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.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
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.
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