First off, everything's fine.

Just so no one worries. On Friday, I came down with a nasty stomach flu that had me throwing up every 45 minutes. I finally gave in and went to the hospital at 630pm because everytime I threw up the absolutely nothing in my stomach, I would then get this really sharp stabby pain across the top of my stomach.

So they hooked me up to the monitors and discovered that the sharp stabby pain was in fact labor. Which is in fact a bad thing at 35 weeks. Because I was so dehydrated, I went into labor. Who knew? And at 35 weeks, a delivery would mean flying the baby back to Oahu. That's no good.

So they hooked me up to an IV. They gave me some pills which I threw up. Ohmigosh, how I hate throwing up. Especially since I was nine months long morning sickness pregnant with Owen and now when I throw up it's, "holy crap my stomach is coming out of my throat and I am choking to death, pounding on the floor, because I can't BREATHE!!!!" So they gave me some shots instead. One to stop throwing up and three to stop the labor which I was to frickin' exhausted to fight off anymore. So then I became Stoner Sara because those non-puking drugs always make you high as a kite, but then the non-labor drugs made me like a speed freak junkie with the shakes. And of course the non-labor drugs pump up your heart rate which pumps up the baby's heart rate which means...a whole night of observation in a crampy non comfortable, not made for eight months pregnant woman's back, totally too short bed. They finally let us go at 7 the next morning.

So I am trying to ignore that my house is in shambles, there is a monumentous pile of laundry stacking up, we cannot eat because all the dishes are dirty, and I must still drive Owen to school. Abra sadly cannot go because...

Now Abra is sick.

Help! Help!

I am 30.

When did this happen? Was I sleeping? How did I get to be 30?

I don't feel old (which is good) and I am not really upset (which is better), but I am still curious that time seems to have taken a giant leap from 22 to 30. Okay, maybe frightened is a better word than curious. Because if it leaps like this for the next eight years, holy crap, I will almost be forty!

Ah well. At least I still look 17. Right? Right? Just smile and nod, damnit.

The Carving of the Pumpkins

And so begins the delectable delights of the season. With purchased pumpkins from Foodland, at a totally abysmal price of $0.59 a pound, having not been able to arrange the pumpkin patch this year, we commence the holidays. I have always wondered at the Harvest Celebration ritual in which you force a gourd to reliquish its innards in the name of all things ghoulish. But oh, how I love the smell of burning pumpkin. And the squishy-ness. And how Owen always says, "I want to do it all myself." Yet I have never bought that fourth pumpkin for myself. This year, he at least deigned to spoon out some guts. Which Ruth promptly ate. And ate. And ate some more. I was at a loss as to how exactly I could stop her when I was covered in orange goo. Eventually, the high chair came into my view, and with a cookie, the pumpkin feast ceased.

Abra did an awesome job, all by herself. It's the squinty one on the right. Jeff's is on the left; he said he was going for maniacal laughter, but stopped just short at crazy giggle. Mine, I mean, Owen's, is the one that apparently looks like he's been sipping the pumpkin beer. Just one more round, friend. Owen always wants one that looks like the one Lucy draws on Charlie Brown's head, but I just can't bring myself to carve that many triangles so we settle for, "how many teeth do you want?"

I love this time of year. Even when the leaves don't change colors.

Just another manic, uh...Wednesday.

Today I am officially 31 weeks despite being in denial that I am pregnant at all. Ruth and I went for our walk down Mud Lane (yes, that is its real name) where she decided about 1/4 of the way to not walk anymore, thank you very much, and you will please carry me all the way home. Where is the stroller, you ask? We never want to stay IN the stroller so Mommy very foolishly decided that we would try out just doing the walk. Yes, I hear you all laughing together. So we rode mom's shoulders all the way home as that seemed like the best option. Almost four kids and I still choose poorly. Stop laughing, I mean it.

The doctors have moved me to getting seen every two weeks and I go to my diabetic lady before I see them. We have another ultrasound scheduled for the 28th of this month, when I will be roughly 34 weeks and still heavy in denial. I can however still see my toes. Perhaps this is a good thing as it means I have not gained very much weight and we are all proponents of that.

We are starting to think quite seriously about building a house here. This seems quite well, ridiculous in light of recent economic events. In fact, it seems kind of stupid. There seem to be lots of things that our little family could do, but not one concrete thing that we should do. This one however, does seem to be the best option. For now (cue the scary music). Since Jeff is in construction and knows all the right people for that, building seems to be better than buying for us. In the meantime, we will save our pennies (and nickles and quarters and benjamin's) and wait for as close to the right time as possible. Whatever that is.

While we are saving our pennies, we will continue to enjoy those things which are unique to living here as the right thing might be something else later. We will go to the beach in October and pick pumpkins from the patch in Hawi after. We will eat Chicken Katsu before we go trick or treating in Waikoloa, study the ancient hawaiian navigation techniques in Hilo and have cheeseburgers, and we will enjoy what we can with the time that is given us.

The County Fair

So, then...moving on.

Today we went to the County Fair and Owen got on his very first big person scary ride. Jeff made him sit in the back of the big rocking boat thingy. Which left him exiting the ride like screeching banshee. Sitting in between Grandma and Grandpa, clutching Grandma's shirt for dear life, wailing in full volume; it was a complete repeat of Abra last year. This year she went on the Zipper and pronounced it awesome. Jeff has turned them into *gasp* amusement park groupies!

Not that I am complaining. Ruth and I stood nearby in the shade as it was just downright frickin' scorching. In Hilo! The city with the most rainfall in the US! Not a single damn cloud! Exclamation Point!!! But apparently we have climatized enough or our sunblock was extreme as none of us are burnt. Ruth pet a chicken but that one was free; the rest of the petting zoo cost $3. Hell, we could have gone to the real zoo and pet animals for free. She did not enjoy that cottony part of the cotton candy, but the turny dragons kicked butt.

Seriously, it was too hot to eat anything. Or move. And it wasn't big enough of a fair to go do that fun crafty stuff that I like, but we had fun. With funnel cake.

Well, it's official...

It took three years, but it finally happened. I am the big, ugly, white man. Despite not being big, ugly, or a man. Or even all white. I got called a haole today outside of KTA supermarket. Since most of my family doesn't know what Haole means, a quick description: Haole typically means foreigner, but over the years it has become derogatory. Almost like calling someone a n*****.

Part of me wants to laugh about it. I have been inducted. I have surpassed tourist status and remained long enough for slurs about my non-brownness to head my way. And maybe tomorrow I can. I am still too mad right now. I realize, in the grand scheme of things, three years in one place is a bit of a joke but for our family, it's tantamount to homesteading. We're always moving.

It wasn't improved by the fact that I was on the phone with Jeffery talking about how we couldn't go to the camping site we originally chose because a white guy sitting around the campfire with his family got the shit beat out of him by six "Natives" who materialized out of the darkness. How I hate that fucking word. Native. We are all native. Native to planet Earth. Despite not having EVER treated someone poorly because their skin was a different color. Despite being a good law abiding citizen, contributing to the economy, sending my kids to public school, shopping for local goods. Despite an attempt to respect and learn and grow about a different culture. Oh no, it doesn't matter because I am a haole. Fuck that. Sorry to be so crude, but FUCK THAT. If staying in one place long enough to birth two babies and buy groceries for four children and say hi to my neighbors and go to church isn't enough to make this a home, then what is? Oh, respect the 'aina, respect the 'aina. And on my walk today, next to the horses is a used condom. Who the hell put that on Mud Lane?! Some bike riding tourist stopping long enough to get it on? Bull. Bitch and excuse and condemn me all you want, but I sure as hell wasn't leaving my car battery on the side of the road, was I? I was walking across a parking lot with my children and you almost back up into my daughter, but I'm the interloper of doom? I sent the smallpox and leprosy to decimate your ancestors specifically so I could arrive two hundred years later and own the asphalt. Kiss my technicolor ass.

Alright, that's enough ranting, but it was rather upsetting. Like finding a worm in my pristine apple. Okay more like walking straight into a telephone pole covered in dog shit, but nevermind. I love it here. And not just because it's "pretty." I love everything about here. And I thought...I thought...I don't even know what I thought. Yes I do. I thought this was my home. More than almost any other place I have ever lived. Silly me. I am just a haole.

I killed me some chickens!

So now, as the world approaches the Apocolypse, I am prepared. It is a good thing that my morning sickness has ended as friends Becca and Matt had some chickens to kill and asked me if I wanted to help. I said yes and am still not sure if that was a good plan or not. It was actually shockingly easy. First is the slaughter of the innocent poultry. Okay, so not really, but they opted for the cutting of the throat method as hatchets were not available. Then we scalded and plucked. These chickens had actually been Easter presents so underneath their lovely white feathers, there was a soft down of blue or purple or green. It was quite sad at that point. But our lust for blood did not pause and we moved quickly onto the removal of the innards which, in truth, was the grossest part. I will spare you the details.

I took home Mr. Purple and made curry. He was extremely tasty, but I did have a hard time near the end. So, I have learned a worthwhile skill and if you look close, you can see that I did it in slippah. If I can cook, so can you, Choy Gin!