The Worst Part About being Pregnant Is...

I tossed and turned and checked the time on my cell phone again. 2am, and still no word from Seth. It's not that I was worried. I couldn't help it- I was annoyed. And jealous. And generally disagreeable.

And there you have it. The only real downside of being pregnant I've discovered so far, once you get used to shorter runs, resign yourself to ten months without turkey sandwiches, and remind yourself that hot yoga is no fun in the summer anyway. Those are all incredibly minor sacrifices, and I am grateful to the universe every day that they've been the worst of it (particularly in light of the horror stories that continue to show up in my inbox, courtesy of the "helpful" baby apps.)

It's my Mom's fault, really, and in the grand scheme of things she did pretty well too. Having raised four kids devoted to reading, travel, conservation, personal fitness, healthy eating, and universal kindness, she passed on to all of us only one really ugly personality trait: we hate- and I mean, really hate, to the depth of our souls- for anybody to have fun without us.

I've spent most of my adult life trying to overcome this flaw, with mixed success. But pregnancy has proven to be the source of major backsliding. As much as I want for Seth to not have to suffer alongside me for ten months- that being totally unnecessary from a rational perspective- sometimes the unfairness of it all takes over, and sulking ensues, my magnanimous offers to entertain myself while he gets to stay out late and drink beer and smoke the occasional cigarette notwithstanding. Particularly when reminded of the year plus that I skipped nights out with friends to be with him while he recovered at Walter Reed. But that's just a no-win road to go down.

It had been a rough couple weeks in the "fair" department, at any rate. Seth went from the beer-soaked West Point golf tournament to Alaska (which I enjoyed immensely but had to content myself with small tastes of microbrews and early bedtimes and long walks rather than sea kayaking or trail running) to the National Rifle Match at Camp Perry (too loud and lead-filled for unborn babies, but also liberally sprinkled with  beer drinking) to a weekend that included a terrifically boozy (for him- I nursed a diet Coke, and a guilty one at that) summer Jason Aldean concert and an all-nighter of a bachelor party. And now it was only Tuesday, and his "one beer (which you can't have because of the baby) after the soccer game (which you won't be able to attend because of work)" had turned into who knows how many, and I had fallen asleep by myself on the couch with Crystal Light and awful reruns again.

I wasn't mad about that, really. Prior to the inception of Baby Nieman, our "one beer" turned into a late night more often than not, so I definitely got it. It was just starting to get old, being stuck solo on the couch. There are terrific things about being pregnant, don't get me wrong, but all the fluttery kicks and ultrasound heartbeats in the world don't erase the occasional longing to be partners in crime with my husband again, instead of the dutiful, absentee, stay-at-home, early-to-bed wife. (Who does, yes, keep herself entertained by baking homemade muffins sometimes, but has not yet resorted to scrapbooking or knitting. Yet.)


Sporadic insensitivity to this situation and spotty night-out texting aside, Seth has been terrific about pregnancy throughout. He never misses an opportunity to tell me he's grateful and/or proud of me, brags about his daughter to anyone who will listen, and continues to read everything he can get his hands on about pregnancy and parenting.  As partial penance, no doubt, for his summer of solo fun, he spent all day Saturday putting together baby furniture for the nursery (a frustrating, complicated, and lengthy process, which I cannot imagine was fun with a post-concert hangover), and stayed up half the night Sunday finally cleaning up the Superfund site formerly known as the man cave and garage and organizing his new fishing tackle (courtesy of Missy!), just because he knew the mess was driving me nuts. (Not to mention the fact that his drunken serenades at the concert were completely adorable and caused me to fall more in love with him than ever.)

Sunday while he slept in, I escaped for a massage and a Balducci's run with Jess, who was on her own for the first time since her husband Flip was blown up almost two years before, and even sipped a brunch mimosa. It wasn't a bad weekend, all in all, and Seth and I both had to admit that as much as we enjoy being on the go, sometimes you need to stay home and reset and not eat out and clean and mow the damned yard. All of which we congratulated ourselves for knocking out, after a couple of long weeks of neglecting our home and our sleep schedules.

Monday night I even scored a sub-60 minute commute, and we had taco night and an early bedtime. We really felt like we were living the dream then.

Even after his late night last night, the Dad of the Year made it to our 26 week appointment this morning, and everything is right on track. No ultrasound this time, so he didn't get to gloat about how big she is, but we did get to hear a strong, regular heartbeat, and confirm that it's OK that I'm not in "beached whale" territory on the weight gain chart and that I probably do not have gestational diabetes. (Cheesecake all 'round!)

I also got to go to dermatology with Seth, which was a treat as I find myself feeling a bit out of touch with his medical progress these days, now that we've fully escaped the clutches of Walter Reed. He's been going in to have botox and laser hair removal done on his right leg, in hopes that it will cut back on the sweating inside his liner and improve his prosthetic performance and fit. He's also agreed to participate in a study as the first amputee to get a more permanent treatment called miraDry (using lasers and microwaves, usually done on underarms in cases of excessive sweating.) We're excited to see how it works for him, and his first treatment seems to have gone pretty well, although it'll be months before he can have the whole thing done (and, due to swelling, treating the portion of his leg that fits inside his socket will require some recovery time.)

That's all our news at the moment, and I'm coming up short in the "photo of the week" department to boot. I'm going with this one I took of taco night, because it was a nice night, and because I'm hungry.

Oh, and there's a cool story about Seth's shooting here: 

http://www.dvidshub.net/video/349645/53rd-annual-rifle-championship-shooting-forward 

Alaskan Adventure

I was way overdue for an epic adventure, having spent all last summer without one, and as always, Alaska delivered. Or rather, Missy did. She is the World's Greatest Fisherman, after all, and this time I had people in tow with attention spans long enough for more than a cast or two. (The absolute max for yours truly.)

It was Seth (and his parents') first trip to The Last Frontier, plus summer in Alaska is magical, so we wanted to squeeze in a whirlwind tour around some quality salmon fishing. (Well, let's be honest, we really can't help that "vacation 'til you drop" thing, what with our Walters upbringing.) And a whirlwind it was. We went "glamping" in Seward, invaded Brittany's for bocce and (Missy's) birthday fun, checked out half the glaciers in Alaska, discovered the insanely amazing Alaska Marine Highway and Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center, and road-tripped to Valdez. I was also conned into stops at both Cabela's AND Bass Pro, both new additions to the Anchorage shopping scene, and reminded myself that no trip with Seth Nieman is complete without such a predictable diversion.

 
Missy, previously the World's Greatest Fisherman (with the keychain to prove it) became the World's Greatest Fishing Guide, rustling up a carload of tackle, analyzing tides and moon phases with Seth, "house mousing" fish after flopping fish, showing off her filleting (and disgusting fishhead-bonking) skills, and participating in the Most Epic Fish Save Ever.

Seth, who is good at literally everything, was of course a natural salmon fisherman, and before long was trading knot-tying insults with Missy.
 
According to nearly everyone on the plane headed home, the salmon weren't doing much "running" this week, but the Niemans all landed some, and we grilled them up for dinner.
(Fine. I had a veggie burger. But the fresh salmon seemed to be a hit.)
 
I get bored after about three minutes of fishing and was less than thrilled that the presence of Baby Nieman severely limited my ice climbing and sea kayaking adventures (not to mention microbrew consumption), but- armed with the bear spray Seth insisted I carry everywhere- I got in some beautiful hikes while the dedicated anglers fought off mosquitoes and fishing crowds. Missy and I also hiked to the hand tram in Girdwood, which I have been dying to check out, and it was as cool as advertised, requiring significant elbow grease to inch across the gorge below.

I even got Moose’s Tooth pizza. And Tony got his rum and cokes. And we all enjoyed ice cream on the hottest day ever in Valdez. We majorly lucked out on the weather, and even saw a grizzly bear.

All in all, a terrific time was had by all.
Or, as Missy and I preferred to think of it, "we nailed it."
 
I took about a million pictures, and they're here (phone pictures):
https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos?tab=mq#photos/115033664787271164277/albums/6038006013549808625
... and here (pictures from the new- read "Baby Nieman's"- camera):
https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos?tab=mq#photos/115033664787271164277/albums/6038607702366233505
 
Photo of the vacation was, of course, this one. No "one that got away" stories here!!

 But this one's not bad either.

An in-town (and fabulous) Fourth

You hear the jokes all the time, about how men revert to "frat boy living," living in filth and subsisting on cold pizza, while their wives are out of town. And yet, Seth's out of town (allegedly golfing but most likely just drinking beer at the Army Football Club's annual golf tournament at West Point) and last night found me sitting in front of the TV in my underwear, dining on frozen yogurt and ignoring two loads of unfolded laundry. I shamelessly blamed the baby, but reflected that perhaps that's not a gender-specific rule of thumb.

But I skipped all the good stuff. Last weekend was the fourth of July! One of my very favorite holidays. Maybe my favorite. And for once we were home, having decided that our usual whirlwind schedule plus the upcoming golf tournament and Alaska trip demanded that we stick around. (Also, Seth wanted to shoot an NRA match at Quantico.) I was a little bummed, since the only thing more sacred to me than America's birthday is the principle of squeezing every last second out of a long weekend (usually by going somewhere fabulous), but as usual things worked out just as they were supposed to, and it was a lovely, much-needed "rest in place" weekend. We spent all day on the fourth at home, making homemade apple pie (me, in observance of a Walters family tradition) and smoking all sorts of meats. Seth even busted out the turkey frier.

We also finally pulled out the new (super nice) croquet set from Mom and Dad (also a Walters holiday tradition.) Guess who won his first croquet game?

Neither of us really wanted to fight traffic and crowds to see the DC fireworks, but it's a "must-do while you live here" thing, so we dragged outselves to Fort Myer, which turned out to be a genius plan. We had prime seating (a spot reserved for us on the lawn by MG Thomas, pursuant to- apparently- a hilarious local custom of all the generals on Fort Myer being ordered to save seats on the field by their wives). The view looking down over the National Mall was magnificent, if impossible to justify with photos.

The rest of the weekend was just as nice. Saturday Seth had to go register for the shooting match, so we went exploring down south, and finally checked out Prince William Forest Park, a terrific- if hilly- place for a bike ride. We also discovered an amazing Belgian place (named, unfortunately, "Cock and Bowl," in historic Occoquan on the way back.) They had Delirium! And real Belgian pommes frites.

We decided that lead and loud noises might not be terrific for family members weighing only about a pound, so while Seth spent the rest of the weekend shooting his match, Baby Nieman and I embarked on our own adventures. Sunday we went hiking in Shenandoah with Mom & Dad, and Monday found us paddleboarding on the Chesapeake Bay. The baby was a real trooper (a love of fresh air and exercise seems to be a genetic trait), and I remain grateful that she lets me get out and stay active at almost six months! (And has begun kicking to let me know when she's hungry. Possibly also attributable to genetics.)

Monday night before we headed back to work, Seth and I even got in another dinner date- this time in Baltimore after he had gotten a little taste of my daily commute, missing Aaron's birthday cocktails entirely thanks to horrendous traffic. I, on the other hand, made it on time but smelled like baywater, having taken a little spill on the paddleboarding adventure. The Alexanders were probably thrilled. The veggie wrap at Nick's Fish House- go figure- left a little to be desired, but the view was phenomenal, and we toasted the sunset and Independence Day and well-spent weekends at home from the deck.

I realize that this makes us seem a little food-obsessed, but the photo of the week is our plate after we devoured our Belgian waffle Saturday, because it made me laugh. The waffle (turtle, meaning drowning in caramel and chocolate and whipped cream, thanks to Seth) obviously didn't suck.

Of DC dates and wish lanterns...

We were having a rare lazy Sunday morning in bed when I saw the email from my Mom. A voracious reader, she’s always giving me newspaper clippings of DC events and exhibits and new restaurants we should check out. We feel like dirtbags, because we rarely actually make it into the city for any of them, and I sometimes worry that we’ll leave DC without ever having hit up a museum or an outdoor concert or any “quintessential DC experience” under our belts besides the horrific traffic.

Moral of the story is that Mom-guilt works, and we fought off inertia and dragged ourselves downtown for some culture. And of course it was a blast. This particular event was a free Marty Stuart concert at the Museum of the American Indian (we’re both huge fans of old school country music, and I had seen him play often at much-hipper Texas venues). The show was complete with sequined jackets, old favorites, jabs at Custer, a surprise appearance by Marty’s incredible wife, acclaimed vocalist Connie Smith, and some of the most hysterical people watching we had done in a long time.

Afterwards we took ourselves out for pizza at District of π, where Seth found himself in meatball heaven, and enjoyed ambling the mostly tourist-free streets on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It was a nice reminder that there are things about DC that we really do enjoy, and that we’re lucky to live in a place where people vacation!

Our “DC date” was a lovely way to end a pretty nice week. The highlight of my workweek was combating the app-induced pregnancy doldrums (seriously, with all the depressing things and stressful must-dos they flood your inbox with!??!) with morning trips to the uncrowded and view-laden O’Club pool.

Seth has been doing a ton of shooting, and shot a match at Quantico Saturday. Afterwards, we crashed the end (because we’re no dummies) of Scott and Grace’s joint birthday party, and got to send off our own wish lantern. (Grace wished that we would have a “good baby.” And names her Abigail. Hopefully she’ll be half right.)

Oh, and we went back for our “real” 20 week ultrasound. Baby Nieman is healthy, active, and measuring large, to the delight of her father and terror of yours truly. The baby bump is (obviously) starting to show now, and have the first couple pieces of furniture in the nursery, so it’s getting more real by the day!

The photo of the week, both because we’re stoked to be heading to Alaska in two weeks (!!!) and because it’s just plain awesome, is of Missy, The World’s Greatest Fisherman. She had a banner fishing day this weekend. As in, people were actually asking if they could rub her fishing pole for good luck. Bizarre, but also pretty fabulous.

Just a Week

Believe it or not, sometimes we just have a week. A normal week, where we go to work and fight traffic and squeeze in workouts and trips to the dry cleaner and rejoice when Mom stops by the office with a calzone on a long day (and then get home so late we find ourselves eating it straight off the pan with our hands while we mumble unintelligible stories about our days.) And don't travel anywhere.

I had dinner-and-a-pedicure night with Steph, and gorged myself on mac & cheese that definitely made the top ten list at Evening Star in Del Ray. I also discovered the silver lining in the ridiculous saga of the monthlong pool overhaul (caused by a tiny, alleged shard of glass that may have been in the distant vicinity of the water) at Belvoir: the interim invitation to swim at the super sweet Officers' Club pool-with-a-view. Which looks like this:

My office also did the Army Birthday Run at Fort Myer, an incredible annual event that marks the only time all year running is allowed on the hallowed grounds of Arlington National Cemetery. This year saw 2000 Soldiers in the formation run, and will no doubt have been the highlight of my DC military experience.

Seth has been putting in a ton of range time in preparation for the President's 100, and he shot his first bullseye pistol match this weekend. (I do not have any pictures of this, of course, because Baby Nieman opted out of a trip to the range, and men apparently refuse to take selfies.) Friday night we celebrated surviving the work week over pizza and sangria, and in a rare treat were joined by the Ballesteroses and the soon-to-be-Syvertsons, who were both in town for the weekend. We had a great time getting caught up, and felt kind of like normal people out on the town for happy hour. (Even if I observed more than once that mineral water doesn't make one nearly as happy.)

The rest of our weekend consisted of a rainy Saturday (which prompted us to finally order furniture for the nursery and gave us a bye on long-overdue lawnmowing), a leisurely bike ride along the canal, and an awesome belated Father's Day barbecue at Mom & Dad's. (After years and years of living oceans away from any of my fabulous family, I still feel like pinching myself when I realize we can just invite ourselves over for dinner on Sunday!) I can't believe I didn't take a picture of Mom's blueberry pie. It was epic.

Instead, the photo of the week is Baby Nieman's already-overflowing hamper! I have a feeling that this is a warning of many, many loads of laundry in our future, and that our thinking it's cute is going to be short-lived.

A Much-Needed Girls'/ Beach Weekend

Seth’s not much of an ocean person. If he has free time on his hands, he’d much rather head for a treestand than the beach. I, on the other hand, like the rest of the Walters family, believes absolutely in the zen-inducing, soul-cleansing power of waves. (Not that any of us turns our nose up at snow-capped mountains.) Still, post-blast especially, Seth’s aversion to the heat and difficulty walking on sand means that I’ve had to resign myself to a lot less beach time, and I definitely miss it. Between that and an insane week that involved Seth traveling and me working late (opposite schedules conspiring to make us short-fused and cranky), this weekend was much-needed and long-overdue.

We high-fived Thursday night when he got back, and Friday morning after yet another commander’s cup run (a “cross country run” on the golf course which saw some seriously slow jogging from me) and a painfully dull work picnic, I dove into the traffic melee that is northern Virginia on Fridays. Driving anywhere in the DMV on Friday makes it almost not worth it to leave for the weekend (and coming home Sunday is, I reminded myself, a close second.) Still, I was excited for beach time. Minus the chilly trip to Bar Harbor, I hadn't had a real ocean fix in almost a year. And I was way overdue on girl time.

So of course it was totally worth the long and painful drive. I got to see my law school girlfriends, who I hadn’t seen since Nicole’s wedding in Puerto Rico last May, and catch up on husbands and babies and the inexplicably still-intriguing law school gossip. They also threw me my very first shower of any kind, a hilarious, low key, pink-laden baby shower surprise, complete with cupcakes. (Nicole even made us play the baby food game.) And we spent all day Saturday doing nothing, a rarity for any of us, on the beach. Thunder-and-hail storms rolled in that evening, and we fled inside for bad TV and homemade marinara with herbs from Nicole’s garden.

And Sunday morning, we woke up to a beach sunrise and the sound of the waves. It was perfect. Good for the soul. And I didn’t even have to feel guilty about it, since it sounds like Seth had a terrific weekend going to the range, grilling elk steaks, and drinking copious amounts of beer with college friends. I got home last night in time to watch the Spurs win (both Seth and Dad were thrilled—Father’s Day win), so a terrific weekend was had by all.

Bring it on, Monday. Today we’re officially halfway to the arrival of Baby Nieman! Hard to believe. I’m cherishing every morning I can look down and still see my toes from here on out. I know I haven’t shared any “baby bump” pictures—I’m waiting until it looks like I actually have a baby in there, instead of like I just stopped going to the gym! Any day now…

Photo of the week is the master chef himself at the grill. Always a hit.

What a difference a year makes!

This picture was taken on July 1, 2013, after the 19th of Seth's 21 surgeries.
 

 

This picture was taken on Sunday. Less than a year later. 

 

A veteran of long races, longer deployments, and more than a few injuries and surgeries myself; surrounded as I am (fortunate to be) by friends and family members who matter-of-factly weather the most punishing of life's storms and accomplish things most people only read about; it is rare that I am really blown out of the water by toughness or determination or feats of athleticism or sheer grit. (That's totally unfair to the remarkable people in my life, and I officially vow to be more appropriately awed.) I also don't sing my husband's praises publicly very often, largely because so many people do it for me (and I do have to live with the man's ego, after all, which was perfectly healthy to begin with.) But this weekend, Seth checked an item off his "to conquer" list that has to be shared, and deserves reflection.

I can barely wrap my mind around the fact that a year ago he was hobbling around in an ex fix (after several devastating hardware fails), as we wondered if we would ever be done with hardware and wheelchairs and pain medication and severely limited mobility.

In the11+ months since the first picture, Seth finally lost the ex fix. Learned to walk again. Then run. Then started swimming, then biking. Lost 40 pounds of "wheelchair weight." Kicked pain meds cold turkey, and without any prompting. Worked his way through countless iterations of sockets and prosthetics and braces.

And on Sunday, he did his first triathlon.

He apparently got the idea to do one from a fellow wounded warrior. He definitely didn't get it from me. A trail runner at heart, I despise the crowds and the gear and the logistics... not to mention the terrifying possibility of a flat tire. But Seth wanted to do one, so I searched high and low for a small race with a transition area that didn't resemble Grand Central at rush hour and a race director who didn't mind giving us our own transition rack so we'd have room for our collection of legs. And Sunday morning, we headed south at an ungodly hour to Naylor's Beach Campground for a multisport morning, kicked off by a swim in the murky Rappahannock River.

It went off without a hitch. Seth knocked out the 500 meter swim like it was nothing, and made it back to the transition area after a quick change into his prepositioned shower leg. Our tires stayed inflated on the15 mile bike, Seth only had to stop and adjust his leg once, and the clip-in disasters that the overprotective prospective Dad had been predicting thankfully didn't occur (although at the end of the ride he told me sternly that this would be my last spin on a racing bike for awhile.)

I did not argue. I really do hate cycling.

The run was the tough part, and not just because the heat of the day had arrived. After all the trips to the prosthetist and trial runs with various "fixes," the running leg is still just not where it needs to be (and in fact requires every-mile liner drying and adjustment, while the highly-touted IDEO brace leaves Seth's shin a raw, bloody mess.) Still, he dragged himself through the hot, uncomfortable 5k, tugging at his liner and giving terse, monosyllabic responses to my attempts at cheerful conversation. It was not the most fun we've ever had, but was, for me at least, an important reminder that Seth may make it look easy, but it's not. It hurts, and it's hard, and it never really stops feeling unfair, and sometimes you just want to quit.

But I'm so lucky to be married to a guy who never has and never will. 

We crossed the finish line together, Seth with a towel wrapped around his bleeding leg, and took this picture to commemmorate our first family triathlon. (Baby Nieman having performed magnificently.) We're a pretty good team, the three of us.

A triathlon of any length, for any person with two legs, is nothing to sneeze at. I couldn't be prouder of Seth. For setting such a goal in the first place, and then for checking it off like it was all in a morning's work, less than a year after ridding himself of the draconian ex fix.

We toasted ourselves, and the last year, with a hard-earned beer after the race. It really is amazing what a difference a year makes, and we couldn't be happier to be where we're at.

The picture of the week, however, is of one of the few things that never does seem to change, and I have a soft spot for that too. The North Face Endurance Challenge has become an annual ritual for the Taylor fam and I, and it's still refreshingly untouched by the big crowds and overcommercialization that characterize most races these days.This is Scott and Grace and I, hanging out on my first year not running (and what may be Grace's last year at the face painting booth!)