Three generations of Rosenbaum females got their hairs cut in Hamburg yesterday. Here’s how it all played out:

  • One of us looks very nicely put together, with smooth, natural-looking bangs and curls shown to their best advantage.
  • One of us has new bangs that are the result of one swipe of my sneak-attack scissors. They’re impressively straight, but short enough to leave two inches of tiny baby forehead visible above her eyebrows.
  • One of us looks like her wig got caught in a draft and is tilted waaay back on her head. She looks like she spent 4 furtive minutes attacking herself with the blunt-nosed scissors that Mommy gave her to trim her Barbie’s hair. Her hair has the texture of Andy Warhol’s and the color of blah. Her bangs are literally shorter than her daughter’s, but rather than the cute, ‘baby’s first haircut’ look, they’re trending much closer to ‘village idiot’. Yup, that’s me. When I raised my eyebrows at a stray chunk of hair sticking out from behind my ear, the hairdresser explained that it was to feminize my look. She then explained that she was late for the next appointment. Ouch.

In food news, we’ve eaten radish cake three times this week. The first round was brought over last Sunday for a potluck lunch, and it was dynamite. Actually, the whole brunch was dynamite. The other guests brought two kinds of homemade bread, and I made an egg dish that started with butter and cream and ended with herbs and parmesan. Yes, I cheat at brunch: rather than radish+effort or flour+yeast+effort, I go for cream+butter+cheese, and for the ‘effort’ portion, I doodle around online until I find a recipe whose reviews say both ‘delicious’ and ‘foolproof’. Here are a few more brunch wins:

  • serve passionfruits in egg cups, ideally each with their own tiny spoon. All you’ve done is cut the top off a fruit and put it on the table, but oh it seems so special!
  • mix together honey and butter, or strawberry jam and butter, and serve it with any decent store-bought bread. It’s like you cooked something!
  • have a DIY option: pull all of your various vinegars and oils out of the back of the cupboard and let guests dress their own green salads, or make a fruit salad but, instead of mixing it together, pile the various fruits in seperate piles on a platter. Super fun experiment time, yeah!
This post should be spectacular because I’ve had lots of time to mull over ideas while hooked up to various fetal monitoring machines. Unfortunately, the machines do not disable the powers of the internet on my phone; rather than carefully crafting poignant essays about this ever-so-special time in our lives, or finding the humor in having purchased and then discarded endive three weeks in a row, I’ve been reading online journal articles about the pros and cons of fetal heartrate monitoring and trying to get google to tell me if the freakishly large head of the fetus I’m carrying is the result of undiagnosed insulin resistance despite two passed glucose tolerance tests. (And by ‘passed the test’ I mean I was spectacular. My control over my fasting glucose is only surpassed by my tolerance to a whopping dose of sugar water first thing in the morning: my one-hour readings were already below the threshold for the two hour readings! Wow, right?!! I fully expected the medical assistant to ask for an autograph. Instead, she said, ‘Ja, das is gut,’ not the least bit breathlessly. Boo.)
Long story short, the experts assure us that there’s nothing to worry about but I’m scheduled for a c-section next Thursday due to a huge fetus and commensurately generous amounts of amniotic fluid. In the meantime I’m racking up ultrasounds at the rate of 4 per week and very few strangers allow me the dignity of an unremarked-upon crossing of paths. I have four more days to come up with a response better than, ‘Oh, you made the joke about being due yesterday/is it twins/how am I still walking? Ha ha, yeah, I’m not pregnant, it’s just that since Sunday I’ve eaten three Chinese New Years’ worth of radish cake.’


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