls catch up on one another's lives: Karen's recent trip to Portugal; the status of the offer Abs and Jamie made on their dream home; Heather's rising career at the Royal Bank of Scotland; the opening of Yolandie's bistro and her upcoming move back to SA.
And I'm miserable.
I miss them so much; there's nothing, NOTHING that compares to the moments I've shared with these girls. I don't know what it is, but there is just something special about our friendship that when I am in their company, I feel whole.
I'm trying hard to keep my sadness and jealousy in check but considering how hormonal I am, it's not easy because this is the first time that it's really hitting me: I'm having a baby and my life is about to change exponentially and I'm not quite sure I'm ready for that change.
I'll get there, I know, but it won't be this weekend.
I guess Bebe's birth will have to be my rebirth because at that point, I'll have no other option...
Abbie's husband, Jamie, is no doubt due to pop in any minute now to join the three Scottish lasses and the lovely South African for a pint (and to try his best to keep them under control so that the next time he goes in for a drink, he won't receive another report from the bar keep that his wife "needs to kept under control...").
Up until now, I've managed to hop the pond and be the fifth wheel on these girly weekends. I've flown to London, Glasgow and Edinburgh to spend just a few days (or hours!) in the company of my friends and likewise, they've joined me for mad NYC shopping weekends, beach days, and cabin retreats. What can I say? We're a package deal.
Until now.
Tomorrow morning they'll recap their night out over tea and porridge at Giraffe but there will be a coffee missing amongst those four teas.
A coffee and me.
As you know, I'm 26 weeks pregnant but it's not the pregnancy itself that kept me joining my girls, it's the expense.
With a baby on the way, we're trying really hard to watch our finances. When Karen first emailed us all to say she would be in from Abu Dhabi on business in London, I immediately went to Kayak and checked ticket prices, telling myself that if it was under $500, I would convince Matty that I needed to go.
But the price wasn't under $500. It was no where close; the cheapest ticket was $900 and even I couldn't justify that at this time, particularly not when we spent a ridiculous amount on our summer tickets to Scotland.
So here I am on the couch watching Oprah while my girls catch up on one another's lives: Karen's recent trip to Portugal; the status of the offer Abs and Jamie made on their dream home; Heather's rising career at the Royal Bank of Scotland; the opening of Yolandie's bistro and her upcoming move back to SA.
And I'm miserable.
I miss them so much; there's nothing, NOTHING that compares to the moments I've shared with these girls. I don't know what it is, but there is just something special about our friendship that when I am in their company, I feel whole.
I'm trying hard to keep my sadness and jealousy in check but considering how hormonal I am, it's not easy because this is the first time that it's really hitting me: I'm having a baby and my life is about to change exponentially and I'm not quite sure I'm ready for that change.
I'll get there, I know, but it won't be this weekend.
I guess Bebe's birth will have to be my rebirth because at that point, I'll have no other option...
Monday, September 13, 2010
Pregnancy Dos and Don'ts
It's quite simple, really.
If you attempt to follow every suggestion from friends, doctors, websites, lists, cautionary tales, blah, blah, blah while you're pregnant, you'll go insane.
Therefore, my advice to you is this: there are choices that you make that involve a level of risk and there are ones that you make that produce results.
In terms of actions involving a risk, such as eating lunch meat or drinking too much caffeine, I believe those are choices each pregnant gal must make on her own, in terms of what is best for her health and sanity.
In terms of actions that produce unavoidable results, I warn you to heed the advice of others in these situations because I didn't and now I am suffering the consequences.
Yes, I chose to go against the warnings of many and now I'm stuck with the result; I should have listened to those who have come before me because they know best: I cut off my hair and I HATE it.
It was an impulsive, hormonal decision that my stylist warned me not to make but I went under the shears anyway and now I must spend the next 6 months to a year waiting for the return of my former self.
I like long haired Ali; she's the anti-bridezilla who got married on that gorgeous day last August. Short haired Ali, um, well, I'm not so keen on her: so far, she's bitchy and mean, doesn't know how to take a compliment, and lashes out at the sweetest folk to hide her own insecurities.
Honestly, ladies, when you're pregnant, go ahead and eat as much sushi as you want (from reputable joints). Go on and enjoy an occasional glass of red wine to de-stress at the end of a long week. Eat that non-organic (but low spray) apple.
Take risks, but for goodness sake, don't take off your hair!
If you attempt to follow every suggestion from friends, doctors, websites, lists, cautionary tales, blah, blah, blah while you're pregnant, you'll go insane.
Therefore, my advice to you is this: there are choices that you make that involve a level of risk and there are ones that you make that produce results.
In terms of actions involving a risk, such as eating lunch meat or drinking too much caffeine, I believe those are choices each pregnant gal must make on her own, in terms of what is best for her health and sanity.
In terms of actions that produce unavoidable results, I warn you to heed the advice of others in these situations because I didn't and now I am suffering the consequences.
Yes, I chose to go against the warnings of many and now I'm stuck with the result; I should have listened to those who have come before me because they know best: I cut off my hair and I HATE it.
It was an impulsive, hormonal decision that my stylist warned me not to make but I went under the shears anyway and now I must spend the next 6 months to a year waiting for the return of my former self.
I like long haired Ali; she's the anti-bridezilla who got married on that gorgeous day last August. Short haired Ali, um, well, I'm not so keen on her: so far, she's bitchy and mean, doesn't know how to take a compliment, and lashes out at the sweetest folk to hide her own insecurities.
Honestly, ladies, when you're pregnant, go ahead and eat as much sushi as you want (from reputable joints). Go on and enjoy an occasional glass of red wine to de-stress at the end of a long week. Eat that non-organic (but low spray) apple.
Take risks, but for goodness sake, don't take off your hair!
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Can't hurt, WILL help...
Dear Bebe,
Someday, you'll grow up and get married.
I hope that happens before I die because let's face it, I'm not exactly a spring chicken (if you decide to wait until you're my age to get married, the chances of me being present significantly decrease, which is why I won't be too opposed to you marrying at a younger age, as long as you're over 21, employed, and have lived with the dude for at least a year).
But I digress.
The reason I'm writing to you today is to offer some important advice for you to keep in mind when choosing your future husband; it's simple and direct, so here it is:
marry a man with a beach house.
I'm trying my best to get us out of New Jersey but right now, the future looks bleak in terms of escaping this drain-your-soul-and-bank-account state so the chances of your mom and dad ever buying a beach house is slim to none.
You see, kitten, here in NJ there are only two ways to own a beach house: luck strikes and you win the lotto (either literally or figuratively in terms of career compensation) or your parents (or in your case, your grandparents) bought a beach house back in the day when they were affordable.
Your mom and dad have no luck nor do they have parents who own beach houses, therefore you're probably never going to spend your summers luxuriating in the sun and sand at the Jersey Shore (or Cape Cod, or The Hamptons, Nantucket, Block Island, the Outer Banks, Virginia Beach... you get the picture).
But all hope is not lost; there is a way we can all enjoy our time in the sun.
There are plenty of people who own beach houses here in NJ; all you must do is find the son of one of those people and reel him in.
That's not too much to ask, is it? I guarantee it will only enhance your love... and my life.
xx
Me
Ps. Your father is not a big fan of Long Island, so perhaps look into the LBI available bachelors first...
Someday, you'll grow up and get married.
I hope that happens before I die because let's face it, I'm not exactly a spring chicken (if you decide to wait until you're my age to get married, the chances of me being present significantly decrease, which is why I won't be too opposed to you marrying at a younger age, as long as you're over 21, employed, and have lived with the dude for at least a year).
But I digress.
The reason I'm writing to you today is to offer some important advice for you to keep in mind when choosing your future husband; it's simple and direct, so here it is:
marry a man with a beach house.
I'm trying my best to get us out of New Jersey but right now, the future looks bleak in terms of escaping this drain-your-soul-and-bank-account state so the chances of your mom and dad ever buying a beach house is slim to none.
You see, kitten, here in NJ there are only two ways to own a beach house: luck strikes and you win the lotto (either literally or figuratively in terms of career compensation) or your parents (or in your case, your grandparents) bought a beach house back in the day when they were affordable.
Your mom and dad have no luck nor do they have parents who own beach houses, therefore you're probably never going to spend your summers luxuriating in the sun and sand at the Jersey Shore (or Cape Cod, or The Hamptons, Nantucket, Block Island, the Outer Banks, Virginia Beach... you get the picture).
But all hope is not lost; there is a way we can all enjoy our time in the sun.
There are plenty of people who own beach houses here in NJ; all you must do is find the son of one of those people and reel him in.
That's not too much to ask, is it? I guarantee it will only enhance your love... and my life.
xx
Me
Ps. Your father is not a big fan of Long Island, so perhaps look into the LBI available bachelors first...
Thursday, September 9, 2010
On Holiday
The first four days of school are behind me; it helped that two were completed last week so I only had to face two this week. Now, thanks to my Jewish friends (Happy New Year!), I am home until Monday and the weather is beautiful.
I'm watching Mamma Mia for the 23942394 time and getting ready to walk for fitness; I may need to take an allergy pill because although the weather is fantastically gorgeous, it's also full of allergens. I'm also getting my hair cut today and it's making me totally antsy because I currently hate my hair. I had it cut to a bob this past July instead of doing what I really wanted to do: get a perm, so that I would have long, Sarah Jessica Parker Sex in the City hair, but everyone shrieked and moaned at the idea and instead of listening to my self (who is usually the one who knows best), I chose to follow the advice of others and now I hate what I see in the mirror.
I'm going to try and remedy it today by going ultra-Posh Spice and I'm praying it won't be a disaster.
Cross fingers, friends. Nothing ruins a good holiday like bad hair.
I'm watching Mamma Mia for the 23942394 time and getting ready to walk for fitness; I may need to take an allergy pill because although the weather is fantastically gorgeous, it's also full of allergens. I'm also getting my hair cut today and it's making me totally antsy because I currently hate my hair. I had it cut to a bob this past July instead of doing what I really wanted to do: get a perm, so that I would have long, Sarah Jessica Parker Sex in the City hair, but everyone shrieked and moaned at the idea and instead of listening to my self (who is usually the one who knows best), I chose to follow the advice of others and now I hate what I see in the mirror.
I'm going to try and remedy it today by going ultra-Posh Spice and I'm praying it won't be a disaster.
Cross fingers, friends. Nothing ruins a good holiday like bad hair.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
A Year Later...
A year and a week ago, Matty and I were married here,
at Armadale Castle ruin on the Isle of Skye.
We did it our way, blending the traditional and contemporary.
I got ready surrounded by my girlfriends and together,
we walked to meet the groom before the ceremony.
My bridesmaids and I slipped away from the group
and behold, I found my groom.
We married underneath this arch, while friends
watched and the champagne flowed.
Matty was really happy that day, can't ya tell?
These three men are my family on Skye,
my godfather Duncan, his best friend John,
and my best friend from the island, James.
They drove all the way to Inverness to get
kilted out for the big event; a big surprise!
We had the best day of all time, no joke.
I mean, who wouldn't with our love and that hair?
That night, I couldn't bring myself to take
off my fabulous frock; I hope I get to
wear it again some day: baby weight, be gone!
Nothing to end the day like an old school Myspace shot!
Here it is, just a year later, and we're getting ready for
another big event, which unlike our wedding, wasn't
as, um, carefully timed or expertly planned,
however we're pretty confident that it will turn
out just as magnificent as that magical day on Skye.
Happy Anniversary to us (a week late and a dollar short) !!
Friday, September 3, 2010
She's Alive!
Matty just felt Bebe move for the first time - this moment, Friday, September 3rd, 9:10 pm.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Stress
I do not handle stress well.
When faced with a stressful situation, some people grow quiet and broody; they tend to retreat within themselves and sometimes, they appear to be so calm that it's hard to tell they are stressed.
I am not one of those people.
No, in addition to the internal struggle, my stress also manifests outwardly and is easily identifiable on sight and as I get older, it's not getting any easier to manage. I've dealt poorly with stress my entire life; I can remember a teenager who locked herself out of the house moments before she was to receive an important phone call (from a boy, no doubt). Instead of facing facts, that girl grew anxious and nervous and a panic began to swell within her chest. Within moments, she was pounding her fists against the side of the house, freaking out because she felt out of control and couldn't deal with the situation rationally.
Moments like that continued to occur throughout my teendom and young adult years until finally, I realized how freakish I must appear to others and began to make, with much effort, an effort to contain most of the outward physical manifestations of my stress.
Now instead of beating my fists against the wall, I beat up myself internally until my eyes well with tears and my flight instinct kicks in. Today was one of those days.
Why is it that I'm so good at advising others on how to deal with stress yet I can barely deal with it myself? Logically I know that (as my Grammy Schell used to say) "it will all come out in the wash" yet when I'm in the moment, I feel like a stained shirt stuck in the spin cycle.
The moment I'm stressed out, I cry and just want to retreat to my bed. When those around me are stressed out, I really lose it; that fostered guilt is just too much for me to take.
I've tried different methods of stress management, to little or no avail but I'm not giving up; I have a baby on the way and she is, I'm sure, going to cause me A LOT of stress in the upcoming years so I'm determined to find a way to calm my inner demons.
Hmm, perhaps a move to Skye is in order...
When faced with a stressful situation, some people grow quiet and broody; they tend to retreat within themselves and sometimes, they appear to be so calm that it's hard to tell they are stressed.
I am not one of those people.
No, in addition to the internal struggle, my stress also manifests outwardly and is easily identifiable on sight and as I get older, it's not getting any easier to manage. I've dealt poorly with stress my entire life; I can remember a teenager who locked herself out of the house moments before she was to receive an important phone call (from a boy, no doubt). Instead of facing facts, that girl grew anxious and nervous and a panic began to swell within her chest. Within moments, she was pounding her fists against the side of the house, freaking out because she felt out of control and couldn't deal with the situation rationally.
Moments like that continued to occur throughout my teendom and young adult years until finally, I realized how freakish I must appear to others and began to make, with much effort, an effort to contain most of the outward physical manifestations of my stress.
Now instead of beating my fists against the wall, I beat up myself internally until my eyes well with tears and my flight instinct kicks in. Today was one of those days.
Why is it that I'm so good at advising others on how to deal with stress yet I can barely deal with it myself? Logically I know that (as my Grammy Schell used to say) "it will all come out in the wash" yet when I'm in the moment, I feel like a stained shirt stuck in the spin cycle.
The moment I'm stressed out, I cry and just want to retreat to my bed. When those around me are stressed out, I really lose it; that fostered guilt is just too much for me to take.
I've tried different methods of stress management, to little or no avail but I'm not giving up; I have a baby on the way and she is, I'm sure, going to cause me A LOT of stress in the upcoming years so I'm determined to find a way to calm my inner demons.
Hmm, perhaps a move to Skye is in order...
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Fire or Ice
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