I was recently having dinner with some friends when the topic of elevator operators came up (who knows how these conversations over dinner evolve) and I told everyone that, in fact, my father had once been an elevator operator, much to their amusement.

It was one of those faint memories…something he’d mentioned to me ages ago that I found hilarious and then stored away in the back of my mind. And as soon as I recalled the story, I wanted more information, so I wrote to my father to ask him to provide some, which, naturally, he did.

(As always, I’m leaving the spelling and grammar intact, so as not to lessen the charm of these correspondences.)

From:Cara McDonough
To: Fred Rotondaro
Date: Wed, May 28, 2008

Didn’t you once hold a job as an elevator operator? Can you tell me about that?

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough
Date: Wed, May 28, 2008

Ablut 50yearsago at the shawnee inn in the poco mount-ns. Owned by fred waring, a famous orchestra leader. Did it right out of high school.
It was fun. We got a room and naturally our. Meals0 0
Lots of young kids around but I was too na?Øve to realize how charmung I was.
The eleva(or was hand operated.
Pull. The lever down and you went down. Up and you went up.
But only three floors.
I don’t remember the people I ferried around except for one round faced guyb who I thought played the partner of jack webbin the tv series dragnat. Turned out he was a priest.
Wrong again

Pop

Although we promised ourselves we’d spent massive amounts of time “doing stuff around the house” this weekend (which we did, and seriously, if I uncover one more box labeled “wine glasses - fragile!” I’m donating all my material goods to charity and running off to a convent or something, because honestly, what is it worth? Having so many things?) I decided to take at least part of Monday off, it being a holiday and all, and head out to a coffee shop where I could sit back and do some non-pregnancy, non-work-related reading.

I took The New York Times Magazine with me and read Emily Gould’s piece on blogging, which I highly recommend to, well, anyone, because it’s interesting, but especially you bloggers out there. Even though my blogging life is a far cry from hers - she was once an editor at Gawker and her life far more on display than mine will ever be - I found that some of her words really rang true.

“The will to blog is a complicated thing, somewhere between inspiration and compulsion. It can feel almost like a biological impulse. You see something, or an idea occurs to you, and you have to share it with the Internet as soon as possible.”

Since I started my new job at findingDulcinea a few months ago, many people have asked me about what I do and about the site. And I try to explain it to them by saying things like, “Well, it’s a web site, and I write for the news team and it’s really great!!” Which, you know, isn’t very helpful.

Luckily two of my coworkers have put together a video that explains why our site is the best to use when you want to find relevant information on the web, using the example of researching a trip to Central America.

You can watch the video on the findingDulcinea blog.

Go ahead, watch it (yes, that’s a demand disguised in friendly overtones).

A couple weeks ago I started feeling the baby move, an experience countless baby books and websites described as “magical” and “wondrous” or, if they didn’t use those words, similar ones.

That’s not exactly how it went for me, even though it is cool. I’d say, for me, it was more like finally understanding that the feelings I was feeling weren’t gas or other digestive functions, but were, instead, the little one messing around in there. Me saying to J, “I think I can maybe feel the baby move,” and him saying, “Really?” and me saying, “Well…maybe, yeah, maybe,” and eventually becoming more confident.

It still seems to be too early for me to feel that much of significance. There’s no massive undertakings going on, no huge kicks or punches or anything, more like tiny twitches and gentle tappings, a gentle reminder that someone is along for the ride.

This is nice, because I’ve been feeling pretty amazing since I got over the first trimester general nausea and extreme, coma-inducing fatigue. I’ve been feeling totally not pregnant, except for the growing belly and occasional swollen ankles (which I cried about once, just so you know, that’s how much I hate the way swollen ankles look).

I was telling J how I didn’t “feel pregnant at all,” the other day, in fact, and he was like, “Oh my God, look at you, you look so pregnant, I wish you realized how pregnant you look” which, by the way, he didn’t mean in an insensitive way and I didn’t mind at all.

Anyway, these little movements, although they’re still rather infrequent and unpredictable, get me thinking in pregnancy mode again. Like, oh yes, THAT’S why I’ve got to buy new clothes.

They also allow me to attempt communication with my baby, like yesterday when I was very tired and very hungry after a long road trip this weekend, and was on the train home from work eating Cheez-Its, because, hey, that’s what I had in my bag, while feeling the consistent, miniature thump of this little tiny girl, and I tried to tell her, through mother-child brain waves or whatever, that “I know Cheez-Its aren’t giving you that many nutrients, but I really need them right now, ok?”

I also like to think about what she’s doing when she’s not moving around. No doubt the answer is that she’s sleeping, or, I just can’t feel her all the time yet, but I prefer to think she’s being productive (after all, she’s got all this time on her hands) and that maybe she’s got a little desk lamp on and is working tirelessly on her first novel.

And so, the unreasonable expectations begin.

When did Chipotle decide to start posting the calorie range of all their menu items in the stores? What is going on in this country? Whatever happened to ignorance being bliss when eating huge burritos?

The title really says it all, but just to explain, I wrote this story for findingDulcinea yesterday, cringing the entire time. It wasn’t so much the part about the little girl - it’s not her, or any of these other people’s faults that they’ve got long lost twins or whatever living inside them - just at the descriptions. People love weird stuff. And the media knows.

So, please read my story if you’re up for learning about about creatures with long fingernails living inside a man’s abdomen, which, I know you totally are.

After many months of resisting I broke down today and installed that “Lil’ Green Patch” application on my Facebook account, thus ending the peace and quiet and distance I have experienced on that particular social networking site up to this point. It’s all over now.

When my alarm went off Monday morning, it just wasn’t a good scene. I was that kind of tired where you feel like punching somebody. You know, because you are so tired. And that seems like the only logical solution.

I somehow made it out of the bed and into the shower, into my clothes and into the car so J could get me to the station for the 6:53 train to New York City. And the minute I’d boarded and settled in to my window seat, I leaned my head against the wall in hopes of getting a little more sleep before the work day began.

I drifted off for a while, as the seats next to me filled up and the car got more and more crowded, and I came to sometime after we’d stopped in Fairfield and were on the express route to Grand Central.

I was hot when I woke up. Like, really extremely hot. They’d jacked up the heat that morning, I suppose because of the unseasonably cold temperatures, and I’d been leaning against the vent as I slept. I took off the cardigan I was wearing, but that didn’t help. I kept getting hotter. Then my stomach didn’t feel quite right. Then my vision started to go a little blurry. I realized I was about to pass out or something.

You know what the worst place to be is if you feel like you’re going to pass out or something? The window seat of the three seater aisle on a crowded train that is on the express route to New York City and won’t be stopping anytime soon.

I knew I needed to lie down. I mean, it wasn’t as though I was going to die or anything, I was fully conscious, and not even panicking, I just needed to lie down. But, of course, I came to the awful realization that if I wanted to lie down, I was going to have to make at least a little bit of a scene, because those ladies sitting next to me? They were going to have to move.

I tried my best to get over it. I sat back, took some deep breaths and closed my eyes, but I just felt worse, so I resigned myself to the inevitable, and in my most polite voice, told the women that I “didn’t feel very well, sort of like I’m about to pass out, and I’m five months pregnant, and would you mind getting the conductor for me?”

Great, I thought, now everyone knows. No one made too much of a fuss though, thank God, as I put my head down and pulled my knees up towards my chest, as my seat companions, who’d graciously and quickly gotten up to make room for me, suggested.

Within seconds I felt 100 percent better. I guess I just needed to put my head down, like I’d thought, so my circulation could get back to normal. But I’d already set the wheels in motion, as I knew would happen when I realized I had to go public, and a few minutes later the conductor (Why had I asked for the conductor? It had seemed like the right thing, but what could he really do for me?) appeared in the aisle with a banana and a bottle of water.

I sincerely like most of the Metro North conductors I’ve met, but this one could not have been more unfriendly. He all but threw the items at me, told me to “eat that,” and away he went, almost as though he had seen it all before and I was just another pregnant woman causing problems on the train, and couldn’t I see he was busy? And how could I have let this happen?

I did what he said, though, peeled the banana and started to eat, because I figured it could only help, and I was taking my first bite I saw a very tall gentleman walking through the train car, calling out, “Where is the girl who is not feeling well?” and I had to raise my hand and say, “Oh, that’s me,” despite kind of wanting to jump out the window. Jumping out the window at that point seemed like the best option.

The man was very nice, though, I’ve got to admit, and asked if I’d like him to test my blood sugar levels, to see if maybe I was hypoglycemic, and I said sure, and was offering my index finger as I finished the rest of the banana, when I realized I had no idea who in the world this man was, and stopped him so I could ask, “Wait, are you a doctor?”

A registered nurse, he replied, and I happily gave him back my hand.

My blood sugar was fine, I was fine, and we all returned to our regular activities.

When I got to Grand Central I called my doctor’s office to ask them if I should be concerned, and the nurse told me that feeling faint while pregnant is actually fairly common, that I’d done the right thing by lying down and that she was nearly positive nothing was wrong, but since this was my first pregnancy and it had never happened to me before, maybe I should come in for a quick visit that afternoon and get checked out.

So I called my office and told them I’d be taking a sick day, I called J and asked him if he could pick me up in a couple hours, I got a scone, so no one could accuse me of not eating enough, and I got right back on the train heading back towards New Haven.

The rest of the day was rather uneventful and even pleasant. I slept almost the entire train ride home. J picked me up, got me some lunch and made sure I was ok, and I slept a little more before he took me to my appointment, where he patiently waited with me, sitting on a chair in the corner while I sat up on the examination table, for the doctor to show. We laughed, thinking up ridiculous baby names.

After a quick check - my blood pressure and the baby’s heart rate were both just fine - the doctor declared that “pregnant women are simply more prone to fainting.” I told her that yes, I’d heard that. We talked about the fact that I’ve been really good about eating enough, but probably didn’t get enough breakfast before leaving the house that morning, and how if I felt that way again, the best thing to do is lie down, like I did, although if it happens again on the train I’m probably going to opt for the jumping out the window routine.

I didn’t like what happened, not at all. Besides being a pretty stressful way to spend the morning, I don’t like feeling weak, and even though I’m well aware that “pregnant women are simply more prone to fainting,” I, personally, like to think I can somehow avoid it anyway. That maybe I’m somehow better and stronger than everyone else.

Which, of course, I’m not.

When annoying or bad things like this happen, I like to at least try and look for a positive, and there are a couple in this instance. I caught up on some sleep I probably badly needed, for one thing.

There were also a few wonderful moments of female unity in the midst of all the commotion that morning. One of the women sitting next to me reassuringly told me that she’d fainted on the train when she was pregnant so she understood, and the other, who had been sitting on the far end of our row and had gone to find the conductor for me, told me upon returning to her seat that some man she’d encountered in another car had the nerve to say that “They shouldn’t allow pregnant women on the train.”

She told me she looked right at him and asked “And how many babies have you had?” Then she smiled at me and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “If men had to have babies, the world would end.”

J and I tend to spend a lot of time on the weekends getting seriously excited about all the major progress we’re going to make on our house, and then we spend an equal amount of time reading the paper and drinking coffee, because, hey, it’s the weekend, and then we spend a few hours talking about how we’re not really getting that much done, and wondering when we’ll buy the furniture we need, or finally hang up all our clothes in the bedroom closet, and before you know it, it’s the end of the day and we’re lucky if we’ve run the dishwasher. This is just how it goes and as time goes on I’m coming to grips with the fact that progress on the house will take time, and I’m ok with that.

So it was a nice change of pace a few days ago when J was running around shouting happily about how, “It’s going up on the wall for the first time EVER!” He had decided to hang a major piece of artwork we’ve had sitting in storage for a few years now - a huge Audubon print of two snowy owls that my father had given him, because my father has no problem furthering his bird obsession, which is probably because my father doesn’t have to live with the bird obsession.

The owl picture is nice, if a little intimidating. It’s not like I have anything against it, it’s just that it’s so big. But J had suggested it would fit perfectly on our dining room wall, and he had a point. It looks good there, and even though we don’t have a table and chairs yet, I think it’s safe to the room is gaining in character.

J, very proud of his accomplishment:

I forgot about this until a few days ago, but when I was about two months pregnant and had my first ultrasound, and we told our parents the news, my mother suggested I write something about what I was feeling, and then post it on my blog when I was ready to tell everyone else.

This is what I wrote on February 15:

Yesterday was my first doctor’s appointment for this pregnancy, which I found out about in mid-January, after taking a home pregnancy test in the bathroom here at the McDonough’s house. Although I knew the thing was going to be positive – I hadn’t gotten my period when I’d expected to and felt a little sick – standing there waiting those interminable three minutes was still enough to nearly kill me. Or, at least, I was a little shaky.

And then there were those telling two lines and that was that. I was a little shocked, to be honest. I shouldn’t have been because, hey, I’m an educated grownup and J and I hadn’t been using birth control for a few months, and that means you can get pregnant. But somehow, for some reason, I thought it would take a lot longer, that it would be harder. And while we were excited about the prospect of having a baby, the actual fact was much more, you know, actual.

After I told J that afternoon he nearly threw up, I think, then…then we got excited. And decided not to tell anyone for a while, at least until I’d gone to the doctor and we’d confirmed, more than a home pregnancy test can do, that there was something in there.

J came with me to the doctor yesterday because I’ve seen television and movies and I know that the husband gets to come for that initial visit, when the doctor does an ultrasound and you check out the baby for the first time.

I was excited about this. First of all, it was Valentine’s Day, and while we didn’t have any other romantic plans in the works, going to the ob-gyn to see a tiny little baby seemed a lovely, and slightly humorous, way to spend the day. I was pretty calm – I’ve never minded going to the doctor – but I sensed J’s nerves and decided it couldn’t hurt to get him going even more by asking him if he was “pumped about his first visit to the gynecologist?” Was he “ready to hang out in the waiting room with all the ladies?”

I was also anxious to show J that if he didn’t like going to the doctor he had NOTHING to complain about because see those stirrups? I’m going to have to get naked with just a paper vest up top and a think paper blanket covering the rest of me and put my feet in those. I have to do this every year, I explained to him.

Luckily, the nurse midwife we saw had a good sense of humor and the entire experience was a lot of fun. She told us that when her husband came to her first prenatal visit, his face turned white and she worried that if he couldn’t take that, how was he going to make it through the birth? I told her I’d instructed J to remain on the side of the room where my head was, not the side of the room with the stirrups, a request he dutifully, happily agreed to.

We went through the normal stuff. She asked me how I was feeling, and I told her I’d had nausea, definitely, but that it wasn’t that bad. That I was a tired a lot but was learning to deal with it pretty well, taking lots of naps and going to sleep early. When she gave me a pelvic exam and felt my uterus, telling us it felt like I was eight weeks along, I was reminded of another symptom I’d been having due to the pressure that action put on my bladder – constantly needing to pee.

We all joked around some more, she told me things looked good so far and left to retrieve the portable ultrasound machine. When she came back she had J plug the bulky contraption into the wall, turned the screen on, squirted cold jelly on my abdomen and rubbed a wand with a flat, rectangular end over the area. “Just like in the movies,” said J.

I had a few seconds to be just a little nervous before the picture appeared. What if the tests had been wrong and I wasn’t pregnant or what if everything wasn’t ok? But sooner than I was able to truly substantiate these fears, there was something on the screen and the midwife was smiling and explaining it to me and J, because there was no way we would have been able to make sense of it on our own.

There was the head, she explained, as she measured its little body from top to bottom – eight weeks along, like she’d thought – and there, she said, pointing to a pulsating flash of light, was its heartbeat.

I had a good view of J’s face from where I was lying and watched him smile for what seemed like ten minutes straight and remark upon how cool that was and how the “heartbeat is so fast!” Little things, explained the midwife, have rapid heartbeats.

I know people have babies like every second of every day, and that humans have been doing so for thousands of years, and so I know that that moment, as unique as it was to us, certainly wasn’t the first of its kind. That its resonance in our life was, of course, noteworthy, but that billions of others have experienced this and billions will continue to experience this in the future.

Plus, I’m not a big fan of all that “pregnancy is magical” nonsense. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I realize it’s an amazing thing and I’ve loved every second of it so far – I can barely contain my excitement – it’s just that people get a little, you know, sappy. Touchy- feely.

But looking at that tiny, rapidly beating heart on the screen there in the doctor’s office, I found I didn’t have to worry about getting overly dramatic or feeling more special or anything than I should. It was simply, as J said, so cool. Such a moment of utter reality after weeks of vague feelings of nausea and fatigue and wondering what, exactly, was going on in there until yesterday, there it was. And instead of feeling worried about taking care of such a great responsibility, because yes, now the evidence was overwhelming – I was pregnant – I just felt really happy. Such a tiny little thing, and yet, so overwhelmingly amazing.