Ever since we started looking for a house up here in Grass Valley (population 15,000) people have suggested we start reading the local newspaper The Union to get a feeling for the town and the local people. Frequently, we were handed copies of the paper and even read aloud passages from the very funny police blotter section of the paper. My aunt joked that soon enough we will start to recognize names in the blotter. Alas, when I looked at a copy myself it seems they’ve caught up with all the privacy policy changes current in the rest of the U.S. and the names are no longer included on the police blotter. What a shame. That could have been a great first introduction to our neighbors. Something along the lines of, “Hi! You probably read about our domestic dispute on the police blotter yesterday, in which I pulled out a shot gun and threatened to fire it at my husband because he told me dinner wasn’t on the table on time. We’re you’re new neighbors!”.

Anyway, it has been serious fun reading the police blotter and I should mention that it carries its own section of the newspaper, prominently listed on the front page in condensed format too. It seems there is nothing better than small town police activity when it comes to writing the headlines. I just can’t figure out why the newspaper website lists the blotter under their “News” section and not the “Entertainment” section.

Check out the police blotter here and read for yourself some of my favorites below. There’s everything from the mundane theft of common household appliances but NOT electronics or any other valuables to the straight-forward inter-generational domestic dispute involving flying guitars and forks. Seriously funny crap goes on in a small town and dammit if I’m not proud to call this place home already.

Sheriff’s Office Report

Thursday, November 29th:
• 9:41 a.m. - A caller from the 11000 block of Ball Road reported a refrigerator and a stove were taken in a residential burglary. The caller would re-contact the sheriff’s office with more information.

Friday, November 30th:
• 9:29 a.m. - A caller from Forest Service Road 41 reported Christmas trees were stolen. A deputy took a report for grand theft.

•4:31 p.m. - A woman called from the 10000 block of King Way to report a fight between her grandmother and her 12-year-old son. The grandmother allegedly swung a guitar at the juvenile, then both the grandmother and the juvenile started throwing forks. A deputy mediated the situation.
*(Can you just picture what Thanksgiving dinner was like with this family?)

We were sitting on the recently cleaned floor, in our empty rented house in San Carlos, when I passed Benoit a yogurt and what I call a “spork”. I had, I thought cleverly, picked up three extra such eating utensils from Taco Bell earlier in the day knowing we had packed the entire contents of the kitchen, utensils and plastic-ware included. But, when I slid the spork to Benoit so he could stir and eat his yogurt, he looked at it for a second and thoughtfully replied, “Why don’t they call it a foon?”

Well, to this my obvious reaction was nothing short of serious amusement. It occurred to me that this is exactly the type of inquisitive questioning I will be receiving daily doses of when the baby is old enough to speak. And, when her “But, why, Mama?” questions wear me out I’ll be thinking of our great spork/foon debate and how I just know she gets it from her father.

But, the man does have a point. Any idea why “foon” lost the battle in the fast food plastic-ware naming war? It’s a perfectly respectable title and I think someone needs to design it! Patent pending!

I’m feeling better today. A fellow poster on the Baby Center boards mentioned reading an article from Parenting magazine and posted the link to it. Desperate for any measure of distraction from this cold and general pregnancy pains, I followed the link.

It was such a well-written article, from the baby’s perspective, about the first 6 months of life and all the thoughts and feelings a baby would go through as she matures and takes in the world around her, that CNN actually republished it on their website. Now, most of you know that I have not yet developed those well-publicized emotional spells pregnant women are supposedly susceptible to but given my general agitated and uncomfortable state recently, this article practically sent me over the edge and into the box of Kleenex tissues. Practically, as in almost.

Well, I did feel some moisture gathering in my tear ducts as I got to the end of the article, imagining myself going through all of those stages with this little one. I started to feel the first glimmer of anticipation. Yes, I will say that again. I am actually beginning to look at the next 8 weeks with unbearable suspense! All I have to do is imagine her debut, the slick, warm feeling of her soft body lying on my stomach for the first time, the raw and ragged sound of her voice proclaiming her entrance, and I’m almost in tears. It may be 8 more hellish weeks for my body but it’s also only 8 more weeks before I get to express this unimaginable amount of love for her and watch her grow to love me.

If you’d like to read the article that helped transform my previously devastated mental state you can find it here: “What it feels like to be a baby.”

At 31 weeks, I’m sick of being poked and jabbed and fisted by this future rugby player inside me. I can’t stand the incessant hip pain whenever I attempt to recline to any comfortable position at all. It’s this horrid, stabbing, makes me sob late at night when I can’t move my leg far enough to pull myself onto the edge of the bed, wear me down, torture method no one would even approve for use in Iraq, kind of pain. And lately, with this little head cold I’ve managed to catch and hold on to, every time I even sneeze my hip starts convulsing. You really don’t know the power of a sneeze until you’ve had the hip pain to match it. Did you know your nose is connected surreptitiously to your pelvis? Definitively, I can say “YES”.

Oh and what else am I done with? Well, I’m tired of the itchy belly and stretching everything. I swore I wouldn’t be caught dead scratching my rounding belly in public like a drunken truck driver but dammit if I don’t catch myself in the shopping store mirrors “massaging” my belly button, trying to coax the skin to back into happiness with the grate of my fingernails.

I just want my body back and not in the desperate for celebrity fitness kind of way but in the please, god, I used to control even the minutest bodily functions kind of way. I think it wouldn’t be so bad if I could just somehow set this load down, just for a minute, okay, maybe an hour or two. Then, I would gladly heft it up again and resume my trek to the finish line. But, knowing that there is no relief until the end and then that is no relief itself is just depressing. Blah, blah to all you saying, “Oh, but think of the miracle of joy you’ll hold in your arms very soon” and the same to those of you cheering “It’s SO worth it when you first get to see her”. Since it’s the season…here’s my reply: BAH HUMBUG! And, where’s my rum-laden egg nog, already?