the kindness of strangers
About a month ago I started knitting a little cardigan for my future niece or nephew. DJ’s brother and his wife are expecting their first baby ten days after our due date. (Which means it’s anyone’s guess which baby comes first.) They’ve decided to wait for the delivery room surprise, so I made the impractical choice to knit in white with leaf-green trim. But machine washable, bleachable, and dry-able. And it will be apologetically wrapped with a gift card for their registry, since I know a tiny white baby sweater is both impractical and self-indulgent.
I was happily knitting along until I realized that I was definitely going to run out of yarn. By a lot. That’s what I get for using a free pattern, I suppose. I didn’t start worrying until I found out the yarn is backordered until the end of December, a week before the baby shower. Not good.
Slightly desperate, I went to Ravelry and searched for the same yarn, same dye lot. Ravelry has a feature where you can browse other knitters’ “stashes,” and I found two matches. I sent messages asking to buy whatever remnants they had left, and both replied. One wasn’t sure she actually had any yarn left, but said she would look as soon as she finished moving. The other said she had most of a ball, and I was welcome to it. She didn’t reply to my offer to pay for the yarn and shipping, but a few days later an envelope showed up in my mailbox. It was a people are nice moment.
new sensations
I am, with some margin of error, about 75% through being a baby house. The last few weeks have seemed especially fast. I love feeling her move around. Recently I’ve been able to identify body parts – a tiny butt pushing against my ribs or a miniature foot exploring out to the side. She still gets very quiet when DJ tries to feel her moving. He does have a calming effect, I hope it works as well a few months from now.
I’ve been very happily pregnant so far. If anything, I think I’ve been more cheerful than usual. DJ and I rarely argue under any circumstances, but it still almost seems odd to me that we haven’t had one of those tense conversations this entire pregnancy. DJ is relieved that I haven’t turned angry or prone to sobbing. My family might disagree. They’ve been trouble, but that’s about what I was expecting. Last week I had an anxiety attack during one particularly bad day (self-diagnosed, but the feeling is always the same). I have to find better ways to handle those situations. They are expert boundary-pushers, so it’s frustrating.
I don’t know if it’s indicative of my energy levels, but I still cannot be bothered to brush my hair before taking pictures. So ignore my hair, and here’s a peek at the nursery. All told it probably took 30 hours to stencil the walls, but I love how it looks. DJ’s parents bought our crib, and DJ went through the dad rite of passage of assembling it. I love how he is about these things. He makes all kinds of frustrated noises while referring back and forth to the instructions, but at the end he is so obviously pleased with himself.
I have yet to make the bedskirt or buy any bedding. Next weekend my mother in law is hosting an enormous baby shower for us, but everyone is so excited about this GIRL that I suspect we will end up with about 100 pink onesies. We’ll see. I don’t really mind all the clothes, honestly. They are pretty cute. But we are going to have one enormous shopping trip once we sort out what we still need.
Here’s the little lady, just about to attempt cramming her entire fist in her mouth. I’m not sure whose profile she has. My overbite, maybe. I’m fairly sure I saw some chubby cheeks, too.
This is what’s happening with the nursery right now. Shiny shiny and about half finished. Two quarts of Martha Stewart Precious Metals paint (tin and bone) plus one 10 ounce container of the Metallic accent paint in Vintage Gold = shimmery champagne. The Home Depot guy was very curious about what exactly I was trying to do. I explained, but his eyes glazed over a little when I mentioned a stencil. Too bad, because I think this is a pretty good not-wallpaper.
22 weeks: cognitive dissonance
Enough people have told me I would regret not taking pictures that I tried. I am always weird about myself in pictures; I don’t look anything like I think I do. Not better or worse, just different. Pregnancy is widening the gap, so to speak. These are like looking at someone else completely. That person badly needs a haircut and probably didn’t get the focus right on the self-timer.
(Also, that person just came home from a small conference where she won science Bingo and brought home a shirt that says “Mass Spec/tacular.” Which will be worn proudly, belly-tight or not.)
I’ve tried to have DJ take pictures of me, but that’s worse. I get all self-conscious and make even dumber faces than usual.
This is how I really feel about standing in the empty nursery taking pictures of myself:
This one is especially awkward and I may not do it again. But now you know that I like to fold the panel of my maternity pants down so I don’t feel like I’m wearing a full-body scuba suit. And for the moment my belly button is still IN where it belongs. It’s getting scary, though.
two
Two years ago we had a party.
Last year we revisited our honeymoon and bought a lot of wine. I put on makeup and set up the tripod.
This year we stayed home (except for some really great dinner plans, and I have not been good about getting us together in pictures. I haven’t been good about pictures at all for the last few months.
So DJ and I just did a quick arm-out snap. We didn’t get dressed nicely, and I didn’t even brush my hair first. This is two years of marriage. Sometimes you don’t brush your hair. We did make out a little, though. It’s important to keep your priorities straight.
finding out
On Thursday I insisted to several people that no, I really didn’t have a preference. I’d be just as happy with either a boy or a girl baby. Every time I thought of something exciting about having a little boy, I’d think of something just as fun about a girl. DJ has been told not to look disappointed if we’re having a girl – no amount of explanation is convincing. We have been just really excited. I don’t know how people can stand to wait until the birth. I certainly do not have that kind of patience.
Several weeks ago I made a plan to tell our parents. They each were given a set of two boxes, wrapped and numbered. One box held girl baby things and pink candies and chocolates. The other had boy baby things, pickle-flavored cashews and Mounds bars. Nuts, you see. All the snacks had nuts. Laughing at my own bad joke I hoped it would be a boy.
The other night DJ and I were out for a walk. We spend most of our walks talking about this baby. After all, this baby is the reason I’m walking and not running. That night we were talking names, and came up with a girl name we both loved. I’ve been thinking about it, thinking about a little girl with that name. Curly dark hair. Stubborn. Someday giving her my first pair of diamond earrings from DJ. I’d like that a lot.
I knew either way I was going to be a little disappointed. Finding out means losing some of those built-up dreams, at least for a while.
A few people have nodded and said “as long as the baby is healthy.” But that’s not quite right either. Healthy or not, this is the baby. My lucky baby. No trades or take-backs, and healthy or not I want this baby.
A few hours later we squinted at a static-y screen and listened to the tech tell us all the things that weren’t wrong. The brain looks good. No cleft lip. Four chambers of the heart, beating perfectly. Two kidneys, a closed neural tube. No Down’s Syndrome markers. Three ventricles in the cord. Placenta healthy and attached in a good place. Proportional measurements. Fingers. Fingers!
She paused, then asked if we were ready. We nodded, not quite patient. This, she said while changing the angle, is a little girl. DJ grinned, I laughed and my eyes welled. A little girl! A healthy baby girl!
We called the moms. My mom saw pink polka dots under the lid and screamed happily, his mom shouted that she knew it. His dad reached for a raspberry truffle. I am, as it turns out, not disappointed at all. This is going to be so much fun.
So I’m thinking shiny shiny butterfly garden nursery. Like this, but probably even shinier.
swell
I’ve been a pregnancy stereotype lately. I’ve limped home from work with swollen feet several times, and the only thing that helps is propping them up on a high stack of pillows like an invalid. That didn’t stop me from eating fried pickles and ranch dressing on Friday night, though.Reilly is scared of the pillow tower. It shifted slightly and he ran into the kitchen to squeak anxiously at DJ. DJ was busy making me low-sodium lunches to take to work, but Reilly evidently felt the kitchen was a safer place to be.
I’m frustrated with the maternity clothing I’ve found so far. It’s been fine for work – I can get away with a few pairs of tailored pants and a variety of tops. But beyond that, the fabric is so cheap and bad. I’d pay more for nice fabric (and have for the rare silk maternity blouse) but often can’t find what I want at any price. I’m going to need a winter coat, and I’m a serious fabric snob. In my non-maternity closet I have a lambswool car coat from Michael Kors, a wool/cashmere dress coat from J. Crew, and a haircloth cashmere lady coat with a portrait collar. I really dislike synthetics. (Snob.) Add to that the fact that I need extra sleeve and body length for my tall self, and I’m stuck.
So I’m redrafting a pattern I’ve used and liked (the lady coat) to accommodate the baby mansion I’ll be sporting in January. I have several yards of cranberry wool suiting, the last big piece from my grandma’s collection. I bought matching flannel for a hidden warm underlining and a brocade (jacquard, actually) remnant for the visible lining. I hope it works. I’m not sure how to fit myself right now, since it’s bound to change by the time coat weather comes. I’m not sure and it’s bound to change keep coming up as I try to make plans. Almost like there’s a big life event ahead.
Baby house. 18 weeks, 2 days.
Those of you who are or have been pregnant know about waiting for the first comment from a stranger. How exciting it is the first time a cashier asks your due date, and how until then you want to explain to everyone you meet that you used to wear belts.
A week ago I was trying to run. My three mile loop takes me out along a busy road for a short stretch before a quiet neighborhood. It was rush hour, and as the cars idled I was trying not to think about how my shifting balance was affecting my dignity. Over my shoulder I heard some whistles, then catcalls. Nothing threatening, just the local Hispanic youth appreciating my rear view. This happens now and then – I am A Type. In an area with a high concentration of both Hispanic and Polish families I appeal to a certain demographic. It makes sense, you know. DJ is half Mexican, and if he’s any indication I highly recommend dating and marrying a man from a culture comfortable with vocalizing their appreciation for the female form. DJ is more reserved about it than some, but I am never lacking for attention.
Anyway, the catcalls. I continued my effortful plod and the traffic crawled by. The two young catcallers came even with me, then passed. A dark head popped out the passenger window and yelled back towards my wobbling center of gravity. SORRY MA’AM!!
So that’s how it is, and I couldn’t keep myself from laughing.
wide wide sea
Kid B turned 23 this week. Time passes, I guess. I think it was his nineteenth birthday, when he lived with us, that I made a “meat cake” as a joke. Reprised last year with a red velvet cake shaped and decorated as a t-bone. This year he requested “the heavy cake.” I forget which birthday had the first heavy cake, but in any case the main criterion was that it be heavy. So I baked banana layers, stacked them with vanilla custard, and finished with almond buttercream. It was very heavy. This year may be even heavier if I add a drizzle of vanilla simple syrup. I like that Kid B and I have a common love of cake. It’s good to have shared interests with your siblings.
While in a meeting on Wednesday I was host to an hour long exhibition of kicks and bumps. I was sure they could be felt from the outside if only I hadn’t been in a conference room and trying to be professional. That night I lay down and eagerly waited for the gymnastics, but nothing. Nothing! On Thursday night I impatiently jiggled my belly, remembering the ultrasound technician shaking things to get some motion a few weeks ago. A few seconds went by and I felt a firm tap back. DJ put his hand where mine had been and we waited. TAP. It was fantastic. Weirder and better than I ever imagined.
In One Hundred Years of Solitude there are a few paragraphs I’ve been thinking of often. I think the woman was a Remedios, I can’t remember which one. She’s pregnant, and described as turning or focusing inward, utterly ignoring the world. Fourteen years after my first read, now I understand. It’s tempting. I want to be the same person I have been in all of my relationships, but the change is here. This, more than anything, scares me. DJ and I are not the same couple we were a year ago. Now we talk about our family and I am more mom-shaped every day, and what else was I expecting? But it’s uncharted territory. I hope we won’t lose each other, and if we do I hope we will find our way back.
Someone asked recently if I consider myself a perfectionist. I said no, because I do not do things perfectly. She laughed at that and said that was a perfectionist trademark. I don’t know. I’ve never really considered being a perfectionist. Should I be? What would that be like? Would there be some freedom from trying if I knew the goal was perfection and therefore unattainable? Probably not. I consider myself a try-er. I try. I rarely think it’s important to be the best compared to others, but I am disappointed if I could have done better had I tried harder. But that is always true. There’s always a little more to give, in hindsight. Do better next time.
On that note, I am about to try for a run. There will be some walking, and it will be slow. But trying feels good.
Me, a week ago. One trimester, done.
Earlier this week one of the cafeteria ladies at work pointed to my stomach and said “tell me? yes?” People are holding doors for me all of a sudden. It’s strange. Especially because now I feel mostly fine, and except for the occasional rolling sensation I could almost forget anything new was happening.
Today I went for a run for the first time since Memorial Day. Well, a “run.” It was a slow three miles and I walked a good third of it, worried about my ambitions causing problems. But so far so good. Having set aside the Chicago Marathon for this year, my new and more moderate goal is to continue my yearly tradition of running the Turkey Trot 8K on Thanksgiving. I’d be happy with “running,” really. I’ve missed it while wallowing in nausea and exhaustion. DJ has been going for walks with me instead, but it’s not the same. I like running, it feels better.
My favorite thing so far about being pregnant is how amazing food tastes. If it’s the right food (watermelon, peaches and cream oatmeal, Trader Joe’s tahini-free hummus, pad thai) the joy of eating it is beyond describing. Eating my oatmeal this morning and feeling like it was exactly right made me wonder – would dinner at the French Laundry be disappointing if the wanted food weren’t on the menu? I don’t know. But if anyone would like to send me to the French Laundry for dinner I would be happy to find out.
