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.
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