I hear God laughing

Is it wrong to give your unborn child an eviction notice? Seriously. I wrote it on a post-it note and stuck it under my clothes today..

in case Jack's a genius and can already read..

using his x-ray vision.

On a conflicting note, it turns out that it is for the best that Jack isn't here yet since missing work right now is not really an option. People say that someone will surely pick up the slack for me and that the kids will be OK, and that may be true to an extent.. but what about the seniors who are on the borderline who need to turn in extra credit work to graduate, or the hundreds of dollars (from the recent litmag sales) the litmaggers are turning in that I am directly responsible for? What about the exams? Grading the exams (especially those that are essays)? Make-up work? Novel and textbook returns?

The bottom line is teachers can't miss work, especially at this point in the year.
And how silly of me to think I could actually let go of some of my responsiblities to, I don't know, GIVE BIRTH!

Maybe I should hang on to the eviction sticky-notice until next week. I suppose it was a long shot that Jack would mind it anyway.. Plus the hospital bags are packed and ready which means that Jack will probably hang out another week or two. We made a plan therefore God thinks we're hilarious.

We'll see what the doc says tomorrow.

Memorial Lite

It is Memorial Day, a day on which all of us are asked to pause and reflect upon all of our fallen heroes, the ones who fought and died making this country what it is today.

As with nearly every holiday in this country, this one has been commercialized to death (both literally and figuratively speaking) and has become more about a free day from work, eating (especially anything that you can grill..on a stick), major store-wide clearance sales, and of course movie hopping. In short, unless you are one of the most devout who actually takes a moment (at 3:00 pm, specifically) to remove your hat and put your hand over your heart, you might observe that Memorial Day has become 4th of July lite.

The interesting thing is I think this is OK.* Let me explain:

It is an honor to the fallen that we do get to do all of those flippant, flibberdegibbit things: movies and sales and homemade ice-cream and such. In other words, because we really don't have to worry about our security on a day to day basis, the fact that we get to spend our money on entertainment and travel, the idea that we actually want to hang out with friends and family and feast or throw Frisbees is a true testament to the soldiers' work.

But before I ask you to stand and salute a sparkling, blinking "God Bless America" singing American flag icon here on this blog, I should make it clear that though I do appreciate the soldiers themselves (and teach many of them who choose to 'join-up' at the tender age of 17), I still stand firm in that I do not agree with, nor am I an advocate of the current war mongering/bullying politics that put them in harms way. And I get to write these words without a whole lot of ridicule because I live in a country where, though its not really regarded seriously or at all, I do get to voice a differing opinion without worry.. within certain parameters, of course.. (enthusiastically waving at the camera) Hi Big Brother!!

(a whole new topic for a different post)

Anyway, Happy Memorial Day! May your burgers be juicy, may your beer be cold, and may you enjoy the new Indiana Jones movies as much as I did! :)


*I know! It's not my usual rant on consumerism and the evil capitalists! I have this vision of you guys stepping outside, shading your eyes, and looking around for flying pigs.. Whatever.

Pregasaurus Rex

I've hit the stage in my pregnancy where people no longer address me directly or ask me questions that are personal or relevant or whatever. They simply point at my belly with horrendous looks on their faces.

I'm not kidding.

Well, OK. One lady stopped me in the hall and put her finger in her cheek to make a loud popping sound. That's not exactly pointing, but I must have looked confused (and to be fair, I was sort of - in an 'oh no you didn't just do that' sort of way) because she did it again AND THEN she pointed at my belly. She said (and I quote), "That's what you look like."

I said, "I look like a popping sound?"

And she said, "Yes. You look like you're about to pop...(awkward pause)... in a cute way."

The good news is I visited the doctor today and she says that I've already completed the beginning stages of labor. I won't go into too much detail, mostly because using terms like 'mucus plugs,' 'effacement' and 'dilation' is a turn off to some, except to say that she also said she would be surprised if I made it to my due date.

In your face, pointing, popping bastards!!

I don't really know how that's a burn to them, but I feel pretty good about the prognosis, so soon there will be no more shenanigans from them! Soon I will only have to worry about all the lovelies who think it's OK to commentate on my parenting skills.

Nice.

Anyway, come on Baby Jack. We're ready!!

Or Press the Panic Button

So yesterday in my first period English IV class I was describing the wacky world of misplaced modifiers when all of a sudden a hushed hub-bub broke out in the back of the room among those who are generally more loud and animated. I could distinguish few words and was fairly confident that they weren't concerned about the canyon being 10 miles deep (as opposed to the winding path, like the example indicated), but I did recognize the words "Ms." and "Haag" among the frantic whispers.

I asked them what was going on, and they all stopped and stared at me. Finally, the bravest kid in the back of the room, the one who is not shy about discussing any topic broke the silence by sheepishly asking,

"What happens if your water breaks in our class?"

Silence again.

I looked intently at all of them, trying to decide how I was going to respond to them, to this question that they were seriously concerned about. Out of my mouth came,

"Well. I guess the front row will get wet."

The class, responding as one, took in a huge breath of air and squealed, "Ewwwwwwwwwwww!" Then came a chaotic blend of amused voices that shrieked, "Oh my god!" and "Noooo!" and "Get it off of me!"

When the laughter finally died down, I did explain to them that probably nothing would happen if my water broke in their class, that more than likely I would walk out of the room calmly and that they wouldn't notice anything was amiss until a substitute walked in. I explained that nothing would "explode" or "spray" or "pop" and that I was sorry to disappoint them, but even if my water does break or if I do go into labor, I would more than likely walk calmly out of the room. I would probably NOT give birth in front of them, and that Junior, the kid who sits front and center, would not be in charge of finding towels.

The weird thing is, they weren't really relieved. They actually were disappointed. They explained that it's not because they want me to go into labor in front of them, but they recently realized that they wouldn't even get to meet Jack. They compared their situation to watching a movie that they were really interested in, and then having someone turn it off right before the exciting ending. "Sorry, you don't get to see what happens next, even though you've invested a lot time here. Too bad, so sad."

They're right. They are seniors which means they won't be back next year. They won't get to see Jack, even though they've thrown baby showers, suggested names, and cleared the halls for their poor, pregnant teacher. They've dealt with the wacko hormones and have tolerated all of my moans and groans. They know I probably won't see them walk the stage or go to their prom, even though they are eager to share these moments with me.

I didn't realize until this silly conversation that this is the end of the year and, more than ever, there is a reason to feel nostalgic. It was sort of a bitter sweet moment..

And then I told 4th period this story and they responded by shrugging and declaring,

"Oh, we already decided that if you go into labor in our class, we'll just press the panic button.."

Things I Learned at the Faculty "Talent" Show

Last night I decided to accompany Rich to his school's faculty talent show. Let's be crystal clear here: Rich is a teacher at a JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL, one that I literally ran screaming from, clutching the only thread of sanity that was left in my feeble, nerve wracked (and Prozac influenced) psyche. I once swore that I would never set foot into that building ever again, and if I absolutely had to, I would be uber sneaky, stealthy even- complete with back against the walls maneuvers, forward rolls into shadows, and possibly dawning a ski mask- in order to avoid the sheer panic of having to pretend to be nice to a person who, at the time, emotionally strangled me. Plus, I figured the building itself was poison.

So, last night I decided to go to the talent show there. Why? Because I am a moron. And because I never get to see Rich - the husband who works three jobs to make sure we can afford daycare AND diapers- and I wanted to support him since he is constantly helping me at my school. He was not performing this time - thank God!*- and we were simply going as spectators. Five glorious years have passed since I worked there, and, anyway, I had been practicing my forward rolls, though this is extremely difficult (and not recommended) for pregnant women.. I figured I could take it.

You have to understand that there are dear, dear folks who are trapped work at Rich's school. These people are like family to us because in order to survive, we formed clans as coping mechanisms. It's akin to being in the military - you are especially close to your squad since you and "your brothers" have gone through and seen things that no one will ever understand unless you've been in the trenches together. A bond is formed. And whenever you bump into these people in "the real world," you run to them with your arms open, even if the only thing you have in common is that war-time experience.

OK. It sounds like I'm exaggerating, and I admit that my metaphor is extended far beyond the necessary boundary, but you get what I mean.

Anyway, I went to the talent show (sans ski mask, but only because Rich made me leave it in the car). I saw my squad and greeted them with kisses and hugs (and belly rubs - their hands, my belly for clarification). We held hands, even, and touched up each other's war paint. That was nice and needed.

I also saw her: the person who was so mean and heartless to me that I ran from the building screaming... (as described before)... into the arms of a new job that I absolutely ADORE. I was, as usual, completely insincere with her, our fake smiles and disingenuous conversation. Ick. I still feel smarmy. But I survived the encounter one more time, a feat that takes amazing talent, or possibly a course or two in car salesmanship or Western politics..

But overall I was actually glad to go. (Don't tell Rich.. ) And the actual talent show? There wasn't much to say about that, except that whoever actually invented amateur talent shows, especially ones at church camps and junior high schools, needs to be severely flogged - repeatedly - during the (never ending) lip sync act(s) or, even better, as the finale. In comparison, though, this is a non-issue.

* Someday ask me about the infamous night in an Edinburgh hostel and our encounters with Johnny Cash and Jimmy Buffett. Or maybe not.

Manicured Spirit

Today I went to have a mani pedi. I am not usually the type of girl who gets mani pedis; I'm usually the one climbing the tree in front of the salon. My cuticles are never trimmed, unless you count chewing them until they bleed as trimming. My nails are usually fairly clean and clipped, but they are rarely what would would call "manicured".

Sometimes I try to paint my toe nails, but usually I make such a mess of them that I let the paint dry and then take a bath so that I can scrub the excess paint off of my cuticles, my toe knuckles, my elbow, the counter top..

Anyway, I have reached the stage of my pregnancy where I can no longer bend down and clip my toenails. I've also reached the stage where my my feet do not fit in my shoes due to the edema. That means that I am wearing flip flops with my dress pants, and sometimes house shoes. Classy. Especially since my feet look like they belong in the Shire. That's why I decided to get a pedicure and then thought, "why not get the manicure, too?"

And that's what I did.

I went to the little hole-in-the-wall nail salon in my community. Oddly, you know the one I'm talking about; we all have ones that are fairly identical. The ladies were so adorable, and I could tell that they were related. They hardly spoke any English but we were able to converse enough to exchange the basics: that I would like to have the mani-pedi special with the Brisbane Bronze polish; that the baby is due in June; that it is a boy; that they have one boy, almost a year old, born a month early; and yes, they could sell me the bottle of bronze nail polish for touch-ups (not that I can actually bend over to touch-up).

While they worked on me, I glanced around the room: Barbara Walters was on the Oprah show which was on a tiny TV in the background. I listened to the Korean being spoken barely above a whisper back and forth across the room, and I wondered how it is that women, no matter what culture they hail from or what circumstance they are in, tend to make community with each other. Not only do we ask questions out of genuine concern or share our own experiences, especially when talking about babies, but it occurred to me today that we can be especially vulnerable with each other. One of the women was clipping and tending to my abused, tom-boyish hands while her mother was giving my swollen hobbit feet an extra long massage before she tried to make them presentable.

They were both extremely concerned about my comfort level, not because I was a patron or because they were hoping for a tip, but because they know what it is like to be 35 weeks pregnant. When it was difficult for me to lift my feet out of the water onto the work station, the mother grinned empathetically at me. I looked over at her daughter, the one who has a one year old son, who also was grinning. Then I grinned. In that moment, I became their sister which is part of that elusive connection with "the goddess" that I really had hoped to experience with this pregnancy.

I think the connection among women is a special type of connection that men perhaps only experience peripherally, if at all. Or maybe in our culture it isn't OK for them to acknowledge their connections. But for women, these ties are tribal and certainly go against the idea that Americans are too autonomous for communitas (the spirit of community).

It was nice to be vulnerable with these women. It was nice to be pampered. Maybe I'll try this whole mani pedi thing again someday.

Feminist Fuck-up

So, I think the feminists fucked things up for us. What were they thinking when they decided that women shouldn't be hidden away from society's judgemental eyes the very second they showed even a hint of being knocked-up? No wait, I think the correct term is (whispered) "p.g."

Seriously. Until Rosy the Riveter stepped in, women got to go home to their sanctuaries of solitude where they could lounge around all day in dressing gowns and indulge in their cravings without the glaring eye of those who would tell them things like, "That much chocolate is unhealthy for babies, " or, "Spread some peanut butter and cheese on that cinnamon bun. You need more protein," OR the ever popular, "Wow. You're huge!" Even when people are presumably being nice, it's still them making a judgement about my body. For example they say, "You're how far along? Geez. You're really small for being that far along," comments that sound sort of nice, but that leave one silently concerned.

And for the most part, I grin to myself about the comments. I even laugh out loud sometimes... later.

Also, though, being as pregnant as I am is seen as an invitation for the masses to come and ask me the most personal, intimate questions that would otherwise be NONE of their business. For example, "Were you trying to get pregnant? If so, how long did it take?"

How can I possibly answer that?

"Well, the condom broke sometime within the first 20 minutes or so.." or " I think it took five minutes, but I've seen him do better," or, "Actually, an angel spoke to me in a dream and when I woke up, I knew something was different.."

And my belly is a magnet for lonely people. Oddly, I'm OK with that. I don't mind when people want to share their lives: how many kids and grandkids they have, and how often they see them. I've realized lately how extremely lucky I am to have friends I can confide in, so that I don't feel the need to walk up to strangers and address their private parts.

All of this would be so much easier if I didn't struggle with my self-image as much as I do. I am one who is constantly concerned about what fits, what can be disguised, and what can be improved. I'm like that with my brain, too. I've always been that way. I'm not one of those women who feels beautiful when pregnant. I feel more like a circus tent, a science experiment, the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka..

And how disappointing. I really wanted to be the goddess, the Womyn who is creating life, harboring some ancient, secret mystery of the universe. I wanted to stomp the earth and feel that mysterious connection to all of those who are Gaea incarnate.

But I'm not even close to understanding the goddess. I'm Ginger Moth - the girl who is glad to be able to fly, but who is secretly jealous of the butterfly - working at not complaining that my ankles are swollen or that I can't breathe anymore - working at getting up everyday to go to work, even though all I want to do is stay home and spread peanut butter on my cinnamon bun.