Feet Loaf

I’m not sure if it is the abundance of salty beach town food or just that time of my pregnancy, but my feet have finally started swelling. I’m not sure why I am surprised by this turn, as I was warned they would by all books, friends, and pregnancy-related media that I have read. Alas, I have two puffy loaves for feet. They look like little round buns with tiny, pink sausages for toes. None of my shoes fit. The only footwear I can squeeze on are a pair of cheap, red, Target-brand flip-flops. I now have the appearance of someone who has finally given up. My clothes have stains where my belly has caught dropped food, my rotund tummy peaks out ridiculously from under all of my now-too-small pregnancy tops, my pants are all near splitting threshold, and I’m wearing cheap flip-flops. There are six more weeks of this. That means 6 more centimeters of belly growth and 6 more pounds of weight gain. I just don’t understand quite how it will work physically. Ugh.

[Image from: http://www.ezfood.ca/dough.htm]

Beach Barnacle

Today I wanted to dig a giant hole in the beach sand—one that would be the exact right size to fit my belly. I imagined that this would be the only way that I could sleep on my stomach until the baby is born. Damn, I miss that feeling! Unfortunately, the wind picked up, the umbrella broke, and we all got tired of the sun before I could manage this lengthy engineering project. So sad! I really want to pretend for just a little while that I was not pregnant.

[Image from: http://iceblog.puddingbowl.org/archives/2006/01/]

No Squidding

I took a quick trip to Port Aransas this weekend to visit with a friend who is doing research there this summer for her dissertation on squid behavior. It turns out that not a lot of people do squid research—not because squid are boring (quite the opposite is true!), but because they are so darn hard to keep alive in captivity. Karin has spent many times more hours hunting for live specimens than actually getting to perform tests on these slippery little critters. Her tests, by the way, involve scaring the squid, which I find completely hilarious. They are like little nervous old ladies, pacing the tank, inking at the slightest provocation, and blinking their skin-chromatophore patterns pseudo-menacingly whenever someone approaches them. I want to give them tiny umbrellas to shake at the riffraff!

Last night, Karin and I went for a little midnight squid hunt to try and catch more test subjects. She has met many seasoned fishermen in her summer quest, and they have tutored her in the fine arts of trawling, hand netting, cast netting, and probably a dozen other forms of squid-napping. They’ve also pointed out all the best places for catching squid. We went to three of them last night and did some cast netting. At two of the locations, fishing was not allowed, which made the whole thing even more exciting. I just yearned to have the police drive up and arrest a biologist and a very pregnant lady for illegal angling! Alas, my rebel fantasies remain unlived—no one noticed us.

We caught nothing, but we did encounter a curious pod of dolphins. They were quite interested in us and surfaced a few times near where we stood. Dolphins make me nervous. (Why? That’s another blog entry…) Something about it being night-time, the illegality of our actions (oh thrill!), these slick and mysterious visitors, and learning a new skill that involves tethering yourself to a net—the combination made for quite an exhilarating adventure! I guess I’m easy these days.

[Image from: http://laughingsquid.com/laughing-squid-photo-by-brian-mccarty/]

Gendergarten

It’s really hard not to fantasize and/or worry about what my kid is going to be like. We’ve ruled out a few screenable diseases, but she could still be sickly, mentally retarded, deformed, schizophrenic, autistic, stupid, ugly, handicapped, or allergic to sunlight (it’s called polymorphic light eruption), and the list goes on… And then there are all the things that are not related to physical or genetic problems. She might want to get an ugly tattoo on her face, devil horn implants, or those super-stretched ear lobes with a matching lip disk, or she might want to become a scientologist. She might even, horror of horrors, become a republican! I consider myself open-minded, but what will I say when it really comes down to “Why can’t I, Mom?”

What other kind of new ideas she will bring to us? In what unfathomable new ways will I be challenged by her generation’s new trends or anti-establishment values? Thinking that she might be gay or punk-rock doesn’t concern me because she has so many wonderful role-models among my friends. However, the other day I was trying to sort out how to spell her name (Matilda or Mathilde), and a friend of mine said, “Well, you never know. She could end up transgendered and want you to call her Tom.” Um…is that Thom with an “H”?

That was when I realized that it’s just not worth thinking about her future just yet. Here I am considering myself as so ahead of the curve, all ready to accept and love my gay, overly-pierced child, and then I have to sit up all night collecting my thoughts on whether I would blink if she told me she wanted a penis for her 16th birthday. I’ll have to discuss it with Scott, but I think she might have to wait until she is 18.

[Image from: http://www.dikenga.com/films/firecracker/]

Welcome to the Dark Side

Scott’s 40th b-day BBQ bash was great fun. There were lots of friends (old and new), lots of Wii action, lots of yummy food, and my personal favorite--cake! I made two cakes: one chocolate-raspberry, decorated Hello-Kitty-style for my niece who turned 4 on the same day and one lemon flavored with a Darth Vader topper for my now-over-some-sort-of-hill husband. Sadly, I didn’t get any pics of the two of them blowing out the candles together. I think it is just darling that they will always share the same birthday.

Applying black icing

The cakes in all their glory

Wyley watching candle ignition

Birthday girl and momma

Liam, transfixed by Wii

Violet’s close up

Quilt-Bot

I just sent another one of these snuggly little robot quilts out to a brand new baby friend. I’m thinking of putting the pattern on sabbatical for a while. It is simple enough, but people are making babies so fast I can barely keep up. I will probably make at least one more for Tillie (my little squeaker), and then wait until she’s off to college to break it out again. That is, unless I cannot resist the power of the snuggly cute-bot…so strong!!!

Suh-Weet!

I’m at the post office buying sheets of stamps. Let’s see do I want another round of the triangle shaped Jamestown Commemoration series? A sheet of the new, quaint Pacific Lighthouse series? Or THE NEW STAR WARS STAMPS--heck yeah!!!! Yes, they are finally here! Yes, they are the most awesome stamps ever! Yes, I am a big nerd (squared by both my fandom for Star Wars and my enthusiasm for nice stamps)!

Oh New Star Wars Stamps, why do I love thee? Let’s see, you are very pretty, you cost very little money, and you have heroes and villains, which makes individual postage selection oh-so-easy. Icky bills get Vader and Queen Amidalah. Letters to your B.F.F get Luke, Leia, Artoo, and [sigh] the Han-Chewy double header.

May the force be with your snail mail!

[Image from: http://www.starwars.com/collecting/news/misc/news20070328.html]

TV of the 22nd Century?

I sense that we are nearing an asymptote in consumer technological design of actually owning a master appliance that will handle all things communication and entertainment. Don’t you ever wonder why you have to have separate DVRs, DVD players, CD players, gaming consoles, internet browsers, and phone jacks? They are all serviced by the same darn communications company--so why do we have to have a dozen different appliances to do the one thing I want to do: watch television and movies while looking things up on the internet. The iphone is close, but not quite there due to copy-protection limitations on television and probably some other bureaucratic hitches with Apple and AT&T. I mean, there is no reason why every gadget we own couldn’t have a wifi connection, right?

I just bought my husband a Wii for his birthday, and supposedly we will be able to connect it to the internet. I’m secretly excited that this could mean that I could watch all my free movie hours from Netflix on the big screen--without having to take my work computer, buy a fancy adapter cord, free up memory, and set it up to my television every time I wanted to watch some cheesy piece of crud that isn’t even worth the effort of renting. But, something tells me that it won’t be like having the real internet right where I want it. I think the Playstation 3 does have this capability, but it costs $500. (And then there’s the sad probability that the streaming that Netflix provides isn’t of high quality--rats!)

I suppose the problem with this master plan to have one robot do it all is that then no single feature would be perfect. It’s like owning one of those combo DVD-VHS players--the likelihood of both components being of high-quality is not as great as if you bought the best version of each in separate players. Only with my fantasy master appliance, you’d multiply those lame odds by a factor of 12. Also, what if one part goes bad? Hmm…my fantasy appliance is quickly turning into a nightmare box! I think I just need a second laptop for the living room, hee, hee. Some day…

[Image from: http://blog.wired.com/gadgets/2006/12/pope_technology.html]

When Onsies Approach Infinity

My unborn daughter has more outfits than any woman I know. She has, and I am NOT exaggerating, no fewer than 39 onsies. And these are all size 0-3 months, so she has only 3 months to wear them all before they no longer fit. Wow. I can’t imagine that I would need more than this, but what do I know about parenting? These are all hand-me-downs and gifts from excited aunties. I’m in a bit of shock, because this means that if just one aspect of her babyhood requires this much storage space, what will the other facets of her little life require? Yikes, I think we already need a bigger house!

[Image from: http://www.piratemerch.com/]

Funderwear

“Your panties are beautiful,” said my four-year-old niece today of my new maternity underwear. I was at her house trying on some of her mom’s old maternity clothes because I have exploded into a new ungodly size of large and can no longer fit into my “early” maternity duds. These undies were fairly standard cotton bikinis (size large, of course), magenta with yellow and pink polka dots. I guess to Wyley, this color scheme on underwear was the height of elegance. She showed me her Disney princess briefs - also magenta. I wish I could remember a time when I used the word “beautiful” to describe underwear of any kind. What would you have to do to underwear to make an adult say they were “beautiful”? Embroidery? Hand-tatted antique lace? Jewels? I couldn’t tell you.

[Image from: http://www.joeparadox.com/underoos/]

Belly Takeover

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything that doesn’t have to do with high school physics. I don’t know if this lapse in blogging is due to my pregnant brain, the move, or just the fact that every night I go to sleep and dream of physics problems: how to calculate the binding energy of my pillow, the electrical resistance of Scott’s snoring, or the momentum of my alarm clock button. And, of course, everything has 5 answer choices A-E.

Here are some pictures to show you out-of-towners how truly giant I have become. Apparently, the third trimester, which I have just started, is when you really get big. Uh…how is that going to work?

Sassy expectant mothers:

Two-and-a-half generations of women (My mom, me, my sister-in-law, and mother-in-law):

This one is not as obscene as it looks, because my ginormous tum is actually eclipsing the briefs that I am wearing--I swear!

Scott practicing for daddyhood:

Cosmo and a new cat buddy enjoying our back porch:

Pregnancy comes with many inexplicable emotions, such as ‘yelling a lot’:

The Cookie Tells No Lies

So, forget science, forget pre-conceptual voodoo, forget second sense, belly-eye-balling, and maternal instinct…and go eat a fortune cookie, because we’re having a baby girl.

I’m in complete shock, because I was just absolutely CERTAIN we were having a boy. I mean, medical science (though rife with disclaimers) insisted on it. Now, they are going the other way. Don’t get me wrong--I’m pretty psyched to know my baby’s gender, and I don’t really care what it is, but I must admit that I am having trouble wrapping my mind around the girl verdict. I keep trying to paste a new, stereotypical gender onto my previous deeply ingrained vision. This results in a mental image of a real baby boy wearing a pink vinyl mini-mouse-style dress. I know, I’m insane.

Anyway, for those of you who like to look at blurry night-vision-goggle images of the preformed, here are some ultrasound pics:

Is she hitching a ride? Telling us she’s “A-okay”? Or offending us in whatever culture considers the thumbs-up sign taboo? I see this and think, “Awesome! She has at least one opposable thumb and therefore can hold a pencil. Ergo, she’ll be a writer, artist, secretary, pencil salesman, or file clerk. I’m so proud!”

Now folks, this one is a little racy, so if you are easily offended, please avert your eyes. Yep, that is an arrow pointing at her girl parts. Now I finally have the picture that will embarrass her on her first date!

Parenthood, Sigh

Well, today I officially have felt my first painful sacrifice in the name of motherhood. A prominent science magazine in the UK just announced the application deadline for an internship, for which I was the runner-up candidate in January. Back then, when I was NOT pregnant, I could have spent 6 months adventuring in Cambridge, HAD I gotten the job, which I did not. I had accomplished one of those dream interviews for a job, one in which you really hit it off with the would-be manager and you’re joking around and the two of you are thinking how much fun it would be to work together. Anyway, I didn’t get the job, so obviously this imagined amazing rapport was a bit one-sided. However, he really encouraged me to apply for the next one. So here I am, exactly six months later, and the next one has been announced and I freakin’ CAN’T apply for it!!! So painful! (A little side note: a tiny certain someone was actually conceived the day I received the rejection letter--aargh!)

Desperate fantasies abound as I envisage flying my 8-months pregnant pod of a belly overseas to England, where I might squeeze in a month of intense science-editorial training before taking advantage of socialized medicine to give birth to a beautiful, bouncing British citizen and then spend five months breast feeding while completing my internship. And while I’m dreaming up this ridiculous plan, I might as well have Her Majesty the Queen happen upon me and my adorable child and offer to adopt us and shower us with expensive gifts and we never have to work again unless we want to.
The End.

[Image from: http://www.sherlockiana.net/antikvariatet/kataloger/sf-uk.htm]

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

Moving back home is like slipping on your favorite pair of corduroys after unpacking them from summer storage on the first crisp day of autumn. (No, it would have to be something more tropical-feeling than that, because while it hasn’t been hot yet here in Texas, there’s nothing crisp about it.) It’s certainly comfortable, though. I hadn’t realized how alien my life was to me in Boston, when here it feels so natural. We shop at all the same grocery stores, hang out with all the same friends, run all the same errands we used to run, just as if we never left. The dogs are noticeably happier, and our cat is a brand new man, no longer hiding in the bathroom cabinet. He comes out and stirs up trouble just like the old days.

We’ve had rain for two weeks straight. In Boston, incessant rain was always a first-world-tragedy, bringing worries about delayed trains, slim footwear options, flimsy umbrella cursing. But here, rain gives me this odd feeling of relief and delight. I realized it is because here, rain means happy garden. However, I don’t really have a garden yet, so the feeling must be just an old, worn path in my ancient neural forest. The only one of those little thought reflexes I have left from Boston is when I see a quarter. I still want to snatch them up and secret them away greedily. But now, they’re just twenty-five cents, might as well be two dimes and a nickel. I’m no longer desperately hording them, counting them, meting them out with strategic care for laundry loads, vending machines, and bus fair. I could even buy a pack of fresh corn tortillas with them--ah heavenly delight to be back home again, home again.

False Start

Okay, our big fun didn’t really happen today after all. The radiologist informed us that she couldn’t perform whatever it was my Boston doctor requested, and no other Boston-insurance-approved providers in the area are willing to do it without a local physician’s nod. Now I have to get an Austin doctor and then we can get the right kind of test.

Damn.

[Image from: http://www.baltimoresun.com/sports/horseracing/]

Analyzing Data

Clues that my baby is a boy:
* my own personal vibes
* use of male, punk-rock fertility talisman instead of female
* timing of ovulation and intercourse
* a friend who “knows” these things
* three people’s opinion about the shape of my belly
* two ultrasound sessions at two different hospitals
* a former zookeeper’s professional interpretation of the ultrasound images

Clues that my baby is a girl:
* a fortune cookie opened while we asked it about Scott’s parenting abilities had the word “Daughter” printed on one side

Scott insists that it could go either way. I am certain that all *reliable* signs point to boy. I mean, who are you going to trust? A highly skilled ultrasound technician or a cookie?!

Today we find out at our 20-week ultrasound--I’m totally psyched!

[Image from: http://datalib.ed.ac.uk/]

Fresh Loaf

There is nothing like holding a newborn baby! This one, my darling niece, is only two hours old in this picture:

Happy Birthday Raphaella!

Highway

I love a good road trip. Even when it is a hellish 32-hour drive from Boston to Austin, in a luggage-crammed car with stinky-breath dogs panting in your face, it has its charms. It’s not so perverted as flying. Flying requires being strapped into an unnatural, desiccated can that displaces you abruptly, jarringly. Only the views of the miniaturizing ascent and descent that frame the alien cloudscape give clues that you are actually traveling from one place to another. Not so with a road trip.

Ours took us across ten states and more than a dozen Cracker Barrels. The road trip was an evolution of sorts. Over time, the accents got longer, the hair blonder. The roadside flowers went from exotic to familiar (though consistently breathtaking). Over four days, the terrain flattened, the trees grew scrubbier, and the sky got bigger. Road kill morphed from raccoon to possum to armadillo. When we were just an hour from home, we could see a huge, grey storm cloud smearing and flashing over faraway pastures. It made me cry to see a good old-fashioned Texas thunderstorm again.

[Image from: http://www.stormeffects.com/2006_chase_images.htm]

Laundress Gumshoe

I highly recommend a little marital aide that is significantly cheaper than counseling: getting your dirty clothes professionally laundered. (What did you think I was going to say?) In Boston, it hasn’t been much more expensive than the crazy prices in our basement--$4.75 to wash and dry a single load--ouch! The professional wash-and-fold is a bit of a splurge from hauling stuff down the street to the cheaper coin laundromat, but like I said, when only one spouse ends up doing this chore, the household suffers. Anyway, I have gotten way off track…

Scott and I love our local laundress. She is quite chatty and gives out Dum Dum lollipops. When we first started going there, she asked Scott what kind of dogs we had. He looked a little surprised and wondered if she recognized him at the dog park or something. Then, of course, she indicated that it was clear from our hairy pile of laundry that we either have dogs or a much bigger problem. Then, this last week (a year and a half of laundry later), when Scott came to pick up the laundry, she gave him a hearty congratulations. She of course had gotten the first batch of dirty laundry that included my new maternity clothes. What a funny thing to piece together information from clothes. (Paranoid Molly hopes her keen senses did not detect any of our figurative dirty laundry to boot--need to check all the pockets next time.) When I finally stopped by to get our last batch before the move, she had all sorts of advice about stretch marks and sleeping--very useful stuff. And she gave me a lollipop. I will miss her, even though I will soon have my very own washer and dryer!!!

[Image from: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Get_lautrec_1889_the_laundress.jpg]

Parasite Makes Its Move

I finally felt the baby move today. It wasn’t what I was expecting. It actually felt like a very small animal moving inside of me. “Molly, but that is in fact what is going on,” you say. Well yes, but for a month I have been concentrating as hard as I can, trying in vain to feel the little dude. I’ll lie very still and think of nothing but my uterus, maybe even stop breathing for a moment, cursing my vigorous belly pulse for its distracting thump-thump, trying to feel all the “fluttering” and “quickening” and “champagne bubbles” and “just like gas” movements that everyone describes. I’ll think, wait, was that it?! Then I’ll fart or something and realize it was in fact “just like gas.” Alas, four weeks of effort with only flatulent near misses to show for it. But it is finally here!! So, I guess I wasn’t sensitive enough to feel that early butterfly stage. Or, terrible thought, maybe my baby is epileptic or spastic or ADD or violently angry or has some sort of problem that prevents it from doing the cute, subtle moments of early pregnancy. Okay, maybe I’m just a worry wart.

[Image from: http://muertoderisa.typepad.com/muerto_de_risa/quito_experiences/index.html]

Mind Your Own Freakin’ Bidness

Last week, I started to show in an obvious way, in such a way that even polite, nervous people would feel confident asking about my pregnancy without fear of finding out that I was just an unusually tubby-tummed lady or the sad victim of some sort of belly cancer. The first real evidence of this fact took place in the post office today. I was mailing myself a box of things that I knew would be confiscated in the airport. Here’s how the conversation went with the busybody postal worker:

“Hi, I’d like to mail this box.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“Yes, and I’m just beginning to show.”
“You shouldn’t be carrying that.”
“Yeah, I guess not.”
[Postal carrier weighs parcel.]
“See, it weighs 20 pounds. You definitely should NOT be carrying this.”
[Postal carrier gives me stern look to cause shame.]

It’s a good thing she had that scale right there for the purpose of PROVING that I was an incompetent mother-to-be!

[Image from: http://www.racingunion.org/Data/binary/solved-little-mailman-bayberry.jpg]

I Am a Fruit

There is nothing stranger than experiencing a drastic change in the entire purpose of your body. I am no longer an exercising machine. I am no longer a head-turning knockout. I am no longer a career superwoman. I am no longer a world-traveler extraordinaire.

No, I am a pod. I am a vessel. I am an incubatin’ nutrition dispensing system. I am a frightened brain that waits in fear of the hellish, sleep-depriving atrocities of newborn parenthood. I am a rickety frame that will barely support the weight of a growing organism. I am a bag of invisible hormone ducts that squirt and respond, squirt and respond. And, wherever I am, there are two of me.

Supposedly, I can return to all those more glamorous roles in a year or so. (And, then, and only then, we can hold a spirited debate as to whether or not I indeed held any of those titles, but…whatever! For now, please humor me!)

[Image from: http://www.botos.com/weekly/imgp5048ra_800.jpg]

Tummy

The other day, while showering, I was trying to wash my feet and found it to be much more difficult than usual. Once I discovered the culprit--my growing tummy is making it hard to bend over and reach or see anything below my knees--I had a gush of sweet thoughts about my little round orb, which at the time seemed to be one and the same as the baby it contained. In a moment of silliness, no doubt driven by my crazed pregnancy hormones, I gave my belly a loving hug and told it what a pain it was being. I think this is the first time I have ever snuggled myself so affectionately and also spoken to a body part. Don’t worry; I won’t be doing this in public or anything.

Sincronicidades

I had to get a haircut this week because I was looking a little bit shaggy, and it just felt like it couldn’t wait until I moved back to Austin. This didn’t need to be a great haircut and I have pretty much given up on searching for the perfect haircut in Boston--too expensive, too difficult. (It’s not clear that anyone in this town has short hair.) Anyway, I thought I’d gamble and go to the woman who just opened up a salon half a block from our apartment. I went in there, started describing the cut that I wanted and realized that she didn’t speak English very well. I was feeling bold and decided to let her cut my hair even though it was pretty clear she was not comfortable with how short I wanted it--not a good sign. Then, she had a conversation with the other stylist, in Portuguese, not realizing that I could kind of follow what she was saying--something about deciding which one of them should do my hair, even though it was “her first day”--did I get that right? It wasn’t clear which of them was having a first day--was it my stylist? Again, not a good sign. Then she completely doused me during the shampoo. I mean, my entire collar was wet, water went down my chest and into my belly button, and I think she even got water in my ear. More signs pointing to run-the-hell-out-of-the-salon. Anyway, I don’t know why I kept on, but something compelled me to stay.

When she found out that I used to take Portuguese, she was very excited and insisted on making me practice. She pulled in the other stylist and they proceeded to have a conversation about the supermodel Giselle and periodically quizzed me on what I could understand. Then, the subject of her pregnancy came up--she was 5 months along. I told her that I was 4 months along and there was much fussing and showing of ultrasound pictures and comparing of pregnancy guides and condoling about symptoms and guessing about gender. The hilarious part was that it turns out that we have the exact same obstetrician, whom I had chosen randomly off the internet and whom she had gone to on the express recommendation of all of her Brazilian mamma-friends. I hadn’t realized this but my obstetrician is Portuguese and gets a lot of business because of all the Brazilian families that live in my neighborhood. I adore my obstetrician and this just made me love her more. Now I wish I could be around here to have her deliver my baby, and to meet my hairdresser’s baby, and to show off my baby when it is born. How quickly one feels roots plunging down into the ground when pregnant! I mean, I have never really felt like this place is home, and I’m dying to get back to Austin, but suddenly I’m feeling homesick for a life that I never planned to have.

The haircut was decent, turned out to be only $14, and I learned a new word in Portuguese.

[Image from: http://whatidiscover.vox.com/library/posts/tags/%22police+(+band+)%22/]

Meth and Taxes

Big sighs of relief for me and my clueless husband--I finally finished our taxes AND that drat high school drug chapter that I was writing. Both I completed this weekend, but not without much pushing of deadlines and tearing out of hair and gnashing of teeth. What a horrible few days!

The drug chapter involved a lot of discussions/arguments with Scott over our personal views on drug use and the (un)fairness of current drug laws and the (un)importance of drug-law history in America. (It’s hard to put the right amount of sarcasm into typed words.) It seems we completely agree and mostly disagree on the topic depending on which terms you use--the classic semantic argument. (I’ll let you guess who thinks what and how we disagree--not worth explaining because neither of us really use any illegal drugs and have no real plans to...wait, so why do we even bother arguing? Maybe it’s just to distract us from our nasty tax woes.) I did get a lovely, empathetic email from my editor who has two teenage sons who she says she knows that they use drugs but they don’t know that she knows. Great, so now I will have my own child to spy on and fret over and tick off and generally get in his or her business.

I can’t wait to go to the post office tomorrow and wait in a long line of procrastinators like myself to mail off my checks to the Feds and the state of Massachusetts. There is nothing more nightmarish to a Texan than paying state taxes, lemme tell you! But then, Massachusetts at least will protect my rights to buy health insurance for me and my baby…hmm, the jury’s still out over which place is better.

[Image from: http://www.pezcandydispenser.com/human.html]

Dare to Tell It Like It Is

Writing this high school health chapter on drug use is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought. I had this same problem a couple of years ago when I wrote a reproductive health chapter--one in which I was encouraged to write pages and pages about the importance of abstinence, but then they wouldn't let me explain exactly what it was the kids were supposed to be abstaining from. I mean, the editor didn't care that in the previous edition, it wasn't clear exactly how the sperm go into the fallopian tube. The only clear thing was that when that sperm got there, boy was that girl in trouble!

How do you tell kids to be cautious about things that you yourself experimented with at their age? My clients don't want me to write a chapter saying it is okay to try drugs or have sex in a safe, comfortable, risk-free setting. They don't want me to tell the kids how to use good judgment. They want me to empower the kids to say no and abstain from any and all risky and dangerous situations. These are also important skills, but I think they can be applied with caution and still allow for minor drug use and safe teen sexuality. In fact, I feel that your teen years are often the best time to try some of these things in moderation. Now, I don't want my kids to be strung-out junkies or disease ridden perverts before they become legal voters, but I also don't want them to miss out on the fun and the self-defining experiences that they need to become cool and wise adults. Who knows what I'll feel when my own kiddo starts growing up, but for now I'm tortured by the hypocrisy of having to write absolutes about a subject in which there are clearly no absolutes.

[Image from: http://www.bull-bear.de/werbemittel/Hanf-Nudeln_Rasta_Pasta.html]

Oh La La

I've been looking into this applying to college thing some more, and the more I think about it, I'm kind of getting excited about it. Am I crazy? (Or should I say "folle"?) I always did wish I could have finished my French degree, and I was only 6 hours away from doing so. UT has a pretty reasonable readmission policy and I am still a Texas resident...an interesting possibility!

I always do this. The minute I'm through with a major project, instead of reveling in my new-found leisure time, I start scheming to try something more ambitious. Now the scary prospect is, what if I don't get accepted? Dieu merci! It has been a while since I have conjugated anything en francais.

[Image from: http://stores.thehautehound.com/-strse-1319/Black-French-Beret/Detail.bok]

Nice Man Gives Awful News

The nicest man in the world just gave me the worst news I have heard in a long time: Because I am already pregnant, the state of Texas refuses to sell me health insurance at any cost until a month after my baby is born. I could go into the reasons why, but they are complicated, and what it comes down to is insurance companies won't cover me or Scott.

My husband and I are self-employed. We have lovely health insurance in Boston leftover from my student plan. It ends on Sept 1st. My due date is October 8th. Without insurance, it costs about $5,000 to have an epidural and a baby--if nothing goes wrong. If something goes wrong, the reason you get health insurance, the sky is the limit for what it can cost. The insurance companies know this. They don't want any part of it. In Texas, those fun-loving, family-promoting, big-business kiss asses in the state legislature feel they have to protect only people who are employed by larger companies. They don't make laws protecting the self employed.

So, here are my options:

* My Boston student health insurance company kindly extends my coverage past my end date so that I can get emergency services in Texas. (Fingers are crossed that this is possible.)
* We go insurance-free and pray nothing goes wrong.
* One of us gets a job asap and then quits it a month after junior arrives.
* I apply to a cheap college, enroll in classes, and pretend to get a degree.
* We see if there are any self employment groups that have tackled this problem--surely there must be!
* We divorce and I marry someone else who has health insurance and then divorce him and then remarry my true love.
* We take a little trip to Mexico and give birth there.

What kind of butthead would set up this situation?! When they pull this shit on gay people, they say it is to protect the institution of marriage and having babies--what's their lame-ass excuse this time? And, what kind of value system is it that screws over all my friends and me in the name of bigotry and corporate greed? Do I really want to move to this state?

[Image from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Gustave_Dore_Inferno34.jpg]

Please Get My Good Side

The ultrasound was a success! And by success, I mean that the baby has two arms, two legs, an assortment of digits, a healthy heartbeat, and only one head. (I’ve been worried about two-headed babies lately and am relieved I don’t have to make any ethical decisions regarding the quality of life of conjoined offspring.) For those of you hungry for data: below are the blobby printouts. They really don’t do junior justice, so don’t worry, you can save the polite comments for when you meet the little meatloaf in person. Right now, he is about 4 cm from crown to rump, and he kicks and twists and flails his arms and does all sorts of crazy acrobatics. We are thinking of naming him Twitchy McSquirmison. Oh yeah, and he’s maybe a boy, but no one was willing to say that officially, so don’t get your heart set on it.

Full-length portrait:

Arm (with fingers!) reaching out:

Profile of face with giant nose:

Ultrasuspense

So tomorrow is the day we go for the ultrasound. This means we get assessment of any possibility of mental retardation or deformities, confirmation we’re not having twins (not really a concern, but the seal of approval is nice), potentially a sneak peak of gender, and--the real kicker--concrete evidence that we are in fact pregnant. This afternoon, I tried to convince Scott that I made the whole thing up. He had a lot of trouble coming up with concrete evidence to support his fantasy that I am in fact pregnant. Missed periods, crazy emotional meltdowns, minor tummy pooch, and tale of a heartbeat--all hearsay, and I doubt any of it would have held up in a court of law. Tomorrow’s appointment will give him the data he needs. I can’t wait!

[Image from: http://web.archive.org/web/20060129173242/http:/www.armamentarium.net/SitoNuovo/1-+Museo+Modena.htm]

Craving Raving

Wow, I had my first case of what I think must be pregnancy craving--and it was tangled up in a quagmire of miss-crankipants-tantrumming, so it was a little hard to spot. It was quite embarrassing actually, and thank goodness Scott figured it out in time before I crossed a line. Okay, maybe I did cross a line, but fortunately for our unborn child he’ll forgive me and not leave us for a sweeter woman. Anyway, I won’t incriminate myself with the details of the tantrum part.

After a good 20 minutes of aimless shopping at the grocery store, I suddenly decided I wanted a salad, but only because it would be the perfect vehicle for ****light Italian salad dressing****[fade in light coming from heaven and angels singing music]. I spent a good six minutes (possibly more because Scott, who was actually working to provide for us, had time to go down two and half grocery aisles in the time it took me) picking out the perfect one. I went with Newman’s Own. This stuff isn’t bad, but it’s not nearly as nice as the stuff I make myself with fancy vinegar and gourmet mustard and fresh garlic, etc, but no, that crap wouldn’t do! I was like a robot or a zombie or someone possessed. I didn’t even realize how crazy I was acting until a mile walk from the store. Once I figured out what a troll I had been, I apologized profusely.

Wow, those hormones are some powerful stuff! I’ve had about five salads drenched in the weak Ital-lite in the last three days. I think there is only one serving left in the bottle. I’m not sure I’m over it.

[Image from: http://web.archive.org/web/20060129173242/http:/www.armamentarium.net/SitoNuovo/1-+Museo+Modena.htm]

Little Critter’s Pitter Patter

[Note: If you are a friend of mine and this is the first time you have heard that I am pregnant, please forgive me and then contact me. I didn’t mean to leave you out of the loop!]

I heard the heart beat of my baby today. It changed everything for me. Not only did that sound provide the first real evidence that I am pregnant, but it also felt like the first time I connected with the little guy. The first three months seem so theoretical. All the signs of pregnancy (except for the cheesy pregnancy test--who trusts those anyway?) are pretty much just exaggerated versions of PMS. You start to think, “Maybe I made the whole thing up.” I kept waking up at night feeling really embarrassed, thinking, ohmygosh, I’m going to have to tell people that I have been faking it. But no longer!! At least one other person besides myself (and Scott)--a health care professional--agrees: I’m definitely pregnant and, whatever it is, it is definitely alive.

I wish that I had been able to record the little galloping sound of its baby bird pulse. Sadly, the obstetrician greased up my belly and whipped out the Doppler device before I had a chance to grab my recorder. And, it is difficult to ask someone to stop what they are doing when you are mostly naked on an examination table. Scott said I am a terrible journalist for this misstep, hee, hee. Well, he’s right--when it comes to command performance reporting while wearing a hospital gown, I am no Ira Glass.

[Image from: http://www.wprc.org/trimester1.phtml]

Trip-Tech

I try to be as honest as possible when it comes to my professional reporting, but I had to write a story in which for tact/professional/fear-o’-the-law reasons I had to omit a certain truth. For the podcast I work for, I just did an audio piece on a trippy little device, a walkman that takes environmental sound and in real-time converts it into synthesized modern music that it pumps into your headphones. Even just on the surface this is pretty cool in that everyday street noise (like squealing subways, monotonous ATM beeping, loud motors, construction racket, and annoying teenage passersby) sound like enchanting trance music. BUT, there is an entire other dimension to this invention. Because it is live, because as you see the giant semi-truck pass by, as you feel the rushing wind of the subway train, as your nose and fingers tickle from the vibration of the jackhammer, you are expecting to hear something else. Instead, you hear this lovely music. And, it’s interactive because if you laugh or say “oh my” it gets incorporated into the sound track rhythmically.

“So what’s the problem?” you ask. “What do you have to lie about in your reporting?” Here’s the problem: The overall effect is EXACTLY like an LSD trip. I mean, there is no other equivalent that I have ever come across. Except for the visual hallucinations and the overall desire to touch things, the entire afternoon I spent on this piece felt just like I was on acid. Even after the interview, I had that post-trip haziness in which you know you are back in the real world, but the psychoactive world still buzzes in your memory. And, just as acid changes your perception of the world for the rest of your life, so did this crazy little walkman. But, how do you write about that? How do you refer to an acid trip and still make this family-friendly journalism? I couldn’t figure it out, so I just lied (by omission).

PS. To further damn myself to the hypocrite’s circle of hell, I am about to write a chapter on illegal drugs for a high school health book. Never trust what your teacher’s tell you!

[Image from: http://static.flickr.com/103/261556151_1625a140e6_m.jpg]

Scampoo

The airport security guard took my shampoo. Not just any shampoo, the shampoo I got from the fancy hotel in Dallas, where we stayed for Pete’s funeral. It came in generous 4.2 oz bottles. Elinor, Amy, and I managed to sweet talk housekeeping into giving us six sets of the shampoo and conditioner--coconut flavored, Kiehl’s brand, exclusive to Bloomingdales, and NOT cheap. The method of acquiring it added yet another dimension to its already luxurious appeal. I just feel a certain kinship with my friends when I use it. It even reminds me of Pete, who probably never even spent a full minute thinking about toiletries when he was alive, but whatever, it reminds me of that weekend. Just by association, this shampoo makes me think about enjoying and celebrating life.

And, it’s not hard to make that leap. This stuff is so delicious smelling. When I use this shampoo, I turn into one of those shower ladies in television ads, who massage their scalp with orgasmic sighs. Afterwards, I pat my hair gently with a fluffy towel and then I spend the rest of the day feeling pretty and trying in vain to smell my own hair.

I’ve been hording these bottles since October, because they are travel size and I don’t want to share them with Scott who just won’t enjoy them enough to merit that kind of generosity. He’ll squirt out way too much. He’ll waste my treasure. This shampoo brings out the most selfish little 10-year-old in me. I save it for trips, not only because of its convenient size, but because it makes me look forward to traveling. Using all those strange bathrooms that are void of all my special comforts is not so bad when I have my favorite shampoo.

That’s why, last night I probably spent a half an hour trying to find a way to get this shampoo into an airport-security-approved container. I even looked up the guidelines on the internet. No, I wouldn’t jettison a single ounce of the yummy, matching bath gel that comes in a 2.6 ounce bottle, but I would carefully transfer 2 ounces of the precious unction into a 2.2 ounce nail-polish-remover bottle. This was Scott’s brilliant idea (perhaps I shouldn’t be so stingy with the stuff). I fell asleep soundly knowing I was bringing just enough shampoo to keep my hair looking sleek and shiny all weekend.

Alas, you already know the end of this tale of woe. You probably knew the rule that your three ounces of shampoo had to come in a properly labeled container. Those stingy shampoo-stealing monsters.

[Image from: http://www.kiehls.com/]

Millionvoyaire

I think I saw someone win a million dollars tonight. I say I think, because it wasn't like when you see it happen on TV. There was no gasping or screaming or fainting, no slapping of foreheads, no hearty congratulations, no laughter, or praising of the lord, or even stunned looks. It was mostly mild confusion, like a transaction between two non-English speakers whose only common tongue is a patchwork of different types of broken English.

I walked into the corner store just down the street to get some snacks and this customer was having a serious tete-a-tete with the clerk concerning a scratch-off lotto ticket. They both looked up when I came in like I had caught them, but with more of an open countenance, like it would be okay if I asked what they were up to. I shopped and eaves dropped and heard them discussing the numbers and reading instructions and exchanging interpretations.

When I finally got up to the counter, the guy took off, but said "I definitely won." The clerk was kind of dazed and had trouble ringing up my items. I asked him if the guy really won like he said. The clerk said yes, but he still seemed too out of it to be credible. In the middle of our transaction, he perked up and then checked the back of one of the same cards as the winning one, one that was still on the dispenser. Then, he turned to me and said, "A million dollars is a lot of money."

As I left the store, I realized that he hadn't rung up my gum. Score! Free gum! A little touch o' that windfall leaking onto me.

[Image from: http://www.tinypineapple.com/bookshelf/]