Without further adieu, here is the last week[1] in my very own, narcissistic, pregnancy related news[2]:
Thursday, 8/1
As if I
haven’t suffered enough pregnancy related indignities[3]
– (I barely told you about the DIAPER RASH[4]
that enveloped my boobs basically forever)
– on this day I had to endure another atrocity: hemorrhoids that-which-shall-not-be-named. Now. I try to be real on this blog. Like, real real[5]. But a
long time ago, when I was young and naïve and thought of when I would have kids and never if, after reading a particularly “compelling” and “eye opening” and
“utterly disgusting” first person account of pregnancy article in that
venerable, hard hitting journalistic masterpiece, SELF magazine, I made a
profound and steadfast decision: when
I got pregnant, I would do so without getting hemorrhoids that-which-shall-not-be-named. Because, honestly, who needs that?
NOT THIS GIRL. Needless to say, I was very disappointed in my body and it’s
impaired decision making stick-to-it-tive-ness. Yes, friends, Thursday was a
rough day.
But instead of
perseverating, I spent the next several hours determined to blow my entire
paycheck on all-the-pretty-baby-clothes (like
these hipster threads
and these, some of which C
says are too gender-neutralizing-burlap-sack but which i say are
gimme-those-overalls!).
Friday, 8/2
Oh, Friday.
You were a good day. We had dinner (smitten
kitchen charred corn crepes with grilled veggies, some fish that C caught,
fresh guacamole and mango salsa, none of which I took pictures of because HUNGRY) with friends (only one of whom
affectionately inquired about the alien growing in my belly). The weather was
perfect, the food was fresh and for the first time in a long time, I really
just wanted a beer. *rubs beer belly baby belly*
Saturday, 8/3
With C on call
at the hospital, I visited a friend and her 3 month old son. While pleasantly mesmerized
by his baby fingernails and dissipating male pattern baldness, I was woken from
my reverie and spontaneously reminded by my dear friend that – wait for it – baby
boys have "huge balls." *Duly noted*. Also, both our sons will
probably go into therapy because their mothers had such a conversation.
Moving right
along. I spent the afternoon determined to find not-ill-fitting professional
maternity pants and to consume frozen yogurt – but not in that order and the
latter was really just as a vehicle for unrestrained candy consumption. BECAUSE
I CAN.
Sunday, 8/4
C and I
venture forth into baby-store-landia
where we encounter various breeds of expectant parents. Brutish dads (“SHE
(referring to his wife) WILL BE WALKING EVERYWHERE. SHE WILL NEED THIS STROLLER!”), aggressive moms (one
friendly mother-to-be literally yanked
a stroller out of my hands and shoved me aside, such was her passion for
parenthood), the parents weighed down by incomprehensible data they aggregated
from consumer reports magazine (seriously, how is that even still a thing that
anyone but my father uses?). We didn’t buy anything but we did amuse ourselves
by placing stuffed alligators in Ergo carriers and throwing around faux baby
sacks from stroller to stroller. Because, you know, MATURE ADULTS TOTALLY READY
TO PARENT.
Monday, 8/5
It’s Monday
morning and the fetus-child is unhappy to be in court by 8 am. I know because
while I wait for my client’s case to be called, he (baby, not client) is
pummeling me from the inside. At which point I have this moment like um, hey, can everyone see what’s happening
here? Or is that just me? MMMkay.
Late in the
day – when I’m looking especially round and glowing with pregnancy bloated-ness
– a grizzly middle aged man at a furniture store greeted me with thickly
accented eastern European English, "a blessing is coming!" (Mark this
as the first time a stranger has pointed out that I am pregnant. So, umm…everybody
wins?).
Tuesday, 8/6
Ohhai,
Tuesday. What the hell is that? OH
RIGHT. NAUSEA. Because, you know, I was getting used to not keeping a Ziploc of cheerios on my bedside table to ward off
the early morning queasiness.
Today I think
serious thoughts about work life balance and my role as lawyer-mother (which is
not to be confused with earth-mother). Being a walking uterus, there’s no
downplaying that like, you know, other
shit is going on in my life. I have some really deep thoughts that are
presently escaping me. Mostly
I read this and the take away is something like, this would be more compelling if the author wasn’t a professor at
Harvard and also, balance! (Okay,
truthfully, I have a lot of feelings on this. But I’ll save them for
not-a-week-in-review-shortcut-of-a-post, pleaseandthankyou).
Wednesday, 8/7
Oh Wednesday, I
thought you’d never come. Wednesday is when I prove to you guys that I actually
do have a bump (see below). And that I put it
under a black dress pretty much on the regular.
Also: YOGA!
Which was especially super tonight because (1) the woman to my right was “41
week and a few days pregnant”; (2) someone
always offers Tums; and (3) my
teacher instructed us to “allow the flower to open at the base of your pelvic
floor[6]!”
 |
| (Keeping it classy by replacing my face with my iPhone.) |
(Has anyone
else noticed that I waffled violently between using the past and present tense
throughout this post? I know, my grammar is appalling. As is my decision-making
ability, apparently.)
<End
rant>.
[1] I know what you’re thinking. But its just Wednesday. Just go with it,
okay?
[2] By which I mean that I swear my entire
life isn’t consumed by baby. For example, this exciting tour through my uterus
does not include such storied events as the
many episodes of Orange is the New Black which I have consumed in the last week
or the totally-working! record player
that our neighbors threw away and we now have on display in our living room
and many other REALLY EXCITING PURSUITS.
[3] And by that I mean basically the same
ones all pregnant ladies suffer – heartburn, having to pee all the time,
hormones!, nausea, having to pee all the time, erratic sleeping habits, mostly
related to having to pee all the time, etc. – except that mine
included shingles so I win. (Also, on a related note, I actually really
don’t mind all this <motions to aforementioned symptoms but mostly to the
peeing, oh the everloving peeing!>.
Being pregnant feels… good, even?)
[4] Because that is the official diagnosis.
And the cure? More cow
bell! Wear cotton bras, or better yet no bras (because, you know,
nothing screams working, professional like that…),
apply anti-fungal cream, rinse and repeat. I could not make this stuff up.
Clearly the universe is PREPARING ME. It’s all so meta.
[5] Seriously, someone please filter me. I
cannot help myself.
[6] I did not do this as instructed because I
was pretty sure that I would just pee myself. Also, I don’t listen to direction
very well.
