Baby Jack!

Baby Jack is here!!!! and is completely adorable if I do say so myself. 7 lbs; 7ounces; at 7:00 am on his due date.. (miracle!) Mom and Baby are fine. Rich on the other hand.. :)
Stay tuned for pictures and information on new blog sites!

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.

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.

Letters for April 5: Baby Jack

Dear Jack,

This will be the first of many letters I write to you, I'm certain. In fact, I've been meaning to write you a letter since you came to be.

When I think about all of the things I want to say to you, I get completely overwhelmed, and end up all misty-eyed (and lame). And I'm sure there will be those moments amidst the, "You did what!!???"'s and the "How much is it gonna cost?"'s. But we have to start somewhere, right?

So, here goes.

I will begin by telling you I love you. I really, REALLY, gut crunching love you, and am so glad you are here.. er. are about to be here. But whatever, you are already here to me (especially at 1:00 in the morning when I am trying to sleep - thanks for those reminders..). And the fact that I love you is all it will ever come back to in the end.

I could end the letter here and it would be sufficient, for the rest of your life, but I have some other things on my list to talk to you about. We'll call them reminders (as opposed to rules which lend themselves to certain rebellion, especially if you are anything like your dad..). Here are the first 5:

1. Love... Just love. That's #1.

2. Have compassion - We are going to work on this together by being involved in our community, wherever that community may be.

3. Be respectful - of people, of your environment... of your parents.

4. You have the (un)fortunate honor of being a kid of two school teachers. That means we think book learnin' is pretty important. You will do your homework. You will be read to and you will read to us. We hope to instill in you a wonder for the world and all things in it, especially since we are continually being gobsmacked by what there is to know.

5. See the world. People continually tell me that I will never travel again because you are going to keep us pretty busy. I just tell them that you'll be a kid with a passport. The most well rounded kids I know are those who see that the world is bigger than their backyards. I hope that you get to be one of them.

So, those are the first 5.. until I think of other things to add to the list.

I also wanted to mention that you must take a shower when I ask you to (boys are gross!), and you must not climb on the roof just to jump off of it. But I think I'll save those tips for the book I am writing called, Jack's Survival Tips: Things that will keep your momma sane whilst lengthening your life expectancy, both literally and figuratively, at the same time.

It's a working title.

Anyway Jack, I'll see you in a month and a half or so.

I love you and there are already tons of folks here who are ready to love you, too. You're a lucky boy!

Momma

Letters for April 4: Moth Girl

Dear Moth Girl,

Don't worry.

You will not be lost, and what makes you you will also not be lost. Remember, change happens to be born often here and quickly too; you will labor through it: exhaling uncertains and gasping for newness, appreciative of the water, though (knowing you) keeping one eye focused on the distant, solid ground. In the end, you may even take flight! But you won't know until Outcome reveals herself.

Try to be mindful, no matter what happens. Even if the form of you becomes the unrecognizable, glaring back at you in the mirror (as sometimes happens to the best of us); even then, you - who has the potential to recall the fragrance of the timeless lotus flower- will remain familiar and recognizable to those who love you.

So, don't worry.

Change is.

In Egypt, I loved the perfume of the lotus. A flower would bloom in the pool at dawn, filling the entire garden with a blue musk so powerful it seemed that even the fish and ducks would swoon. By night, the flower might wither, but the perfume lasted. Fainter and fainter, but never quite gone. Even many days later, the lotus remained in the garden. Months would pass and a [moth] would alight near the spot where the lotus had bloomed, and its essence was released again, momentary but undeniable.

(from The Red Tent by Anita Diamant)

Pregnant Words

Do you ever have so many things to say that your brain breaks down and the cat gets your tongue? I feel that way about writing here sometimes. Sentences feel very heavy to me these days.. almost as heavy as my pregnant body. More so maybe.

But here are a few updates (in short, lighter fragments):

1. Friends Amanda and Pat threw a great party for Jack on Saturday! We are very lucky to have such generous friends and family! Thanks everyone! And thank you especially to those who came from such far places to celebrate the day! You guys are amazing! Jack's community will be very solid, indeed.

2. Work is v. busy at the mo. Lots to grade and study and do. But I can see the end.. I hope I'm ready for it seeing as the end of school is also the beginning of Jack and the reality of having a baby in our lives (though it's been more real to me than to anyone else).

3. Also, I failed a test. A glucose one. And I have to do more testing tomorrow (that icky three hour one). At best, the initial test was wrong. At worst, I have gestational diabetes. At really worst, I have adult onset diabetes. I'm hoping for the best..

These are my surface-y thoughts lately. More to come soon, but for now I'm off to work.

..and counting

I am dreading 1:00, and also the hour leading up to 1:00 and, let's face it, the hour directly after 1:00. Today at 1:00PM is Tim's funeral. It is currently 7:20AM and I still have not decided if I should go to the service or not.

This is a tricky situation. I feel like I ought to go. And certainly, who would say that they want to go to any one's funeral? Well, except that my Mom wants sparklers, baton twirling, and "Deep in the Heart of Texas" sung (complete with clapping) at her funeral.** And I would liked to have been a fly on the wall at the funeral in Iain Banks novel, The Crow Road, whose opening lines begin, 'It was the day my grandmother exploded. I sat in the crematorium, listening to my Uncle Hamish quietly snoring in harmony to Bach's Mass in B Minor..' Or maybe I'd be OK with going to a viewing with Grandma Mazur in the Stephanie Plum Bounty Hunter series in which funerals tend to be gossipy social gatherings where one never knows what might happen, especially if the service is closed casket.

But these are not realities. The realities are too sad, too horrific to be funny.

And please don't misunderstand. I don't mean to belittle the solemnity of the occasion. Tim's life is certainly worth mourning.

This post, sadly and selfishly, is about me. It's more that I don't know what to say. At funerals (and weddings, and baby showers, and any sort of gathering made up of two or more people) I become self-conscious about everything I do, whether I'm shaking a hand, giving a condolence, reacting to someone, speaking out loud... Everything should've/could've been done better, as noted in the numerous pages of mental critiques I give myself after an event. In addition, funerals are different from all other events since there are no formal invitations. I have to ask myself, "Is it my place to be there? Will the family want me there? Would it make a difference if I am not there, in which case, why would I stress my pregnant, hormonal self out by going?" Plus in this case, there is the added complication that my students will be there, ones who are currently in my class and those I've taught in the past who are coming home for Tim's service.

As usual, I'll probably spend some time telling myself to be firmly planted, stoic..teacherly... "Be strong. These kids need you," when really I know that (as usual) the students will, inevitably, hold me up instead. And I think that's OK. After all, I ask them to be vulnerable with me everyday. I suppose it is my turn.

Anyway.

It is now 8:20, and I think I ought to go.

I've known that I should go since Remington said the words, "Sunday at 1:00," though with that I felt the uneasiness of indecision rise within my soul.

It's 8:35. And I'm a selfish girl.

** Mom, that doesn't mean I want that party to happen any time soon. Do you hear me?!

From Operating Instructions

May 10

She's tiptoeing into the very beginning of some sort of relationship with God, or with a higher power, or something, but it is very hard for her to believe...

I recommended that she think of all of the women who have most adored her in her life and to come up with a sense of God based on that kind of love, on the same protectedness that it gives you to be loved by a really fine woman, a sense of some mysterious regenerative force at the center of things that is maybe just love. She said with great surprise, "I didn't know you could DO that," and I said, "Oh yeah, you can do anything you want, " and by this morning, she'd found a picture of a big cat licking a little cat. She's a great cat lover, and it stuck. So at the hospital this morning, as she sat in the doctor's office getting the chemo IV, and then as she sat around at home all day waiting to become Linda Blair, she said she'd picture this big cat licking her gently and carrying her in its mouth to safer places.

-Anne Lamott

Six Months and Counting

I sort of swore to myself that I wouldn't do this. I don't want to be the girl who shows off her baby bump. I don't need photographic evidence of any any sort of bump, lump, or goiter. In fact, I'm not even fond of the words baby and/or bump, especially when put together. There is no rational reason for this. And I don't begrudge the ones who do take their baby bump pictures, so this is another one of those irrationalities that plagues my personality - just like my extreme loathing of Gloria Estefan or my horrific repugnance of the 'lasso-spank' dance move. Whatever. My dad asked me to post pictures, and I know that you are curious too.

People have definitely started to notice that I'm pregnant, what with all of the good luck/prayer belly rubbing performed by perfect strangers. The bad news is my students have started to yell, "Oh my GOSH! You're HUGE!" The good news is that all of the women on the planet who have ever been six months pregnant think I'm small for being this far along. The best news is that my doctor says everything looks healthy. She probably doesn't know that I threw down on two donuts and a bowl of Lucky Charms this morning. Whatever/Sigh.

Here you go:


Please don't ask me for a video of the birth..

Completely Extracted

So, I had a tooth extracted on Monday. For those of you who have had this procedure done, you know that it isn't a pleasant experience. That being said, it could have been much worse. (Have Rich tell you the story about Dr. Death extracting some extra teeth..)

What occurred to me as I sat in the chair with several metal "instruments" sticking out of my mouth was not that my cheek skin was being stretched to its maximum uh.. stretch-itude, nor was I curious about what exactly was making that high pitched "sawing" sound. It was actually that, for some odd reason, I needed to be able to "handle" the extraction with some sort of ease and dignity if I am expected to, in 3 months, give birth to a baby. I felt like I was having some sort of dress rehearsal for a big event, a notion that is COMPLETELY mad seeing as one does not relate to the other - wrong doctor type, wrong body parts, wrong everything. The only thing the two situations might have in common is that there were needles involved, and a great deal of stress on my part. Oh, and both cases involve matter being "extracted" from my body.

The point is that having the tooth extracted was more of a mental battle to me. If I'm not brave for something this minor, then how in the hell am I going to perform in the majors? If proven unsuccessful, the baby will have to apply for college via my womb.

In the end, I think I did OK. I did ask for more of the numbing stuff so that I wouldn't actually feel anything but pressure. Things got a little "iffy" half-way through. I did leave the office with a swollen, stunned and betrayed, "How could you do this to me?" look on my face, especially after the special connection we made. And I sort of meant it, seeing as I felt totally vindicated when I "stole" a complimentary toothbrush from the lavatory. That'll show 'em.

But the doctor told me that I was a good patient. And I told him that he performed the best extraction I've ever had. So there you go. That means.. Well, it means nothing really. But I feel like I've had some sort of victory.

Just when you thought I couldn't gripe anymore, ours goes to eleven

People lie. They do. And, as a veteran teacher, I'm pretty good at reading the bullshit meter. So that's why I was dumbstruck that I actually believed all of those "mommy and me" types who talk about the wonder of being pregnant. And yes, though Jenny McCarthy has already said it under the guise of comedy, and though "the girlfriends" act like they've been brutally honest, mostly by crossing out the word "nine" and putting the word "ten" in parenthesis, I'm here to tell you, straight up, that pregnancy is not at all about "feeling the baby's butterfly kicks" and "nesting" in some "serene" and "beautifully glowing" moment in your life.

It effing sucks.

It's about your hips separating from your torso; waking jolting up in the middle of the night, not just to pee (for the fiftieth time), but because you've just realized that you've vurped in your mouth and now you are choking on it; it's about your stomach being in your throat and your spleen filling out a residence card in Canada. There are aches in parts of your body that you didn't know could ache. And it's tiring. So, so tiring. And before you accuse me of being overly hormonal and whiny (oh yes, another endearing side effect), please don't be the person who would just like to remind me that, "it's worth it in the end because you'll be bringing home that beautiful baby, after having pushed him, screaming, out of your vagina. All the pain will melt away, except that you'll have to sit on ice for the next three months, and you will be consumed by the little life that is now and forever a part of yours. And aww! Look at how teeny his hands are.."

Ew. I just vurped again.

I think they forgot to mention all of the nights we'll be up taking care of a colicky baby and making deals with God to just please "make it stop". And there will be lots of poop. Lots of poop. And worry - about the baby, about the finances, about fading into nothingness because I'll have surrendered wholly to the idea that I will never be a full person again.. And then after a grace period of learning wonder and Disneyland (i.e. ages 3-9, when parents tend to conceive again), the pre-teen and teenage years sneak-in with the sole purpose of kicking our 40 somethings' asses.

I keep having to remind myself that I chose this. And maybe if I try to anchor myself in some sarcasm reality, I might actually find the experience pleasant. But one thing is FOR CERTAIN: next time Rich is carrying the baby.

I'm a riddle in nine syllables

So, it would be a complete understatement to say that these days I'm scared. A lot. And of course I'm afraid of childbirth (although my ObGyn patted me on the knee yesterday and reminded me that women have been birthing babies since the beginning of time and then proceeded to tell one of those "funny, funny" stories about a woman who, while delivering, let out some sort of Towanda type warrior yawp that stunned her husband into a mute, stationary trance), but it's more than that.

It's more than even being afraid about being responsible for another human being. I'm firmly confident that I can keep him clothed and fed; it's the whole "how do you keep him from climbing a bell tower with a loaded rifle" type thing, though a student reminded me today that that sort of thing might have more to do with misfiring synapses than with actual upbringing. And yeah, I AM being dramatic. But really, how do you direct a person's character? At least I've got the guidance of the ones who guided me, and I suppose you might say that I turned out OK... so far. So that's not the whole of it.

I think what frightens me most is the fact that I am losing myself. I'm walking a very fine line these days, balancing the mandatory changes that come with having a baby (those that are already here and those that are coming quickly) with being who I am, or rather who I want to be. And how will I allow my life to move forward without getting totally consumed, as most wonderful mothers are, with my baby? I am already annoyed at myself for having little conversation/thought beyond baby names and pregnant girl ailments (this blog post is exhibit A).

Also, my relationships are changing: 1. The way in which people communicate with me and 2. The way in which I communicate with others.

1. It's true that when you are pregnant, you have joined an exclusive club of mothers who are eager to swap stories. And how can you blame them for their enthusiasm? The experience of carrying and bringing another human being into the world is a freaking HUGE thing. And (apparently) if you've never done it, then you will never understand it. I'm just now learning the secret handshake, and I think in June there may even be some sort of hooded ceremony complete with a blood signed oath or something. People who don't normally talk to me are eager to know about very personal things, and they want to tell you their very personal things. And I indulge them, mostly out of respect, because what the hell do I know? I have a feeling that the "soccer mom" club is very similar.

2. I'm freaking going insane. I've been thinking about the relationships I have with people and how they are changing, and can see how easy it will be to let some go and hold some closer than ever. I've already semi-subconsciously been making double-columned mental lists that, on one side, detail hurtful past grievances that are not so healthy and that won't be healthy for my kid versus the other side, which lists the wonderful things that that person "adds to" my life. Then I obsess. What happens if I lose a really great friend just because I'll be so busy learning to be a mom? What happens if all I can think about is the color of the baby's bowel movements, and the breast milk that will (inevitably) be soaking through my shirts? What will I add to my friends' lives then? What happens if I'm too tired all of the time and I lose my creativity, which is already fading as I work at being more responsible? I'm already abandoning my rationality (clearly).

I probably have a lot more control over all of these things than I allow myself, and I know that the simple answer is wait and see. And well, just like all things in life, I suppose I'll have to do just that, though the list maker in me is cringing. Things just feel a little out of control and A LOT overwhelming.


Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Sylvia Plath

Sunshine and Sunglasses

Yesterday was a gorgeous day in the Metroplex, so we decided to make a pilgrimage to the local arboretum for some breathing time and some much needed sunshine. Here are a few pics from the day. Go to the Flickr badge to see more (and to catch a glimpse of the pregnant girl's belly!). :)

My attitude is a little un-cute

Being pregnant is so flippin' weird, and in many different ways. I'm not just talking about what's happening to my body which, by the way, is some crazy shit. For example, I have a weird ache where my right leg is attached to my torso and I'm convinced that in the night my leg actually fell off and little fairy-like beings reattached it before I woke up, and I'm still sore from that "procedure" even though the work was exceptionally flawless.

I'm not talking about the baby either, though it is pretty cool that he apparently has great taste in music and performed some sort of Snoopy-like happy dance this morning to a sensational bluesy guitar riff. He also dug the music from the movie, Juno (or maybe he loved the movie itself because it is a GREAT film), and kicked the whole way through. He also responds to the new Alicia Keys song, "No One."

I think what I actually mean is that people respond to me in very odd ways. For example, people want to touch me in places that don't normally get touched in public. Well, not in visible public anyway. They want me to perform odd experiments on myself like: Go in a dark closet and shine a light on your stomach. It'll make the baby squirm and that's funny. People rub my belly like one might rub the Buddha or a baldhead (for luck). They talk to my belly button. They comment about my breast size (mostly in favorable terms which is nice for a change). They tell me I look well, or that I'm cute pregnant (as opposed to all of those un-cute pregnant girls). They comment on my weight, on my clothes, my "glow". One lady made fun of the fact that I was eating a pop tart for breakfast, only it was a witty quip cloaked in a warning about pop tarts being bad for babies. I mean geez. Where was my stalk of breakfast broccoli?

Last night I was out having dinner with the Fougs. We wanted to share a dessert and we picked the ice cream cake. Sure, the cake had the word "Kahlua" in it, but I thought I would ask if it was actual Kahlua or simply Kahlua flavoring. I knew that if it did have any alcohol in it, it probably wouldn't have been much. So I decided I would ask, but before I could even point to the picture, the waitress leaned over me and said, "Oh no. That has alcohol in it and babies don't like alcohol." So I hastily (and somewhat self-consciously) pointed at the next picture and that's the dessert we got. The waitress then checked back to see if "the baby liked the dessert" we picked. I hope so, because it wasn't what we wanted. (Sorry Fougs.)

First of all, what the hell? How is what I consume or don't consume any of her business? At least the Pop-tart lady was someone I know. And secondly, I'm not drinking tequila shots or beer or wine or ANYTHING alcoholic, though my doctor actually told me to have a glass of wine every now and then to relieve some of my anxiety, a condition far worse for the baby than an occasional glass of wine. But people do. They butt-in. They offer advice when none is needed. And the worst part is you can hardly be upset with them because they mean well. They actually believe they are doing the best thing for you, or teaching you some sort of life lesson, or they want to somehow be a part of it for whatever Freudian reason.

This is hardly a new concept, and I do recognize that community child rearing involves many people being in one’s personal space. “It takes a village” and whatnot. But it’s still weird.