Sweet little Ace, today you are six weeks old. Six weeks! Already! What? Really, everyone warns you "The hours go by slowly but the years fly by," and it seems to already be true.
You and I are stuck in our own little love bubble that no one else is invited into. For the very first day, you made it clear to everyone how much you need me, and everyone else is a poor substitute. Well, for the record, I feel the same way about you.
I had this fear before you were born - and I still do - this thought, "But I'm not a mother. I don't know how to be a mother. Surely this baby will sense that, will seek someone more suitable to nurture him." But the crazy truth is that you seem to know better than me. Every step, you're showing me the way, reassuring me that I got this, that you trust me and believe in me. You've been a really patient teacher so far. Thanks for that, little buddy.
True, you've managed to turn our lives - my life - upside down. I've given up trying to respond to emails, texts, voicemails and other messages in any kind of timely manner. I've had slightly more than one shower for every week of your life. The house is overrun with take out containers, dirty clothes, and empty cardboard boxes that held groceries, diapers, and pet supplies that all have to be ordered online for ease's sake.
I'm eating like shit - when you give me a minute or two to stuff food into my mouth - and I'm deliriously tired most of the time. The "real life" of my life is in crazy shambles, but none of that penetrates our love bubble, Ace. It's you and me in here, and nothing touches us except each other.
In fact, the reason I've been tardy about updating this blog is that I've been busy staring into your sweet little face. In fact, the only reason I've had the time now is that you've been snoozing in your swing next to me for the past 45 minutes. But, now you're waking up, and I've got to go look at you some more.
More later. Until then, thanks for the wonderfully chaotic surreal beautiful last six weeks. Let's keep it up.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
September 26, 2013
Dear, sweet, tiny Ace, son of T-Bone and Dangermonkey, September 26, 2013, is your birthdate.
I'm writing to you six days afterward, giving myself some time to get to know you, to smell you, to marvel at you, and also to figure out how to collect my thoughts on the whirlwind of events that finally brought you into my arms.
I want to give you the whole story of your birthday. And to do that, I think, it's best to break it down into two parts: The Facts and The Truth.
And so, with that in mind, here are The Facts.
The last week of your gestation we all became very seriously focused on natural means of inducing you into the world. Because I developed gestational diabetes, we were considered "high risk," and no one on our medical team would entertain the possibility of letting you go past your due date (which, for the record, was September 27, 2013).
And so, your dad and I became very serious about getting you ready to be born. We did a bunch of walking, eating lots of spicy foods, I had rounds and rounds of evening primrose (applied both upstairs and downstairs), birth preparation acupuncture, prenatal yoga, another inducement method which is probably inappropriate to discuss with you, and a small handful of sessions with the midwife spent sweeping my membranes. For the record, having membranes swept, while I'll spare you the details of what exactly that entails (so as not to conjure up unpleasant images of your mom in a situation you'd rather not imagine), is highly uncomfortable in its best variations and is mostly an incredibly painful procedure.
Every step of the way, I was encouraged that we were almost there, surely this step would be the final one to jostle you into action. But, alas, you had other ideas. A final natural method was considered: castor oil milkshake. Almost always guaranteed to produce contractions. The downside, if the cervix isn't ready,is that it can produce a hard, long labor. However, on Wednesday, the 25th, you'd shown no interest in budging, and one way or another you'd be born by Friday. It was our hope that you'd come around naturally, and we could avoid nasty chemical inducement measures that would rush the process.
Your dad and I had practiced hypnobirthing. We had our binder full of mediations and affirmations. We were calm and rational. We were not worried. We were confident that we could bring you into the world naturally in a calm and easy manner if we just visualized that as truth, and followed the practices we'd learned. In your father's defense, I suspect he was really just humoring me, but he did so with a straight face and honest intentions.
We agreed in a last ditch effort to coax you out as naturally as possible to give the castor oil regimen a try. Immediately following our Wednesday appointment, we went home (that is, your Grammy, who came for your birth, and I - your dad went to work that day, as it was pretty obvious you weren't in the mood to be birthed just yet), and I downed my first castor oil milkshake, which consisted of castor oil, sugar free vanilla ice cream, and almond milk. It tasted like a liquid vanilla scented Yankee candle, and resulted in an afternoon of stomach cramps, diarrhea, and erratic contractions. Nothing more.
Per midwife instructions, Thursday morning, in the wee hours of the 26th of September, I woke up and prepared my second castor oil milkshake and went back to bed. At 7:00 am I woke up with more stomach cramps and diarrhea. It passed quickly and I felt the onset of moderate contractions.
But by 10 am something changed. I very quickly went from having contractions every ten to fifteen minutes, to having contractions like clockwork every two minutes. Hard, painful (which is a word I use regretfully because it's part of a discouraged vocabulary in the hypnobirthing technique), frightening (again, see previous parenthetical) contractions. By 11:30 my water had broken. By noon, I couldn't stop the urge to push. By 12:30, we were in route to hospital. By 1 pm we had arrived and were being hooked up to monitors. I was vaguely aware that I was dripping blood everywhere. By 1:30, the midwife had determined that I was 5cm dilated and also that there was a problem with your heart rate during contractions. She said that there anesthesiologist was available should we want to discuss an epidural, something that I was adamantly against, in theory, before labor began. The quickness with which the intensity of labor elevated made me realize I had no choice: I wouldn't make it much longer in this state. I said yes, bring the anesthesiologist in to see us. He came, he quickly confirmed my consent to an epidural, and I scrawled my name on papers stating the same.
Somewhere in the blur of this, I became aware that there were many, many people in the room with us. Your Grammy, your dad, the midwife, of course, the anesthesiologist, and still others. The midwife was concerned. Your dad says she looked nervous. Many arms were folded. Brows furrowed. The obstetric surgeon was being called in to consult.
He arrived and was briefed about your dropping heart rate. We all listened silently and confirmed the frightening crawl of heartbeat beeps on the fetal monitor during each contraction.
Grammy and your dad were asked to leave, and after a long, frustrating trial and error process, the epidural was inserted, all left in the room discussed optimistically that with the epidural easing the intensity of the contractions, that your heartbeat would stabilize.
Grammy and your dad returned. The OB agreed to listen through three more contractions in order to determine our next course of action. It became clear that there was another issue at play because your heartbeat wasn't stabilizing.
Quickly, it was determined that you were coming forth via Caesarian, and you were coming very soon. Suddenly all bodies sprang into action, there was running and shouting and by 3pm we were in surgery. By 3:15, you were born.
Your dad was there, in scrubs. My arms were tied to planks, in a mock crucifixion pose.
From the other side of the blue sheet, we heard updates. Head not in position. Cord wrapped around shoulder. And then quiet, imagined drumroll, and the doctor saying, "He's looking right at me," as he lifted you out.
You didn't cry. Your dad and I were only sure that you'd been born when the time was called out and congratulations were given. Then we heard your sweet little chirps as you talked to the room, introducing yourself politely around, as a opposed to shrieking your arrival.
They cleaned you as they stitched me up. The conversation in the room became casual and easy. The doctor and a nurse discussed a television show they like. The anesthesiologist asked me about the meaning of some of my tattoos.
Are you ready to meet him? they asked us. We said yes. We looked at each other, your dad and I, smiling, laughing, crying, nervous, happy, terrified. They put you in your dad's arms and I craned my neck to watch as you stared deep in his eyes and softly chatted to him. We looked at each other, T-Bone and I, and discussed whether the name we hoped would be yours was actually right. We looked at your face and we agreed it was. Your dad asked me if I would tell you your name. I looked at you, my arms still lashed in an outstretched cross, and I asked you if that's who you wanted to be. You chirped to me and looked in my eyes. Somewhere in all of this, my arms were freed and quickly filled by you.
And with that, we affirmed our familyness to each other.
And then there's The Truth.
"As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don't know
We don't know."
- Donald Rumsfeld
For example, an unknown unknown would be that I would someday quote Donald Rumsfeld - in any context - in a letter to my newborn son.
While I think Mr. Rumsfeld's assertions as they related to the Middle East were dubious, he was onto something in regards to the transition into parenthood.
As I carried you in my body for ten months, I felt calm, centered, beautiful, and powerful. Having you felt right. You holding onto me from the inside made me feel like a better person. A person with clarity and empathy. That's something I knew and still know to be Truth.
Even as your due date loomed closer, I didn't panic. I felt calm. I felt ready for you and whatever curves were to be thrown at me in bringing you into the world. Part of the reason I felt so confident was that I focused on believing the meditation of how your birth would play out. It gave me peace and helped me overcome any anxiety about labor. And ultimately, it proved to be of zero use to me during labor and delivery. But still, what it was unable to provide on the Actual Day, the practice more than made up for in the days and hours leading up to and following your birth. And, ultimately, that's more of a gift.
The day of your birth was the happiest, most terrifying, longest and shortest day of my life. I lived the events of the day aware of but detached from the urgency surrounding them.
Before going into labor, I was vainly obsessed with the notion of bodily fluids and privates on display. But the intensity of sensation during labor shut off any part of my brain that chose to obsess over superficial stuff. They could have asked me to strip at the waist in the lobby of the hospital, and I would've passively complied. I felt lobotomized, my thoughts drawn completely inward, all physical energy conserved for you and the task at hand.
All of the intellectualizing, philosophizing, and theorizing about birth and pain and control jumped into the backseat as an ancient, primal instinct sunk into the driver's seat.
Here's the big known unknown: Much like love, marriage, and death, the transition into parenthood has a quality that is wholly inarticulatable. People try to express from beyond the threshold to the uninitiated what the experience is like, but the truth of it is not in words. Any words are tiny arrows shot in the direction of The Truth of what it feels like, but these arrows will never hit the target. They can only ever hope to get close.
Your birth was mostly a blur that existed in a state of both hyper speed and slow motion. It was a breath and a decade. And then you were here.
And I was terrified throughout it, for very physical reasons, for your safety and my own, but also for another reason.
If I'm completely honest - and that is my intention - I waited for all of my pregnancy to feel it. To feel the switch flip, the light go on, the engine engage, the whatever to whatever, that would bond me to you and make me feel like a mother.
And it never did. And I waited.
And on the day of your birth, under everything else, there was a dread that I never would. When would you be a person to me? When would I be a mother? When would the love come in? Is there something broken in me that is keeping that from happening?
But The Truth is this. When I saw your face, your tiny perfect face, I knew something deeper and more honest than I had ever hoped to feel. Yours is the face I've waited my whole life to see. I didn't know it, couldn't imagine it, but when I saw it, it was the revelation of the ultimate unknown unknown. I wasn't preparing to be a mother, I was preparing to be your mother. And I couldn't do that without you here to show me the way. You were my unknown unknown.
Every time I'm separated from you, from the first moment I saw you, I can't think of anything but you. I hope you're okay. I wonder what you're thinking, hope that you're thinking of me. Imagine your smile, fear for your safety. These feelings have the weight and intensity of a thousand teenage girl crushes. And even then, that doesn't do my yearning for you justice.
I love you in waves that crash and rock inside me. A love that's bigger than my need for sleep or food or personal hygiene.
I couldn't have conjured you, and I'm thankful now that I didn't try to. I couldn't have dreamed up anything as good as you. I'm amazed and awed that you were built in a laboratory in my body, using tools I didn't know I had. I can't believe my body could bring something so perfect into being.
You are the person I didn't know I'd been waiting all my life to meet. You're my Truth. You're my Ace.
I'm writing to you six days afterward, giving myself some time to get to know you, to smell you, to marvel at you, and also to figure out how to collect my thoughts on the whirlwind of events that finally brought you into my arms.
I want to give you the whole story of your birthday. And to do that, I think, it's best to break it down into two parts: The Facts and The Truth.
And so, with that in mind, here are The Facts.
The last week of your gestation we all became very seriously focused on natural means of inducing you into the world. Because I developed gestational diabetes, we were considered "high risk," and no one on our medical team would entertain the possibility of letting you go past your due date (which, for the record, was September 27, 2013).
And so, your dad and I became very serious about getting you ready to be born. We did a bunch of walking, eating lots of spicy foods, I had rounds and rounds of evening primrose (applied both upstairs and downstairs), birth preparation acupuncture, prenatal yoga, another inducement method which is probably inappropriate to discuss with you, and a small handful of sessions with the midwife spent sweeping my membranes. For the record, having membranes swept, while I'll spare you the details of what exactly that entails (so as not to conjure up unpleasant images of your mom in a situation you'd rather not imagine), is highly uncomfortable in its best variations and is mostly an incredibly painful procedure.
Every step of the way, I was encouraged that we were almost there, surely this step would be the final one to jostle you into action. But, alas, you had other ideas. A final natural method was considered: castor oil milkshake. Almost always guaranteed to produce contractions. The downside, if the cervix isn't ready,is that it can produce a hard, long labor. However, on Wednesday, the 25th, you'd shown no interest in budging, and one way or another you'd be born by Friday. It was our hope that you'd come around naturally, and we could avoid nasty chemical inducement measures that would rush the process.
Your dad and I had practiced hypnobirthing. We had our binder full of mediations and affirmations. We were calm and rational. We were not worried. We were confident that we could bring you into the world naturally in a calm and easy manner if we just visualized that as truth, and followed the practices we'd learned. In your father's defense, I suspect he was really just humoring me, but he did so with a straight face and honest intentions.
We agreed in a last ditch effort to coax you out as naturally as possible to give the castor oil regimen a try. Immediately following our Wednesday appointment, we went home (that is, your Grammy, who came for your birth, and I - your dad went to work that day, as it was pretty obvious you weren't in the mood to be birthed just yet), and I downed my first castor oil milkshake, which consisted of castor oil, sugar free vanilla ice cream, and almond milk. It tasted like a liquid vanilla scented Yankee candle, and resulted in an afternoon of stomach cramps, diarrhea, and erratic contractions. Nothing more.
Per midwife instructions, Thursday morning, in the wee hours of the 26th of September, I woke up and prepared my second castor oil milkshake and went back to bed. At 7:00 am I woke up with more stomach cramps and diarrhea. It passed quickly and I felt the onset of moderate contractions.
But by 10 am something changed. I very quickly went from having contractions every ten to fifteen minutes, to having contractions like clockwork every two minutes. Hard, painful (which is a word I use regretfully because it's part of a discouraged vocabulary in the hypnobirthing technique), frightening (again, see previous parenthetical) contractions. By 11:30 my water had broken. By noon, I couldn't stop the urge to push. By 12:30, we were in route to hospital. By 1 pm we had arrived and were being hooked up to monitors. I was vaguely aware that I was dripping blood everywhere. By 1:30, the midwife had determined that I was 5cm dilated and also that there was a problem with your heart rate during contractions. She said that there anesthesiologist was available should we want to discuss an epidural, something that I was adamantly against, in theory, before labor began. The quickness with which the intensity of labor elevated made me realize I had no choice: I wouldn't make it much longer in this state. I said yes, bring the anesthesiologist in to see us. He came, he quickly confirmed my consent to an epidural, and I scrawled my name on papers stating the same.
Somewhere in the blur of this, I became aware that there were many, many people in the room with us. Your Grammy, your dad, the midwife, of course, the anesthesiologist, and still others. The midwife was concerned. Your dad says she looked nervous. Many arms were folded. Brows furrowed. The obstetric surgeon was being called in to consult.
He arrived and was briefed about your dropping heart rate. We all listened silently and confirmed the frightening crawl of heartbeat beeps on the fetal monitor during each contraction.
Grammy and your dad were asked to leave, and after a long, frustrating trial and error process, the epidural was inserted, all left in the room discussed optimistically that with the epidural easing the intensity of the contractions, that your heartbeat would stabilize.
Grammy and your dad returned. The OB agreed to listen through three more contractions in order to determine our next course of action. It became clear that there was another issue at play because your heartbeat wasn't stabilizing.
Quickly, it was determined that you were coming forth via Caesarian, and you were coming very soon. Suddenly all bodies sprang into action, there was running and shouting and by 3pm we were in surgery. By 3:15, you were born.
Your dad was there, in scrubs. My arms were tied to planks, in a mock crucifixion pose.
From the other side of the blue sheet, we heard updates. Head not in position. Cord wrapped around shoulder. And then quiet, imagined drumroll, and the doctor saying, "He's looking right at me," as he lifted you out.
You didn't cry. Your dad and I were only sure that you'd been born when the time was called out and congratulations were given. Then we heard your sweet little chirps as you talked to the room, introducing yourself politely around, as a opposed to shrieking your arrival.
They cleaned you as they stitched me up. The conversation in the room became casual and easy. The doctor and a nurse discussed a television show they like. The anesthesiologist asked me about the meaning of some of my tattoos.
Are you ready to meet him? they asked us. We said yes. We looked at each other, your dad and I, smiling, laughing, crying, nervous, happy, terrified. They put you in your dad's arms and I craned my neck to watch as you stared deep in his eyes and softly chatted to him. We looked at each other, T-Bone and I, and discussed whether the name we hoped would be yours was actually right. We looked at your face and we agreed it was. Your dad asked me if I would tell you your name. I looked at you, my arms still lashed in an outstretched cross, and I asked you if that's who you wanted to be. You chirped to me and looked in my eyes. Somewhere in all of this, my arms were freed and quickly filled by you.
And with that, we affirmed our familyness to each other.
And then there's The Truth.
"As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don't know
We don't know."
- Donald Rumsfeld
For example, an unknown unknown would be that I would someday quote Donald Rumsfeld - in any context - in a letter to my newborn son.
While I think Mr. Rumsfeld's assertions as they related to the Middle East were dubious, he was onto something in regards to the transition into parenthood.
As I carried you in my body for ten months, I felt calm, centered, beautiful, and powerful. Having you felt right. You holding onto me from the inside made me feel like a better person. A person with clarity and empathy. That's something I knew and still know to be Truth.
Even as your due date loomed closer, I didn't panic. I felt calm. I felt ready for you and whatever curves were to be thrown at me in bringing you into the world. Part of the reason I felt so confident was that I focused on believing the meditation of how your birth would play out. It gave me peace and helped me overcome any anxiety about labor. And ultimately, it proved to be of zero use to me during labor and delivery. But still, what it was unable to provide on the Actual Day, the practice more than made up for in the days and hours leading up to and following your birth. And, ultimately, that's more of a gift.
The day of your birth was the happiest, most terrifying, longest and shortest day of my life. I lived the events of the day aware of but detached from the urgency surrounding them.
Before going into labor, I was vainly obsessed with the notion of bodily fluids and privates on display. But the intensity of sensation during labor shut off any part of my brain that chose to obsess over superficial stuff. They could have asked me to strip at the waist in the lobby of the hospital, and I would've passively complied. I felt lobotomized, my thoughts drawn completely inward, all physical energy conserved for you and the task at hand.
All of the intellectualizing, philosophizing, and theorizing about birth and pain and control jumped into the backseat as an ancient, primal instinct sunk into the driver's seat.
Here's the big known unknown: Much like love, marriage, and death, the transition into parenthood has a quality that is wholly inarticulatable. People try to express from beyond the threshold to the uninitiated what the experience is like, but the truth of it is not in words. Any words are tiny arrows shot in the direction of The Truth of what it feels like, but these arrows will never hit the target. They can only ever hope to get close.
Your birth was mostly a blur that existed in a state of both hyper speed and slow motion. It was a breath and a decade. And then you were here.
And I was terrified throughout it, for very physical reasons, for your safety and my own, but also for another reason.
If I'm completely honest - and that is my intention - I waited for all of my pregnancy to feel it. To feel the switch flip, the light go on, the engine engage, the whatever to whatever, that would bond me to you and make me feel like a mother.
And it never did. And I waited.
And on the day of your birth, under everything else, there was a dread that I never would. When would you be a person to me? When would I be a mother? When would the love come in? Is there something broken in me that is keeping that from happening?
But The Truth is this. When I saw your face, your tiny perfect face, I knew something deeper and more honest than I had ever hoped to feel. Yours is the face I've waited my whole life to see. I didn't know it, couldn't imagine it, but when I saw it, it was the revelation of the ultimate unknown unknown. I wasn't preparing to be a mother, I was preparing to be your mother. And I couldn't do that without you here to show me the way. You were my unknown unknown.
Every time I'm separated from you, from the first moment I saw you, I can't think of anything but you. I hope you're okay. I wonder what you're thinking, hope that you're thinking of me. Imagine your smile, fear for your safety. These feelings have the weight and intensity of a thousand teenage girl crushes. And even then, that doesn't do my yearning for you justice.
I love you in waves that crash and rock inside me. A love that's bigger than my need for sleep or food or personal hygiene.
I couldn't have conjured you, and I'm thankful now that I didn't try to. I couldn't have dreamed up anything as good as you. I'm amazed and awed that you were built in a laboratory in my body, using tools I didn't know I had. I can't believe my body could bring something so perfect into being.
You are the person I didn't know I'd been waiting all my life to meet. You're my Truth. You're my Ace.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
September 25, 2013
Well. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but here we are. You've got until the day after tomorrow to get out of my body, or face forceful removal.
I'm tired and I'm ready to be on the other side of this. You, on the other hand, seem pretty content where you are. In fact, today on the sonogram, as you tugged on your feet, you actually paused for a moment and waved. You. Waved at us. The sonogram tech ("Dracula") said, "He ees sayink, 'Hi, Grandma!'" At which point, my mom, your grandmother, burst into tears. So, you know, good job with that, bro.
Despite the medical team's insistence that you are not safe in there, it seems like you and my body have different ideas about that.
After a membrane sweep this past Monday - which I won't go into detail to explain, go Google it, or mind-sync, or whatever crazy high-tech method of research you have available in the future - and an abnormally high blood pressure reading, it was determined that Tuesday I would most likely be induced because of a concern over signs of preeclampsia. I guess that was a notion you were not interested in entertaining, because yesterday, after packing for the hospital, ready to be admitted, another exam showed that my blood pressure had dropped by 30 points back into a very safe zone. So, it was another - more intense - round of membrane sweeping and a suggestion to go home and wait until tomorrow.
Which is now today. And, buddy, you are not budging.
Back at the clinic today, there's no evidence that you've progressed at all. Just a glib wave to us on a sonogram screen. And one more really painful membrane sweep.
Now, I'm home. I've just taken castor oil milkshake, which tasted like a melted vanilla candle, and I'm just waiting. Apparently, in a few hours I should start to have violent cramps. That will hopefully turn into labor (which is weird to think about, let alone HOPE for), but honestly, at this point, I'm skeptical that your coming out of there by way of anything less than two burly bouncers escorting you.
In short, time is running out. The lights are coming up in the bar. You don't have to go home (yes, you do), but you can't stay here (in my uterus).
I'm tired and I'm ready to be on the other side of this. You, on the other hand, seem pretty content where you are. In fact, today on the sonogram, as you tugged on your feet, you actually paused for a moment and waved. You. Waved at us. The sonogram tech ("Dracula") said, "He ees sayink, 'Hi, Grandma!'" At which point, my mom, your grandmother, burst into tears. So, you know, good job with that, bro.
Despite the medical team's insistence that you are not safe in there, it seems like you and my body have different ideas about that.
After a membrane sweep this past Monday - which I won't go into detail to explain, go Google it, or mind-sync, or whatever crazy high-tech method of research you have available in the future - and an abnormally high blood pressure reading, it was determined that Tuesday I would most likely be induced because of a concern over signs of preeclampsia. I guess that was a notion you were not interested in entertaining, because yesterday, after packing for the hospital, ready to be admitted, another exam showed that my blood pressure had dropped by 30 points back into a very safe zone. So, it was another - more intense - round of membrane sweeping and a suggestion to go home and wait until tomorrow.
Which is now today. And, buddy, you are not budging.
Back at the clinic today, there's no evidence that you've progressed at all. Just a glib wave to us on a sonogram screen. And one more really painful membrane sweep.
Now, I'm home. I've just taken castor oil milkshake, which tasted like a melted vanilla candle, and I'm just waiting. Apparently, in a few hours I should start to have violent cramps. That will hopefully turn into labor (which is weird to think about, let alone HOPE for), but honestly, at this point, I'm skeptical that your coming out of there by way of anything less than two burly bouncers escorting you.
In short, time is running out. The lights are coming up in the bar. You don't have to go home (yes, you do), but you can't stay here (in my uterus).
Monday, September 23, 2013
September 23, 2013
The end is nigh, my son. We are in the last few days, you and I, of being nestled together like a set of Russian dolls.
Despite my coaxing and pleading, and various homeopathic attempts to coax you out of your cocoon early (as per our medical team's insistence), you've hung in there stubbornly. So. This is it. It's Monday morning, and we are going to get a membrane sweep from the midwife this afternoon. And if that doesn't get you in gear, then we have to set up a plan for induction on Friday. Please let's not go that route, kiddo. We are a team. Let's not start off on the wrong foot by not working together here.
Coming out of our previous appointment last week, out on the sidewalk I saw a woman smoking a cigarette while nearby her small son dangled his feet off a bench and slurped on a popsicle. She took one look at me and declared, quite loudly, "Jesus Christ! You are HUGE!" I smiled a tight smile in reply. Then her son chirped out from his perch, "Are you pregnant??"
I looked at him, softening my smile and answered, "What do you think?" He shrugged. "Are YOU pregnant?" I countered. The boy laughed at the crazy idea.
I have to reiterate how much I will not miss these particular conversations. The ones where strangers feel its okay, and in fact feel the need, to tell me just how my body, and I guess by extension your body, makes them feel. I'm tired of being on the receiving end of shocked looks and comments from people I have never seen before and who've not even bothered to ask my name.
Let's make a deal, son. You and me, let's try real hard not to be like the duo we encountered last week. Step one is no smoking, eating popsicles and talking to strangers in Flatbush. And we'll see where that leads us.
Despite my coaxing and pleading, and various homeopathic attempts to coax you out of your cocoon early (as per our medical team's insistence), you've hung in there stubbornly. So. This is it. It's Monday morning, and we are going to get a membrane sweep from the midwife this afternoon. And if that doesn't get you in gear, then we have to set up a plan for induction on Friday. Please let's not go that route, kiddo. We are a team. Let's not start off on the wrong foot by not working together here.
Coming out of our previous appointment last week, out on the sidewalk I saw a woman smoking a cigarette while nearby her small son dangled his feet off a bench and slurped on a popsicle. She took one look at me and declared, quite loudly, "Jesus Christ! You are HUGE!" I smiled a tight smile in reply. Then her son chirped out from his perch, "Are you pregnant??"
I looked at him, softening my smile and answered, "What do you think?" He shrugged. "Are YOU pregnant?" I countered. The boy laughed at the crazy idea.
I have to reiterate how much I will not miss these particular conversations. The ones where strangers feel its okay, and in fact feel the need, to tell me just how my body, and I guess by extension your body, makes them feel. I'm tired of being on the receiving end of shocked looks and comments from people I have never seen before and who've not even bothered to ask my name.
Let's make a deal, son. You and me, let's try real hard not to be like the duo we encountered last week. Step one is no smoking, eating popsicles and talking to strangers in Flatbush. And we'll see where that leads us.
Friday, September 13, 2013
September 13, 2013
I had to take a few weeks off from writing because the inevitable has happened: I've begun powering down. We are at the 38-week mark, almost there. Almost time. Almost done with this phase. And not too soon, I think, because I'm not just tired (although I am that), but I'm tired of being pregnant, I'm tired of dropping things and not being able to pick them up, I'm tired of not being able to breathe, sit, lay down, walk, get dressed, get comfortable without careful planning. I'm tired of strangers shouting gender predictions at me. I'm tired of everyone worrying about me. I'm just so tired.
So. Please forgive me for not having the energy to write for a few weeks. I'm finding these days that I can set a goal of accomplishing one medium-sized task a day (like going to the grocery store or a doctor's appointment) and that's about it. Also, like I said, sitting has gotten tricky. And add to that sitting and figuring out how to balance a laptop so that I can reach it without balancing it on my belly (and also your ass) has become harder for me to figure out than calculus. And I never took calculus classes.
Now that my prologue's out of the way, what did I want to tell you about? There is a subway story I want to tell you, so let's start there and see what happens.
A couple of weeks ago, riding the subway into Manhattan, a young man (probably early twenties, if I had to guess, but I don't so I won't) gets onto the car we're riding in. I could tell he was going to beg for money, not so much because of his appearance (which was by no means neat, but far from bedraggled) but because of a tell-tale beggar's move: He boarded the car, which was less than half full of seated passengers, and stood, leaning against one of the poles in the middle aisle, silent, surveying, and waiting for the doors to close. Classic move. Wait until the doors close to start your speech, whatever it is, that way your audience is captive. They may not respond, but at least they have nowhere to go.
I watched him because I like watching people. There is a part of me that is fascinated by the gumption that it takes (rightly or wrongly) to stand in front of a group of strangers and declare that you need help, want money, are hungry, are struggling. I am not naive. I know that it's not always an honest plea. I've lived in New York long enough to see the same people give the same stories (or sing the same plaintive, off-key songs) to mostly indifferent crowds over and over. But - and maybe it's the actor part of me - I'm always drawn in. Whether it's based on a true story or wholly a work of fiction, I am the audience and I respect the performer. I give eye contact. I smile, if I can. If I have a dollar, or an apple, or a whatever, I give it. Not because I believe I am changing someone's life, but because I want to acknowledge, at least for a moment, that we are a part of each other's lives. I've really begun waxing philosophical here. Back to the plot:
So this young man, I can't remember exactly what he said, other than the standard-issue plea for donations to his cause, the gist of which seemed mainly to be that he was down on his luck, but what I do remember is that he was carrying a tiny kitten which was peeking out of the ratty messenger bag slung across his chest.
I don't know the official stats on this, but I'm willing to wager that panhandlers who incorporate small children or animals into their presentation generally make out a great deal better than their peers who choose to go it alone. Maybe it makes me a dummy to fall for this, but at least I recognize it for what it is, or what it potentially is (if I may remain optimistic about humanity).
Even knowing this, I watch him, I see the tiny cat, blinking it's little kitty eyes at its surroundings, but more than that, I see other passengers look away. Look away from this guy and his speech. And it's that, really, that makes me want to reach out to him. Not his words, not his kitten, not the belief that I could change his life, but the sadness I feel witnessing to so many good people looking away from him.
I reach into my wallet and pull out a crumpled one dollar bill. He's in the middle of the car, slowing making his way toward me, at the opposite end. He looks at me, and I smile and nod, and he approaches.
I hold out the bill and ask him how he's taking care of this kitten. He tells me they get by. I put the dollar in his hand, and I squeeze his hand in mine and tell him, "Take care of yourself. And that little baby." He squeezes back. He smiles. He nods. He thanks me. He leaves.
And after he exits, I realize what I've just done. I've tricked him into letting me hold his hand for a moment. And I will gladly trick someone else, too, if given the chance.
So. Please forgive me for not having the energy to write for a few weeks. I'm finding these days that I can set a goal of accomplishing one medium-sized task a day (like going to the grocery store or a doctor's appointment) and that's about it. Also, like I said, sitting has gotten tricky. And add to that sitting and figuring out how to balance a laptop so that I can reach it without balancing it on my belly (and also your ass) has become harder for me to figure out than calculus. And I never took calculus classes.
Now that my prologue's out of the way, what did I want to tell you about? There is a subway story I want to tell you, so let's start there and see what happens.
A couple of weeks ago, riding the subway into Manhattan, a young man (probably early twenties, if I had to guess, but I don't so I won't) gets onto the car we're riding in. I could tell he was going to beg for money, not so much because of his appearance (which was by no means neat, but far from bedraggled) but because of a tell-tale beggar's move: He boarded the car, which was less than half full of seated passengers, and stood, leaning against one of the poles in the middle aisle, silent, surveying, and waiting for the doors to close. Classic move. Wait until the doors close to start your speech, whatever it is, that way your audience is captive. They may not respond, but at least they have nowhere to go.
I watched him because I like watching people. There is a part of me that is fascinated by the gumption that it takes (rightly or wrongly) to stand in front of a group of strangers and declare that you need help, want money, are hungry, are struggling. I am not naive. I know that it's not always an honest plea. I've lived in New York long enough to see the same people give the same stories (or sing the same plaintive, off-key songs) to mostly indifferent crowds over and over. But - and maybe it's the actor part of me - I'm always drawn in. Whether it's based on a true story or wholly a work of fiction, I am the audience and I respect the performer. I give eye contact. I smile, if I can. If I have a dollar, or an apple, or a whatever, I give it. Not because I believe I am changing someone's life, but because I want to acknowledge, at least for a moment, that we are a part of each other's lives. I've really begun waxing philosophical here. Back to the plot:
So this young man, I can't remember exactly what he said, other than the standard-issue plea for donations to his cause, the gist of which seemed mainly to be that he was down on his luck, but what I do remember is that he was carrying a tiny kitten which was peeking out of the ratty messenger bag slung across his chest.
I don't know the official stats on this, but I'm willing to wager that panhandlers who incorporate small children or animals into their presentation generally make out a great deal better than their peers who choose to go it alone. Maybe it makes me a dummy to fall for this, but at least I recognize it for what it is, or what it potentially is (if I may remain optimistic about humanity).
Even knowing this, I watch him, I see the tiny cat, blinking it's little kitty eyes at its surroundings, but more than that, I see other passengers look away. Look away from this guy and his speech. And it's that, really, that makes me want to reach out to him. Not his words, not his kitten, not the belief that I could change his life, but the sadness I feel witnessing to so many good people looking away from him.
I reach into my wallet and pull out a crumpled one dollar bill. He's in the middle of the car, slowing making his way toward me, at the opposite end. He looks at me, and I smile and nod, and he approaches.
I hold out the bill and ask him how he's taking care of this kitten. He tells me they get by. I put the dollar in his hand, and I squeeze his hand in mine and tell him, "Take care of yourself. And that little baby." He squeezes back. He smiles. He nods. He thanks me. He leaves.
And after he exits, I realize what I've just done. I've tricked him into letting me hold his hand for a moment. And I will gladly trick someone else, too, if given the chance.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
August 29, 2013
Today marks 36 weeks, or nine months. We've got (at most) four weeks left to go, kiddo.
As far as I can tell, this last month is reserved solely for dropping things and figuring out how in the hell I'm going to pick them up again.
As far as I can tell, this last month is reserved solely for dropping things and figuring out how in the hell I'm going to pick them up again.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
August 27, 2013
Your very last in utero stage show was (very likely) last night. Goddamn you, kid, it took me 38 years to accrue a resume that's really only marginally more impressive than yours.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
August 21, 2013
Went to the see the midwives today for a checkup. On the subway ride out to the office, all the seats were taken and I found myself standing in front of a row of dozing twenty-something guys. Able-bodied, flip-flop-wearing guys. The one directly in front of me wore sunglasses and pretended to be asleep, but I didn't miss his head swiveling around and glancing up at me before resuming nap time. The guy next to him groggily woke up, looked around, and fished out his phone to check his Facebook. On a different day I might've forgiven them, but at thirty five weeks into this adventure, with sore, swollen extremities and an achy back, my patience is wearing a little thin. So I took a picture of them. It made me feel better to know that I can remember their jerk faces for time in memoriam.
When I got to the midwives' office, I got my latest sonogram done with a technician that your father and I affectionately call Dracula on account of her thick Transylvanian-like Eastern European accent.
We looked at you from all angles, everything looked good. Your head is down, your fluid is good, etc, etc. You were grabbing your toes with your little hands, creating a ruckus up by my rib cage. It was pretty cute.
The Dracula showed me your profile and then suggested we look for a full frontal view of your face. Your little face came on the screen, and she asked if I could see it. I said yes. Then she said, "Dere he ees. I'm sure vill be veddy kyoot baby."
When I got to the midwives' office, I got my latest sonogram done with a technician that your father and I affectionately call Dracula on account of her thick Transylvanian-like Eastern European accent.
We looked at you from all angles, everything looked good. Your head is down, your fluid is good, etc, etc. You were grabbing your toes with your little hands, creating a ruckus up by my rib cage. It was pretty cute.
The Dracula showed me your profile and then suggested we look for a full frontal view of your face. Your little face came on the screen, and she asked if I could see it. I said yes. Then she said, "Dere he ees. I'm sure vill be veddy kyoot baby."
Thursday, August 15, 2013
August 15, 2013
Getting on the 5 at Fulton Street to go to an audition, I sit down next to an older Middle Eastern woman. I can see out of my peripheral that she's looking at me in that way that people - especially older women - often do these days when they want to strike up a conversation about my pregnancy. I'm trying not to notice, not to be rude, but because I'm enjoying my solitude. I'm blasting The Protomen on my iPod and I'm enjoying a sense of phony solitude within the music.
But now she's saying something. Fuck. I yank out one earbud. "Sorry?"
She repeats, smiling in a sweet grandmotherly way, "How much longer?"
"A month," I tell her.
"Ah, so not much longer?"
"Nope. Not much longer." I agree, and I realize that this is probably the first time I've agreed with a stranger about how much time I've got left. And I did it because she asked me, she didn't tell me. She asked me how long, and I told her, and then I chose to agree that in fact a month is not that long. It feels nice. To be talked to like a person about a special thing, and not to be told what I look like or how they can predict how much time I've got left.
"First baby?"
"Yes."
"Oh, that's nice," she says, and she rests her head on her hands which are folded over her purse, which sits in her lap.
And that's all. No follow up questions.
I get up at the next stop, and I say to her, "Have a nice day," and she looks up, maybe surprised, and smiles, "You too. Have a really nice day."
And that's all. No follow up questions.
I get up at the next stop, and I say to her, "Have a nice day," and she looks up, maybe surprised, and smiles, "You too. Have a really nice day."
August 14, 2013, Pt. 2
No sooner than I passed the first man, I came upon a second, while on my walk to get an iced coffee. This one a friendly, stick-thin, smiling, older African American guy. He grins as he passes me.
"How, how, how much time you get left?"
"About a month."
"That's good! So the baby's what? 5 or 6 pounds now?"
"Yeah, about that."
"What is it - a boy?"
"Yep, little boy."
"Alright! Alright! I was 12 pounds. Number 14 of 18. My mama didn't have no miscarriages. And I'm 72 years old!"
We laugh. We wave goodbye. I wished I woulda bought him a coffee and listened to some of his stories.
August 14, 2013 - Pt. 1
Walking to my friend SuperFrench's coffee shop this morning, I found myself walking toward a peculiar little man headed in the opposite direction. From a distance, I couldn't tell if he was an eccentric or a genuine crazy person. And as he got closer, it didn't get any easier to discern.
He wore a black fedora and had a dark goatee. He was maybe in his fifties or sixties, but his manner of dress and his vibe reminded me of Harvey Keitel as the pimp in Taxi Driver. But what caught my eye most was that he was clutching a strand of shiny, purple beads, like the kind I imagine you get at Mardi Gras - he was draping them over his fist like he was doing the rosary.
As we grew closer to each other, I could see his eyes were fixed on me, smiling a smile of recognition, but I swear I'd remember if I'd ever seen this guy before.
Almost face to face now, he calls, out - still walking, on the verge of passing me - "See you....see you later!"
I smile, but I don't know how to answer that kind of a remark from a stranger. Then, from behind me I hear, and I twist to see him say, "Oh, and....uh....good, good, uh, good luck with your, uh....with your pregnancy, uh delivery."
I laugh. I say thanks.
I think he was a Brooklyn leprechaun.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
August 13, 2013
Today I helped a blind man cross the street in the Flatiron district. I have to say, it was the best conversation I've had with a stranger in months.
Monday, August 12, 2013
August 12, 2013
Long afternoon spent running baby and grocery errands. I spent too much time mulling over baby items which put me into a bind in terms of eating lunch, and that can be a big problem for my blood sugar.
So. After a trip to the grocery store, I schlepped my fully loaded cart to the subway, munching on a pouch of pepperoni. Feeling less shaky and tired, I load my cargo and my bones into the C train and sit and eat.
A few minutes later, the door connecting the cars opens and a fortyish black dude ambles in. I recognize him. He's a fella I used to see almost daily up in Harlem - which I think is where he lives, or at least hangs out, panhandling. He walks passed me a bit, toward the center of the car. His clothes are raggedy and he's maybe a little drunk. I don't know his name, and I don't think he recognizes me.
As he begins his speech to the car, about how he's homeless and hungry and doesn't want to ask for help but he needs whatever anyone could offer, I already have my hand on my pocketbook, fishing out a dollar bill. He finishes his speech, he turns to me, and I hand him the dollar. He says thank you, and his lips purse into a kiss.
As he begins to walk off, I feel the food I'm chewing and I feel guilty. I feel like I can and should do more.
"Hey, man," I say, "Do you want some food? Do you want an apple?"
He turns, he hesitates, and says, "No. I don't want an apple. Anything else, but not an apple."
I feel foolish. I bet homeless people get a lot of fucking apples. I've got a whole cart of groceries and I'm offering an apple.
"What do you want to eat? I just went shopping."
"Anything. Anything else. Whatever you want to give me." He sits down next to me.
I rifle through my bags, "How about turkey slices? You like turkey?"
He smiles. He nods. I hand over the tub of deli meat.
He says softly, "I can't be homeless. I can't..."
"You're going to be okay," I say, but I don't know that's true. "You're gonna get through this. Just try to take care of yourself, okay?"
Then he offers, "Can I stay with you?"
I laugh. I can't tell if he's hitting on me, or just drunkenly pleading for help. Either way, he's obviously serious.
"No," I answer, "I'm sorry."
"I will be a good boy, I won't steal nothing," he tries.
I smile and take a maternal tone with him, "I know, babe. I know. But you just can't."
He laughs for a long time, dark eyes peering into mine the whole time, mouth open wide, exposing a partial row of missing teeth, then he gets up and shuffles away to another seat, tearing open the package of meat.
I think I hear him mutter something about sandwiches while he inspects the turkey, so I call over to him, "Do you want some bread, too? To make sandwiches? Come here."
He returns, and we negotiate four slices after I initially offer two from my newly purchased loaf. My stop is approaching, so I get up and get myself ready. I put my hand on his shoulder, "Take care of yourself, okay?"
He says something I don't quite catch, eyeing my pregnant belly (maybe for the first time), but I make out the word "son." I smile.
He asks, "Do you know for sure if the baby will be white?"
I don't know if it's just where my head is at that moment, or if it's because of who was asking it, but I'm not offended. All I hear is sadness in his voice.
I smile. Yes, he will be white.
He nods. "That's good. That's the best thing."
In that instant, I had the urge to give him all my groceries.
Instead, the doors open, and I exit. And I'm flooded with sadness, guilt, frustration at the state of this world. This man knows what I know, and what I wrestle with often: I'm growing a person whose cultural market value is the highest possible - a white male. He'll have easy opportunities that I've had to shout and struggle to get, and that my friend on the train seems to have given up completely on ever receiving.
Baby, you are in many ways a golden child. I hope you grow up with an awareness of how to treat everyone you meet with kindness and compassion. I hope you use your powers for good.
So. After a trip to the grocery store, I schlepped my fully loaded cart to the subway, munching on a pouch of pepperoni. Feeling less shaky and tired, I load my cargo and my bones into the C train and sit and eat.
A few minutes later, the door connecting the cars opens and a fortyish black dude ambles in. I recognize him. He's a fella I used to see almost daily up in Harlem - which I think is where he lives, or at least hangs out, panhandling. He walks passed me a bit, toward the center of the car. His clothes are raggedy and he's maybe a little drunk. I don't know his name, and I don't think he recognizes me.
As he begins his speech to the car, about how he's homeless and hungry and doesn't want to ask for help but he needs whatever anyone could offer, I already have my hand on my pocketbook, fishing out a dollar bill. He finishes his speech, he turns to me, and I hand him the dollar. He says thank you, and his lips purse into a kiss.
As he begins to walk off, I feel the food I'm chewing and I feel guilty. I feel like I can and should do more.
"Hey, man," I say, "Do you want some food? Do you want an apple?"
He turns, he hesitates, and says, "No. I don't want an apple. Anything else, but not an apple."
I feel foolish. I bet homeless people get a lot of fucking apples. I've got a whole cart of groceries and I'm offering an apple.
"What do you want to eat? I just went shopping."
"Anything. Anything else. Whatever you want to give me." He sits down next to me.
I rifle through my bags, "How about turkey slices? You like turkey?"
He smiles. He nods. I hand over the tub of deli meat.
He says softly, "I can't be homeless. I can't..."
"You're going to be okay," I say, but I don't know that's true. "You're gonna get through this. Just try to take care of yourself, okay?"
Then he offers, "Can I stay with you?"
I laugh. I can't tell if he's hitting on me, or just drunkenly pleading for help. Either way, he's obviously serious.
"No," I answer, "I'm sorry."
"I will be a good boy, I won't steal nothing," he tries.
I smile and take a maternal tone with him, "I know, babe. I know. But you just can't."
He laughs for a long time, dark eyes peering into mine the whole time, mouth open wide, exposing a partial row of missing teeth, then he gets up and shuffles away to another seat, tearing open the package of meat.
I think I hear him mutter something about sandwiches while he inspects the turkey, so I call over to him, "Do you want some bread, too? To make sandwiches? Come here."
He returns, and we negotiate four slices after I initially offer two from my newly purchased loaf. My stop is approaching, so I get up and get myself ready. I put my hand on his shoulder, "Take care of yourself, okay?"
He says something I don't quite catch, eyeing my pregnant belly (maybe for the first time), but I make out the word "son." I smile.
He asks, "Do you know for sure if the baby will be white?"
I don't know if it's just where my head is at that moment, or if it's because of who was asking it, but I'm not offended. All I hear is sadness in his voice.
I smile. Yes, he will be white.
He nods. "That's good. That's the best thing."
In that instant, I had the urge to give him all my groceries.
Instead, the doors open, and I exit. And I'm flooded with sadness, guilt, frustration at the state of this world. This man knows what I know, and what I wrestle with often: I'm growing a person whose cultural market value is the highest possible - a white male. He'll have easy opportunities that I've had to shout and struggle to get, and that my friend on the train seems to have given up completely on ever receiving.
Baby, you are in many ways a golden child. I hope you grow up with an awareness of how to treat everyone you meet with kindness and compassion. I hope you use your powers for good.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
August 11, 2013
I fell asleep during meditation at our hypnobirthing class today. Laughing his ass off, my husband told me that I was snoring loudly during the instructor's visualizations. I asked him what else I missed. He said, "You literally slept through the class where she went over how to have a short, pain-free birth." I guess I'm fucked now, unless I can find someone who'll let me cheat off them the day of the test.
Friday, August 9, 2013
August 7, 2013, pt. 2
Getting on the train to go to see my psychiatrist. Car is packed, another lady pushes to the front of the queue to snag the last seat. I plod on, squeeze myself into the middle of the car, facing a row of thirty to fortyish white businessmen deep in convo about stats and clients and proposals and indicators and trending blah blahs. They don't look up. Whatever. I was only half expecting they would.
From behind me I feel a tap, and turn to face a petite thirty to fortyish Hispanic lady, covered in tattoos, rising out of her seat, saying, “Here, sit. Sit.” At the same time, one of the suits looks up, begins the act of pretending to offer his seat, but what he's really doing is hoping I'll take this woman's offer. And I do. But I want to kick him in the head for his phony chivalry.
I say thanks to the woman. She stands in front of me, looks down at me and shakes her head. “All these men on the train....I was waiting, I was like, 'Don't these guys see her with this big ol' belly?' I can't believe no one was giving you a seat. That shit used to drive me crazy when I was pregnant.”
Next to her, a young Puerto Rican dude chimes in, “Yeah, that happened to my girlfriend when she was pregnant too.”
The three of us laugh and bond over assholes who don't give up seats to pregnant ladies. And then a silence falls over us as we all naturally exhaust the limits of our shared experience.
I watch the woman, the kind woman, who gave me her seat. Tattoos on her neck. Tight pink t-shirt accentuating what may be the stretchy belly skin folds from having given birth. I look at her arms, green tattoos snaking up and down them, and I spot two boys' names both starting with the same letter on her left forearm. I reach my finger out and lightly touch one of them.
“This is your son?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, “they both are.”
I hover my finger a bit over one of the names, “This one. I think this is going to be our son's middle name. So beautiful. I love this name.”
She smiles. She agrees. The train clears, and she sits across from me. One stop later, I get off, passing her, almost laughing, we both smile. She says, “Have a great day,” and I reply, “Take care.” And, this time, I mean it.
From behind me I feel a tap, and turn to face a petite thirty to fortyish Hispanic lady, covered in tattoos, rising out of her seat, saying, “Here, sit. Sit.” At the same time, one of the suits looks up, begins the act of pretending to offer his seat, but what he's really doing is hoping I'll take this woman's offer. And I do. But I want to kick him in the head for his phony chivalry.
I say thanks to the woman. She stands in front of me, looks down at me and shakes her head. “All these men on the train....I was waiting, I was like, 'Don't these guys see her with this big ol' belly?' I can't believe no one was giving you a seat. That shit used to drive me crazy when I was pregnant.”
Next to her, a young Puerto Rican dude chimes in, “Yeah, that happened to my girlfriend when she was pregnant too.”
The three of us laugh and bond over assholes who don't give up seats to pregnant ladies. And then a silence falls over us as we all naturally exhaust the limits of our shared experience.
I watch the woman, the kind woman, who gave me her seat. Tattoos on her neck. Tight pink t-shirt accentuating what may be the stretchy belly skin folds from having given birth. I look at her arms, green tattoos snaking up and down them, and I spot two boys' names both starting with the same letter on her left forearm. I reach my finger out and lightly touch one of them.
“This is your son?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, “they both are.”
I hover my finger a bit over one of the names, “This one. I think this is going to be our son's middle name. So beautiful. I love this name.”
She smiles. She agrees. The train clears, and she sits across from me. One stop later, I get off, passing her, almost laughing, we both smile. She says, “Have a great day,” and I reply, “Take care.” And, this time, I mean it.
August 1, 2013
You are currently the least competent super villain of all time. You don't seem to understand that every attempt to kill me from with inside with karate kicks and suffocation will only result in me taking you down with me. Get it together, dude. You've got two months to put together a solid, devious plan. Bide your time, dummy.
July 31, 2013
I hate being pitied. No matter what's going on with me, trust me, my life is good and I'm lucky and while not all of my problems are "white people problems," or "first world problems," enough of them are that I am grateful for the lot I've been dealt. And so should you be, if you have a way to get breakfast in your belly and the luxury of a comfortable place to sit at the end of most days.
And I don't like looking into strangers' faces and seeing back at me a look of obligation to me or guilt at not jumping up to somehow fix or comfort me. Look, me and my baby are not anyone else's responsibility. And we are not here to get in your way or make you late. We just are.
However, what I do dig is kindness. Actual real kindness and acknowledgement that we are all in this thing together, and that's a constant dance of weighing our own personal needs against the guy next to us and choosing wisely.
So, when I got on the train this morning, it's not that I expected anyone to intuit that I've had a rough few days and been scared and really sick and by the way today makes 8 months pregnant and holy shit holy shit holy shit what is this precipice I'm standing on and how could I go from omnipotent and peaceful to so so sick and scared in a blink because of a stupid mistake that I made, it was my fault, but I caught it, thank Christ, and it's all good, I'm just a little wobbly. So yeah, not that. No pity. But then...fuck....navigating slowly, slowly through this crowded car gripping pole to pole, bumping into fellow strap hangers, like a slow loris making his way through an urban jungle, and the train lurches, and no one is getting up (that's okay, my friends, I don't know, maybe you're all sick too, I'm not judging you) and my foot, all herky-jerky lands on another woman's sandaled foot and she pulls it away, gasping, not looking up, and I know in an instant I haven't hurt her but I'm apologizing because she's examining her yellow toenails and clearly my stumble fucked up her fresh pedicure. She's irritated and shaking her head, and she's sitting - FUCK HER! - and she's cursing and I'm feeling ashamed and feeling the heat of eyes - not hers, but others - on me. "But I don't feel good!" I want to scream, but I don't, at least not on the outside. Instead, again, I lean in as she looks at her ruined toes and say, "I'm sorry." This time, out of the side of her mouth, without looking up, she mutters, "It's fine." I continue my shuffle to the end of the car, leaning against the cool wall and cry behind my sunglasses because I'm feeling less important than some jerk's yellow toes and the point is, I don't think I'm better than this lady, I'm not. But I can't prove that on my own, I need her to meet me halfway, and she's not, and that's wrecking me. And I get off at Fulton and change to the 4, and another young lady pushes in front of me to grab a seat, but there are none. I get on behind her, and a woman who's just sat down looks up into my eyes and asks, "Would you like to sit?" and it feels like it takes me a year to answer, but I say, "Yes, I would, thank you." Then we do a slow navigation around each other, her up and out, and me down and in. And I am so grateful. And after I sit, I find her face again in the crowd and again I say, "Thank you." And she smiles a wide, KIND smile back down. And that's what I'm learning from these ten months. I don't want to be a person who doesn't look up. I don't want to be a person who values screens and pedicures more than faces and strangers. All I want for myself and for us all isl to remember to fucking LOOK UP.
And I don't like looking into strangers' faces and seeing back at me a look of obligation to me or guilt at not jumping up to somehow fix or comfort me. Look, me and my baby are not anyone else's responsibility. And we are not here to get in your way or make you late. We just are.
However, what I do dig is kindness. Actual real kindness and acknowledgement that we are all in this thing together, and that's a constant dance of weighing our own personal needs against the guy next to us and choosing wisely.
So, when I got on the train this morning, it's not that I expected anyone to intuit that I've had a rough few days and been scared and really sick and by the way today makes 8 months pregnant and holy shit holy shit holy shit what is this precipice I'm standing on and how could I go from omnipotent and peaceful to so so sick and scared in a blink because of a stupid mistake that I made, it was my fault, but I caught it, thank Christ, and it's all good, I'm just a little wobbly. So yeah, not that. No pity. But then...fuck....navigating slowly, slowly through this crowded car gripping pole to pole, bumping into fellow strap hangers, like a slow loris making his way through an urban jungle, and the train lurches, and no one is getting up (that's okay, my friends, I don't know, maybe you're all sick too, I'm not judging you) and my foot, all herky-jerky lands on another woman's sandaled foot and she pulls it away, gasping, not looking up, and I know in an instant I haven't hurt her but I'm apologizing because she's examining her yellow toenails and clearly my stumble fucked up her fresh pedicure. She's irritated and shaking her head, and she's sitting - FUCK HER! - and she's cursing and I'm feeling ashamed and feeling the heat of eyes - not hers, but others - on me. "But I don't feel good!" I want to scream, but I don't, at least not on the outside. Instead, again, I lean in as she looks at her ruined toes and say, "I'm sorry." This time, out of the side of her mouth, without looking up, she mutters, "It's fine." I continue my shuffle to the end of the car, leaning against the cool wall and cry behind my sunglasses because I'm feeling less important than some jerk's yellow toes and the point is, I don't think I'm better than this lady, I'm not. But I can't prove that on my own, I need her to meet me halfway, and she's not, and that's wrecking me. And I get off at Fulton and change to the 4, and another young lady pushes in front of me to grab a seat, but there are none. I get on behind her, and a woman who's just sat down looks up into my eyes and asks, "Would you like to sit?" and it feels like it takes me a year to answer, but I say, "Yes, I would, thank you." Then we do a slow navigation around each other, her up and out, and me down and in. And I am so grateful. And after I sit, I find her face again in the crowd and again I say, "Thank you." And she smiles a wide, KIND smile back down. And that's what I'm learning from these ten months. I don't want to be a person who doesn't look up. I don't want to be a person who values screens and pedicures more than faces and strangers. All I want for myself and for us all isl to remember to fucking LOOK UP.
July 29, 2013 (8 months)
Hip, beautiful, and friendly Brooklynite at the coffee shop says to me: "He's not going to be an only child, is he? I was an only child and I hated it."
Thanks, lady. I'll keep that in mind if I happen to ever give birth to you.
Thanks, lady. I'll keep that in mind if I happen to ever give birth to you.
July 26, 213
It's our fifth wedding anniversary, and we've rented a house in Woodstock to celebrate.
Hiked a serious, 1.5 mile steep ascent of a trail in the Catskills today. Miraculously (thankfully) very few concerned citizens on this trail. However, as we approach the summit, a fifty-ish woman with her teenage daughter smiles and says, "Is this a 'I hope I have this baby soon' walk?" I shake my head. "We aren't expecting our little friend for another couple months." She actually is agape as she says, "Really? You look like you're..." I can't wait to hear what, what do I look like? I smile. I keep walking. I can almost hear the wheels cranking in her head, "You look great," she finally concludes. "Thanks," I grin.
After we are out of earshot your dad says, "It's been a long time for her. She probably forgot."
Hiked a serious, 1.5 mile steep ascent of a trail in the Catskills today. Miraculously (thankfully) very few concerned citizens on this trail. However, as we approach the summit, a fifty-ish woman with her teenage daughter smiles and says, "Is this a 'I hope I have this baby soon' walk?" I shake my head. "We aren't expecting our little friend for another couple months." She actually is agape as she says, "Really? You look like you're..." I can't wait to hear what, what do I look like? I smile. I keep walking. I can almost hear the wheels cranking in her head, "You look great," she finally concludes. "Thanks," I grin.
After we are out of earshot your dad says, "It's been a long time for her. She probably forgot."
July 17, 2013
I want to start off by saying that I don't go around tripping people on purpose. However, if you are standing on a subway platform with your face buried in your iMachine, and you - without looking up to take in your surroundings - proceed to push your way to the front of the queue in attempt to snag one of the last precious seats on a crowded car, I will sweep my leg out in between yours as you cut in front of me and trip you from behind. I'm fighting for goodness, but sometimes that means fighting dirty. As the guy on the 5 just learned.
July 15, 2013
Standing on the corner of Lawrence and Damen, in Chicago, waiting for the light, I see a couple of older folks crossing the street toward me on my left. The fellow is smiling at me, looking right at me, and I sense he's going to say something so I smile back. As he gets close, he says something that I don't understand, gesturing rapidly with his hands, and I realize by the sound of his voice that he's deaf. I say, "I'm sorry?" Slowly and with great enunciation he repeats, "Boy or girl?" "A little boy," I reply. He clasps and shakes his hands in front of his heart and beams. I nod and thank him. As he leaves me, he takes careful measures to tell me, "Best wishes to you and your baby." I stand there, smiling after him, on the verge of tears. Happy. Lucky. Proud.
July 11, 2013
Descending the steps to the 6 platform, an older woman - in an MTA work jumpsuit - emptying a trash can spies me:
- It's boy time! Boy time!
- Yep. That's right.
- I know because you're carrying him low just like I carried mine. He's 35 now.
- Congratulations.
-He was small too. Five pounds. Your baby's gonna be small just like mine.
She keeps talking to me, smiling, talking about her grand kids, her kids. Now the train is approaching, and I'm starting to walk away, as she shouts to be heard above the din:
-JUST REMEMBER - YOU GOTTA RELAX TO PUSH HIM OUT! IF YOU TENSE UP, YOU'RE JUST GONNA SUCK HIM BACK UP INSIDE YOU!!!
- It's boy time! Boy time!
- Yep. That's right.
- I know because you're carrying him low just like I carried mine. He's 35 now.
- Congratulations.
-He was small too. Five pounds. Your baby's gonna be small just like mine.
She keeps talking to me, smiling, talking about her grand kids, her kids. Now the train is approaching, and I'm starting to walk away, as she shouts to be heard above the din:
-JUST REMEMBER - YOU GOTTA RELAX TO PUSH HIM OUT! IF YOU TENSE UP, YOU'RE JUST GONNA SUCK HIM BACK UP INSIDE YOU!!!
July 6, 2013 (7 months)
Here's what I wrote in my vagina's yearbook at the end of this school year:
"It's been a crazy year, right? We had some good times, bad times, and some weird times. But through it all, I still think you're pretty cool. Have a great summer! I'll miss seeing you everyday. Don't do anything I wouldn't do (j/k)! Stay sweet and don't ever change (srsly). I'll see you in the fall! Xoxo Class of 93 Rulz!!!"
"It's been a crazy year, right? We had some good times, bad times, and some weird times. But through it all, I still think you're pretty cool. Have a great summer! I'll miss seeing you everyday. Don't do anything I wouldn't do (j/k)! Stay sweet and don't ever change (srsly). I'll see you in the fall! Xoxo Class of 93 Rulz!!!"
June 5, 2013 (6 months)
Getting on the A in the Village. A wisp of a young man gets on with me, sits down next to me. He's wearing jean shorts, his hair wrapped up in a Rosie The Riveter kerchief. He's preoccupied with his long, sparkly, purple nails. Out of my peripheral, I watch him and try to imagine what his life is like. How different a teenage experience from my own. Suddenly, one of his nails pops off, and lands in between us. He twists around, searching behind him. I pick the nail up and hand it to him. Smiling. In return, he smiles wide giving me an eyeful of shiny braces. We don't speak. But I think silently, "World, take care of this sweet boy. Don't let nobody hurt him."
May 25, 2013
I'm riding the train, running on the fumes of three sleepless nights, headphones set to Television's iconic Marquee Moon. Across the aisle, I see a young woman pressing herself to the wall of the train while the middle-aged man next to her leans in towards her, talking, smiling. She doesn't know him. I can see how uncomfortable she is. From the W.C. Fields bulb of a nose, and the tallboy concealed in a plastic bag, I can tell that he's drunk. And, moreover, he is a drunk. I turn off the music, imagining that I will come to her rescue, declaring loudly, "Buddy! I don't think she wants to talk to you!" But instead I listen. He's telling her about his daughter. She's so beautiful. She's very smart. She told him his was the best dad in the world. She did. In fact, one time she got him a t-shirt that said that. She studied forensic science. She doesn't drink or do any drugs, but she doesn't mind if he has a beer. The girl turns to him finally and says, "Who you gonna talk to when I get off the train? Yourself?" He smiles and agrees, "Yeah. That's what I do. When there's no one else to talk to, I talk to myself." She gets off the train. He smiles after her, then rifles through his ratty backpack. And I never say anything to him because my heart has broken for him a little.
May 17, 2013
Not to sound like a jerk, but if my midwife tells me again that I need to be careful about how much weight I'm gaining - which I'll proudly tell you is 14 lbs so far - I'm going to suggest that she shave her mustache and then eat a bag of dicks.
May 13, 2013
I didn't expect to return - at this relatively young age - to being unashamed when I pee in my pants.
May 10, 2013 (5 months)
The woman with her young daughter passed me on the sidewalk and said, "Congratulations!" and I replied, "Thank you!" A few moments later, from halfway down the block she hollered back, "You better breast feed that baby!"
April 19, 2013
(Week of the Boston marathon bombing tragedy)
On the way to work, trying to untangle the mess of sad information in the news today and this week, and I looked up and down the subway car, taking in a Hispanic family, a young orthodox Jewish couple, a couple of Middle Eastern fellas. There was a sleepy teenage black girl in a purple velour jogging suit leaning against me, as we all watched an old man sing and play his badly tuned guitar. We were all happy together, me - this kid from small town Kansas - and all these other folks. I wish you could have seen it. I really do.
On the way to work, trying to untangle the mess of sad information in the news today and this week, and I looked up and down the subway car, taking in a Hispanic family, a young orthodox Jewish couple, a couple of Middle Eastern fellas. There was a sleepy teenage black girl in a purple velour jogging suit leaning against me, as we all watched an old man sing and play his badly tuned guitar. We were all happy together, me - this kid from small town Kansas - and all these other folks. I wish you could have seen it. I really do.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
April 17, 2013
According
to this baby website, it's a bad idea to name your child after a pet.
So I guess we have to cross Whiskers, Boots, and The Wizard off our
list. Drag.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Friday, April 12, 2013
April 12, 2013
All actors eventually experience that one time during a show and some jerk missed his entrance,
forcing the actors onstage to improv until he showed up. Well, last night that jerk
was me. But I blame my you, baby - you're very new to the biz.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
April 9, 2013
The
main difference between my character in the play I'm doing at Lincoln Center and me is that I'm pregnant and
she's chubby.
Monday, April 8, 2013
April 8, 2013
Sometimes
you wake up thinking it will be a terrible day, and then you get on
the subway and make eye contact with a fella in a group of elderly
doo wop singing buskers and you both smile as he serenades you, and
then you think maybe it's not going to be such a bad day after all.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
April 6, 2013 (four months)
Found out the hard way today that some people don't think it's funny when pregnant ladies make abortion jokes.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
April 3, 2013
I've
turned into one of our cats. If you open snacks within earshot, I'm
gonna come sniffing around pretty quick.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
March 30, 2013
From
the files of "Things That Only Happen To Me," last night I
fell off the fridge and bloodied my nipple. If I weren't living in
it, my life would seem hilarious.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
March 19, 2013 (3 months)
Regretfully, I admit that tonight I did say to your father, "Bitch, you better let me eat my nachos or there's gonna be a problem."
Friday, February 15, 2013
February 15, 2013
Actual
exchange between me and a fellow trying to chat me up on the subway
platform just now.
Him:
You been waiting long? For the train?
Me:
About five minutes?
Him:
This train usually takes a long time to get here?
Me:
No. I don't think so.
...
Him:
Did you have a good Valentines Day?
Me:
Yeah, okay.
Him:
What was the highlight?
Me:
Oh, nothing really.
....
Him:
I went salsa dancing with friends. You like salsa dancing?
Me:
I don't know. I've never done it.
Him:
What do you like to do?
Me:
I don't know. I mostly stay home.
Him:
You just stay home and cook?
.....
Me:
....Yeah.
Monday, February 11, 2013
February 11, 2013
Your dad tried to complain that the brownies I made were too warm and
gooey. Don't worry, I punched him in the throat and set him straight.
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