Sugar and spice and everything nice . . .

that's what the baby in my belly is made of, or at least, that's what the ultrasound showed. Yup at my latest ultrasound there was a jar of cinnamon-sugar in my uterus. It's probably the result of all those waffle breakfasts Justin makes. I kid, I kid . . . for real, we are having a girl! You can see her below in an image from my 20 week ultrasound. Cute, eh?

I had grand intentions of documenting more of my pregnancy on the blog, but life got in the way, so hopefully you will be satisfied by a wrap-up of how the first half of my pregnancy has gone (really, I'm halfway through). I've been busy with school, work, and travel. However, I am now done with school! I submitted my last final yesterday, and, assuming I pass both of my classes, I have completed grad-school. You should now refer to me as Master-Kate (In turn, Pecos would like to be referred to as Master-P). I look forward to having more time to get ready for this baby because I don't feel very prepared right now.

Overall, dare I say it, my pregnancy has gone smoothly. I was a little tired in the first trimester, and had to eat all the time to keep my stomach calm, but that was about all the excitement I had. Okay, I have thrown up about 5 times, but I was never faced with all-day nausea. Some days I would wake up and know that my breakfast cereal and I weren't going to be able to make the long-haul together, but I'd force it down anyways, and then get to see it again as it took the express route from my mouth to the toilet. Justin did not get to witness any of these episodes, so he accused me of not being pregnant, but just looking for excuses to get fat. Fortunately for his sake, my moods have remained under-control, and I was able to laugh about that comment.

In the first trimester I also had about two weeks of crazy back pain. I think it was some kind of nerve pain, though it was pretty early in my pregnancy for my uterus to be causing those kinds of problems. Basically, any kind of getting up or down motion HURT. Those first few steps in the morning would almost bring me to tears. This would be my aching back that Justin referred to in the blog entry/poem called "Easter in the Alps."

And here's a picture of the babe at 6 weeks to give you some idea of how much she has grown. She is that little white circle inside of the black raindrop-shaped sac.

I know some of you are eager for belly pictures, but there's really not much to show. Below, with me in pink, is my belly the day we found out, so I was four weeks pregnant. Looking at this picture makes me wonder where my butt is. Really, I've always thought I had a butt, but maybe I don't.

This next picture, of me in gray, is from this past weekend when I was 20 weeks pregnant. I know it's a bit deceptive because the picture is much closer, but hopefully you can tell that I've grown some. I think I look much more pregnant at night than in the morning, and this picture was taken in the morning. My comment about looking more pregnant at night led my father to conclude that it's all just gas, no baby. I can't say that Justin would disagree with him.

So, as far as my growth, there hasn't been much. I can still fit into some of my regular pants, and those I can't I can wear with a Bella Band (a spandex tube that covers the unzipped fly). I did order two maternity shirts and one pair of jeans (it took them a month to arrive!), but I haven't busted them out yet. The jeans are pretty big, but I suppose I will grow into them. Oh, and I've had one stranger notice I was pregnant. Justin was shocked the guy said anything to me, because I could easily just be carrying a spare tire. I think it was the way I was rubbing my belly.

The baby has been doing well all along. Her growth has been on track or ahead since the beginning. In Germany, ultrasounds at every appointment are standard practice, so I get one every four weeks. It's reassuring to get to see her and know everything is going as it should. It's fun to see her kick her legs and rub her eyes. She made it very difficult for the doctor to get her measurements at my last appointment because she wouldn't keep her legs still.

About two weeks ago (at 18 weeks pregnant) I started to feel her move. She's most active in the afternoons (like now) and her movements are low. I enjoy feeling the movements, but I might feel differently when she gets stronger and closer to my bladder. I probably won't be inviting people to feel her kick for awhile because, as much as I love all of you, I don't want you sticking your hands down my pants. Justin, luckily for him, is allowed to stick his hands down my pants, and he felt her move just this past weekend. Hopefully he'll get to feel her again when he gets back from Macedonia tomorrow.

Oh yes, and the babe has a name, though we're still working on spelling and nicknames. She will be Elizabeth, or perhaps Elisabeth. Feel free to share your preffered spelling and nicknames, but we probably won't listen to you. We are considering a few nicknames, but I am going to keep them quiet for now. When I revealed them to my family one of the names resulted in a voicemail being left that was just mooing. Yes, moooing, like a cow and the voicemail was not left on my phone. I have a feeling I wasn't supposed to find out about it. Again, they are lucky my hormones are in check.

I am very excited to be heading back to the States next week. I arrive in DC on June 24 and leave on July 22. I'll be in Atlanta for work from July 6-11, but besides that I'll be in the DC area for the most part. I will go visit Barbara and Bill (June 29-July 2ish), but I don't have any other travel plans. My big plans are, honestly, shopping. First, I need to find professional clothing for Atlanta. Once that's accomplished, I get to shop for the baby (YAY!) and clothing I can wear for the next five months. I am in dire need of some exercise shirts that wick sweat and cover my belly.

If you're in the area, I am eager to hang out. I won't make you shop for sweat-wicking clothing with me; I promise.

My apologies to those of you I have been very negligent about emailing. Again, Kate+Spring=Busy. I will email you soon, probably once I'm in the States. Between now and then, Phil is coming and we are going to Prague. Right now, I must go clean in preparation of his arrival.

Thank you all for your support and love.

The best TDY of my life: Georgia and Azerbaijan

Although I’ve never had a sore thumb, I’m sure my coworker and friend Charles Samuel sticks out like one. He’s an early middle-aged black man from the Caribbean island of Antigua who lives in Tbilisi, Georgia. I would say there are probably two other black men in the entire country (who are probably just passing through as roadies or Americans working at the embassy). But neither of them have thick Caribbean accents like my buddy Charles.

Charles is in charge of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ support to a 10-year, DoD-funded assistance program to help the Georgian government get on its feet after 70 years of being in the Soviet Union. He’s been in the beautifully mountainous country of Georgia for five years and, after our first day together when I asked lots of questions about what living in a poor, corrupt, ex-communist, isolated country like Georgia was like, he said that it’s impossible to explain all that he’s been through.

Pshaw, I thought. What’s he been through? Well, after a few days there an in Azerbaijan for work, I agree completely. You just can’t easily convey daily life.

Here’s a sampling:
First, there’s the traditional third world stuff. Electricity goes out often, even at the embassy. Stray dog processions line every street. Dead dogs line every highway. Speed limits are bound not by signs but by how fast you can go around errant cows, horses, donkeys, sheep, and pigs who find themselves lost and scared on highways. Grocers without cash machines still use abacuses (I shit you not). A “family car” is one that is able to hold a family of four, a sheep, four hay bails, and two mattresses.

The list goes on. But the best stories to share about the Caucasus countries all involve the experiences you can’t get in America.

I was in the area for work, obviously. And one of the projects I visited was a school we’re constructing for children living in a poor Kurdish community near Baku, Azerbaijan (next to Iran). These people are the poorest I’ve ever seen, living in poorly made dirt-floor cinderblock houses with holes instead of windows and no sewage (or drainage or electricity or utility) system.

After seeing the impoverished at their worst, we returned to our $220/night hotel to work out at the members’ only gym (the nicest in the city) shower in our mammoth bathrooms (complete with bidet), and get ready to go out to dinner at a Russian restaurant called Yolki-Palki (which is apparently like “damnit” in Russian).

Although we were in Azerbaijan, we ordered in Russian. And although Azerbaijan is a Muslim country, we ordered white wine, red wine, and, of course, vodka.

There was an older Jewish couple who passionately sang, danced, and played the accordion. At times, they would come to our table and violently jerk myself and Charles (who they loved … how many black men to these people see in person?) on the floor to clap, dance, and sing along to their Russian/Azeri/Jewish songs … which we’d have to do even though we didn’t know the beat, steps, or words.

Then came the toasts. Apparently it’s a cultural faux pas to go a meal without making several toasts. It’s also a faux pas not to drink (which I tried to do at first in keeping with my New Year’s resolution). It’s also a faux pas to listen to a toast and then not toast back in return (the equivalent, I was told quite crudely, of having a women satisfy you and then you having the gall to not satisfy her). It’s also a faux pas to refuse drinks from those who buy them from you. And, as our luck would have it, the three old, drunk, wart-y gentlemen at the table next to us somehow got word that Charles was an Army general (he was not) and so decided to ask us to drink and dance with them – and sing happy birthday to one of the geezers.

So, there I was, eating borscht (Russian), sturgeon (Azeri), drinking copiously (against my will), making toasts for the health and well being of people’s families who I didn’t know, and occasionally clapping, dancing, and singing old Jewish country songs I didn’t know, and holding hands (a Muslim thing) with old, wart-ridden men who kissed me on my cheeks for saying such nice toasts about their families during my toasts (which I didn’t want to make in the first place).

As awful as all that sounds, I had the most wonderful time I’ve had on all my TDYs.
We finished up the night by crowding (all four of us) into a beat up Lada (an old and unreliable Russian car) with a cracked windshield that had to be pop-started downhill by two young Azeri boys. I was drunk, sated, and absolutely jovial at having one of the best nights of my adult life – all in a place and in a way that was completely new to me. Weird. Hard to describe. But wonderful all the same. And I owe it all to a man who must feel even more out of place than me.