Well, Baby,
Your first Christmas officially ended yesterday, and while I suspect I was the bud of several jokes for declaring this your first Christmas, you were as present as everyone else (even moreso than your great uncle who was tanked, per usual). Our celebration started at Grandma J's on Christmas Eve. Your Uncle J bought a new camera - very, very nice - so we have a bunch of pictures of your cousins opening their packages. He put the SD card into Grandma J's TV, and we were able to watch a slideshow of the carnage. Next, we went to my Aunt's house. My Grandma decided to spend the holiday in Florida, but my cousins and their spouses were in town, and their big, ridiculous Rottweiler provided the evening's entertainment.
Christmas morning came very early. We volunteered to walk dogs at the animal rescue, along with Grandpa and Grandma B. It was bitter cold, so we were very lucky that a bunch of other volunteers showed up as well. Next, we packed up and went to Grandma B's to open our presents. You received a blanket called a "taggie" from their Massachusettes friends which you are supposed to love because you can play with all of the tags sewn along the edges. Whatever. Then, we hosted dinner - Honey-baked ham at your father's request. Grandma J and the B's came over, and by 7PM, I was shot. Your Grandmothers thoroughly wear me out. We crashed, but your dad had enough energy left to visit with friends from Chicago, and you received even more good loot. Not bad for a fetus, huh?
Yesterday was dinner (sorta) and presents at Grandpa R and K's house. Since he and Grandma J divorced, our holidays have become marathons (not that you will mind as you will be receiving presents at every stop). R&K bought me a bunch of maternity stuff and not a day too soon; according to the websites, you will double in size in the next two weeks. Go, Baby X! Your father got some car stuff, and your cousins were crazy happy once again. Your Aunt H received the Cadillac of food processors because she's making her own pasta right now (among other things); it's just that she is not a very good cook (yet) and I'm suspecting the Kitchen Aid may giver her a false sense of her culinary skills. Me? I'm Cuisinart for what it's worth.
For all of our faults, I realized a wonderful thing: every person we saw already loves you. A bunch. Just wait until next year . . .
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
beautiful fool
Which would you rather have: a really smart kid or a really beautiful kid? For myself, I have always admired intelligence and the discipline to apply it. I am attracted to the quirky perspectives most of the uber-smarties I know exhibit, and I love to watch a quick mind at work no matter what the task: a witty retort; a mechanical solution; an esoteric quote from a movie. So, I always thought I wanted the smart kid, so much so that I actually noticed a strong tide of envy roll over me as I was reading recently about a friend's child, a kindergartner reading at college level (seriously), and the problems associated with placing the child on the accelerated track at school or leaving her on standard track and providing "extra stimulation" outside of class. Great problems to have, right? Let me also say that for this particular child, brains v. looks is not an issue: she's gorgeous, too.
And, of course, who wouldn't want both?
But, I now think that my job as a parent isn't to simply want the kid to be the best at everything. No doubt, it would be great for bragging purposes, and it would feel pretty good to say that my kindergartner reads AND does math at a college level - but what of it? As I look back, most of the "brainy" kids from school were stereotyped as such and tried like hell to fit in with the standard track kids until too many failed attempts drove them into wearing their eccentricities like mantles. And not without a healthy dose of condescension.
Still, the beautiful people were tough, if not impossible, to admire. They were also condescending, or stupid, depending upon whose favor they were cultivating. I reasoned that I should not admire them because they had not earned their good looks, but that just makes me a hypocrite. People are born smart, and I admire them. People are born atheletic, and I admire them. People are born musicians, and I admire them. People are born beautiful, and I scorn them. Why? Why, indeed.
Because it really matters what you do with your stuff. If you are beautiful, are you using your looks to manipulate people and situations? If you are smart, are you baiting traps for unsuspecting folks? Hacking into private computers? Devising ponzy schemes? I have rarely seen smart people bahaving badly whereas beautiful people always seem to be working an angle based upon their looks.
I think that rather than want for the smartest or the prettiest kid in the room, I will want for the most reasonable: reasonably intelligent; reasonably attractive. As a parent, I, too, must be reasonable when I emphasize or de-emphasize the value of each. Fast-tracking kids puts a tremendous pressure on them to excel, and this ties their worth up in their accomplishments. Focusing on appearances indicates conditional acceptance (you're worthy because you're beautiful) and might just encourage the kid to take a pass on trying to accomplish anything beyond looking good. Daisy's famous quote from The Great Gatsby springs to mind : "I hope she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool... " If I have a beautiful child, she's forbidden from watching that scene. But, that's unreasonable, isn't it?
No wonder expecting parents always say they just want for a healthy baby - beyond that, it's a real quagmire.
And, of course, who wouldn't want both?
But, I now think that my job as a parent isn't to simply want the kid to be the best at everything. No doubt, it would be great for bragging purposes, and it would feel pretty good to say that my kindergartner reads AND does math at a college level - but what of it? As I look back, most of the "brainy" kids from school were stereotyped as such and tried like hell to fit in with the standard track kids until too many failed attempts drove them into wearing their eccentricities like mantles. And not without a healthy dose of condescension.
Still, the beautiful people were tough, if not impossible, to admire. They were also condescending, or stupid, depending upon whose favor they were cultivating. I reasoned that I should not admire them because they had not earned their good looks, but that just makes me a hypocrite. People are born smart, and I admire them. People are born atheletic, and I admire them. People are born musicians, and I admire them. People are born beautiful, and I scorn them. Why? Why, indeed.
Because it really matters what you do with your stuff. If you are beautiful, are you using your looks to manipulate people and situations? If you are smart, are you baiting traps for unsuspecting folks? Hacking into private computers? Devising ponzy schemes? I have rarely seen smart people bahaving badly whereas beautiful people always seem to be working an angle based upon their looks.
I think that rather than want for the smartest or the prettiest kid in the room, I will want for the most reasonable: reasonably intelligent; reasonably attractive. As a parent, I, too, must be reasonable when I emphasize or de-emphasize the value of each. Fast-tracking kids puts a tremendous pressure on them to excel, and this ties their worth up in their accomplishments. Focusing on appearances indicates conditional acceptance (you're worthy because you're beautiful) and might just encourage the kid to take a pass on trying to accomplish anything beyond looking good. Daisy's famous quote from The Great Gatsby springs to mind : "I hope she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool... " If I have a beautiful child, she's forbidden from watching that scene. But, that's unreasonable, isn't it?
No wonder expecting parents always say they just want for a healthy baby - beyond that, it's a real quagmire.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
what would depeche mode do?
Through marriage, I own about 40 Depeche Mode CDs (probably more, but I don't keep up with Mr. R's ipod downloads), and through this collection, I received my education on re-mixes. I remember falling in love with Music for the Masses when Mr. R and I started dating. It was one of the CDs he left in his changer, so I heard it often, and I went and bought myself a copy so I could listen to it even more. Then one day, I'm in his car, and we're listening to music, and it sounds like Music for the Masses, only it's not. But, it's definately DM. But, I know Strangelove doesn't do that dip in the middle, and while I admit it's not my favorite song, I've listened to it enough to know that this ain't it. But it kinda is. So there is my problem. I'm trying to impress this hot, younger, alternative guy in his alternative car with his alternative music, but now I need to ask a really lame-ass question about a band I'm supposed to know something about. So, what I did was this: "Where's the case for this disc?" Success was mine because not only did he have the case, he told me all about how this was an import and generally difficult to track down (and always twice as expensive but Mr. R doesn't care about cost where DM remixes are involved). And so it began.
But, here's the bigger question: Why would a band take a perfectly good song and rework it, again and again and again? Or, maybe it happens the other way. Maybe when they originally "lay it down" (oh, yeah), they record it as it evolves and then drop all the versions at the feet of their producers and say, "pick one." Or, maybe they get bored with their stuff after playing it so many times (Black Celebration? 6000 times if they've played it once) that they go a bit crazy and rework it until it becomes a caricature of its former self.
Well I could go on in this vein all day, but the important things, to me, are that the version of the song I hear is not the only one available. The possibilities to change it are nearly infinite. What's more, the one I'm hearing might not even be the best version, and it's really cool to think that even after creating a mainstream hit, a band could still believe they could build a better version. Also, remixes are the antithesis of ruts. For example, if Depeche Mode was obsessed about gaining weight, they wouldn't write just one song or - worse - a whole damn albumn about it. Out of respect for their craft and, perhaps, even their listeners, they would f*ck with it six ways from Sunday, produce about 4 distinct versions, and actually create some anticipation and excitement for their audience.
So, unless I can find a way to turn my current obsession into a remix, I'm not playing it again. That's what Depeche Mode would do.
But, here's the bigger question: Why would a band take a perfectly good song and rework it, again and again and again? Or, maybe it happens the other way. Maybe when they originally "lay it down" (oh, yeah), they record it as it evolves and then drop all the versions at the feet of their producers and say, "pick one." Or, maybe they get bored with their stuff after playing it so many times (Black Celebration? 6000 times if they've played it once) that they go a bit crazy and rework it until it becomes a caricature of its former self.
Well I could go on in this vein all day, but the important things, to me, are that the version of the song I hear is not the only one available. The possibilities to change it are nearly infinite. What's more, the one I'm hearing might not even be the best version, and it's really cool to think that even after creating a mainstream hit, a band could still believe they could build a better version. Also, remixes are the antithesis of ruts. For example, if Depeche Mode was obsessed about gaining weight, they wouldn't write just one song or - worse - a whole damn albumn about it. Out of respect for their craft and, perhaps, even their listeners, they would f*ck with it six ways from Sunday, produce about 4 distinct versions, and actually create some anticipation and excitement for their audience.
So, unless I can find a way to turn my current obsession into a remix, I'm not playing it again. That's what Depeche Mode would do.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
confession
Maybe I should label this, "The First Confession," as "confession" seems like a useful title for all kinds of posts. I also think a title like that is my subconscious way of providing an honesty check because the temptation to self-glorify is so strong in this medium. In the week since my last post, I was not out doing charity work, I was not reading stories to sick children or doing anything to make my community a better place. I wasn't even doing anything like the yoga I wrote about earlier to improve myself. Sadly, I've mainly just been watching TV. But not just any old TV, such as our former 32-inch, standard definition model. No. Christmas came a bit early for Mr. R and myself. Last Sunday, we bought a 50-inch, HiDef Plasma, and let me tell you that baby rocks.
We've been haggling over the new TV purchase for months, me trying to modest (read cheap) and prevent Mr. R from going over the top, as he usually does on technology purchases, and keep us to a $1000 budget. But Mr. R, being Mr. R, was set on going big. Well, cudos to him because he spent a goodly portion of last Sunday on Craig's List, and he found a 50-incher for $700! Love that man! So, he drove all the way to Euclid, in a snow storm, to fetch it, and it was NIB. Curious, right? The guy swears he bought it from a department store liquidating inventory, but you have to wonder. I checked the bill of sale, just to be sure Mr. R was being straight with me, and I haven't thought about it since.
The picture is so good, although you have to spring for an HD connection from the cable company to really get the benefits, that it almost hurts my eyes. I have this 10-DVD series called Planet Earth, and the photography is incredible! On the new TV, it almost makes me want to cry.
Well, enough with the TV. (But, as far as gifts go, it was also really good for my ego as Mr. R customarily showers me in beautiful clothes that I forbade him from buying this year given my "transitory" shape.) And, the pregnancy is pretty good this week. I've gained 6 pounds since my last visit, which is two too many, but the nurse says I'm still in good shape as I started the journey a bit light in the weight department. It's driving me crazy, though, because I'm trying hard to stay on the pound-per-week plan. No ultrasound at Tuesday's appointment because the doctor was away on a family emergency, but my mom was able to hear the heartbeat, and she volunteered to accompany me on my next visit, with the specialist, where we will learn the sex of the baby. Hopefully, Mr. R will be able to make that one. It just doesn't seem right for my mom to know that before him, but I'm grateful to anyone willing to join me on the trip to Beechwood during rush hour.
And, finally, in a year of evictions and layoffs, Mr. R received a 3% bump, effective immediately. That, combined with the passage of my library's levy, gives us so much for which to be thankful. He works his ass off, but so do many of the folks losing their jobs right now. I don't understand why so much goodness keeps flowing our way . . . I'm just so grateful, more that at any other time in my life.
Thank you, God, for our 50-inch plasma :-)
We've been haggling over the new TV purchase for months, me trying to modest (read cheap) and prevent Mr. R from going over the top, as he usually does on technology purchases, and keep us to a $1000 budget. But Mr. R, being Mr. R, was set on going big. Well, cudos to him because he spent a goodly portion of last Sunday on Craig's List, and he found a 50-incher for $700! Love that man! So, he drove all the way to Euclid, in a snow storm, to fetch it, and it was NIB. Curious, right? The guy swears he bought it from a department store liquidating inventory, but you have to wonder. I checked the bill of sale, just to be sure Mr. R was being straight with me, and I haven't thought about it since.
The picture is so good, although you have to spring for an HD connection from the cable company to really get the benefits, that it almost hurts my eyes. I have this 10-DVD series called Planet Earth, and the photography is incredible! On the new TV, it almost makes me want to cry.
Well, enough with the TV. (But, as far as gifts go, it was also really good for my ego as Mr. R customarily showers me in beautiful clothes that I forbade him from buying this year given my "transitory" shape.) And, the pregnancy is pretty good this week. I've gained 6 pounds since my last visit, which is two too many, but the nurse says I'm still in good shape as I started the journey a bit light in the weight department. It's driving me crazy, though, because I'm trying hard to stay on the pound-per-week plan. No ultrasound at Tuesday's appointment because the doctor was away on a family emergency, but my mom was able to hear the heartbeat, and she volunteered to accompany me on my next visit, with the specialist, where we will learn the sex of the baby. Hopefully, Mr. R will be able to make that one. It just doesn't seem right for my mom to know that before him, but I'm grateful to anyone willing to join me on the trip to Beechwood during rush hour.
And, finally, in a year of evictions and layoffs, Mr. R received a 3% bump, effective immediately. That, combined with the passage of my library's levy, gives us so much for which to be thankful. He works his ass off, but so do many of the folks losing their jobs right now. I don't understand why so much goodness keeps flowing our way . . . I'm just so grateful, more that at any other time in my life.
Thank you, God, for our 50-inch plasma :-)
Saturday, December 6, 2008
loser
Well, I lost my bid on the breast pump, but that's actually not the worst of it. I made a huge rookie mistake and submitted a bid on a pump that wasn't what I wanted, which - of course - I won. So now I am waiting for my inferior, Petite Playtex pump to arrive, and the only consolation is that even with shipping, I paid less than retail. Mr. R says no problem; we can re list it and try to recoup the loss. Love that Mr. R.
I also made my first foray into Babies-R-Us yesterday, and it really put me in a funk. I quit going to baby showers about two years ago, sending regrets and Target or B-R-U online gift cards instead. Well, in my absence, Babies added a photography studio, among other things. As soon as we walked in, we were hit with adults acting like idiots to make their children smile and kids dressed up way nicer than nature intended looking on the verge of meltdowns. Of course, I had forgotten about studio pictures. And thus it seemed with every isle of merchandise came a fresh realization of some aspect of parenthood I had overlooked. I spent $60 on some cloth diapers, plastic pants, and a changing table mattress. I never located diaper pins and diaper pails which, to me, is some really bad product placement (given my profession's calling to help customers discover tangential interests and/or necessities simply by co-locating like items, when retailers drop the ball, I cut them no slack).
But the $60 was nothing compared to the big, blaring, "YOU ARE INADEQUATE" blanket that dropped on my head as I left and stuck to me for the rest of the day. From there, we stopped at one more store where I actually had to break into a bag of pretzels, in the car, because I couldn't make the 10 minute journey to my home. Oh! And, guess who thought she would only gain weight in/around her growing baby? That would be me, and that is not even close to what's really happening to my body. Add to "YOU ARE INADEQUATE," "YOU ARE GAINING TOO MUCH WEIGHT WHICH EVEN MAKES YOU AN INADEQUATE PREGNANT PERSON." My next doctor's appointment is Tuesday, so I will be able to ask the expert if I'm totally blowing it. I should also get to see another ultrasound, and not a moment too soon: I need to see some evidence of this living miracle to buttress my sagging confidence and to encourage me through this rough spot. Then maybe I will resume bidding on pumps.
I also made my first foray into Babies-R-Us yesterday, and it really put me in a funk. I quit going to baby showers about two years ago, sending regrets and Target or B-R-U online gift cards instead. Well, in my absence, Babies added a photography studio, among other things. As soon as we walked in, we were hit with adults acting like idiots to make their children smile and kids dressed up way nicer than nature intended looking on the verge of meltdowns. Of course, I had forgotten about studio pictures. And thus it seemed with every isle of merchandise came a fresh realization of some aspect of parenthood I had overlooked. I spent $60 on some cloth diapers, plastic pants, and a changing table mattress. I never located diaper pins and diaper pails which, to me, is some really bad product placement (given my profession's calling to help customers discover tangential interests and/or necessities simply by co-locating like items, when retailers drop the ball, I cut them no slack).
But the $60 was nothing compared to the big, blaring, "YOU ARE INADEQUATE" blanket that dropped on my head as I left and stuck to me for the rest of the day. From there, we stopped at one more store where I actually had to break into a bag of pretzels, in the car, because I couldn't make the 10 minute journey to my home. Oh! And, guess who thought she would only gain weight in/around her growing baby? That would be me, and that is not even close to what's really happening to my body. Add to "YOU ARE INADEQUATE," "YOU ARE GAINING TOO MUCH WEIGHT WHICH EVEN MAKES YOU AN INADEQUATE PREGNANT PERSON." My next doctor's appointment is Tuesday, so I will be able to ask the expert if I'm totally blowing it. I should also get to see another ultrasound, and not a moment too soon: I need to see some evidence of this living miracle to buttress my sagging confidence and to encourage me through this rough spot. Then maybe I will resume bidding on pumps.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Babyface
Lately, I keep noticing something: babies are really, really cute. Being infertile, I guess I just became impervious to the munchkins.
Uhem, I , ah, did it on purpose. I ignored them because who wants to be the fox always jumping for the grapes and never tasting them? Better to just assume they're sour and walk away.
But, I swear I haven't seen an ugly baby in weeks! Maybe it's a cosmic cycle. It could happen.
In other news, I placed my first Ebay bid, and I am currently checking my item like a purebred gambling junkie. Already, I am dreading the next 1 day, 18 hours because it is going to be full of me obsessing about my item, checking, bidding, obsessing, etc. I am bidding on a breast pump (NIB, so quit judging me!). Check it out - http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=160301607469&ru=http%3A%2F%2Fshop.ebay.com%3A80%2F%3F_from%3DR40%26_trksid%3Dm38%26_nkw%3D160301607469%26_sacat%3DSee-All-Categories%26_fvi%3D1. In case that link doesn't work, it's the new Playtex EMBRACE double electric and petite pump, and it's currently at $60, which is the bargain of a lifetime. I started looking at pumps yesterday, and I liked this model which retails for about $160 and doesn't come with the petite pump which I've heard is the bomb. It's surprising difficult to write while toggling back to Ebay, so lets wrap this one up early. Wish me luck :-)
Uhem, I , ah, did it on purpose. I ignored them because who wants to be the fox always jumping for the grapes and never tasting them? Better to just assume they're sour and walk away.
But, I swear I haven't seen an ugly baby in weeks! Maybe it's a cosmic cycle. It could happen.
In other news, I placed my first Ebay bid, and I am currently checking my item like a purebred gambling junkie. Already, I am dreading the next 1 day, 18 hours because it is going to be full of me obsessing about my item, checking, bidding, obsessing, etc. I am bidding on a breast pump (NIB, so quit judging me!). Check it out - http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=160301607469&ru=http%3A%2F%2Fshop.ebay.com%3A80%2F%3F_from%3DR40%26_trksid%3Dm38%26_nkw%3D160301607469%26_sacat%3DSee-All-Categories%26_fvi%3D1. In case that link doesn't work, it's the new Playtex EMBRACE double electric and petite pump, and it's currently at $60, which is the bargain of a lifetime. I started looking at pumps yesterday, and I liked this model which retails for about $160 and doesn't come with the petite pump which I've heard is the bomb. It's surprising difficult to write while toggling back to Ebay, so lets wrap this one up early. Wish me luck :-)
Sunday, November 30, 2008
siblings, schmiblings
Everyone seems to feel sorry for me because I am an only child, but as I observe brothers and sisters and their complex-usually-caustic relationships, I can only say, "WTF?" My mother hasn't talked to her sister for nearly two years, and this is the calmist period that relationship has ever seen. My father thinks very little of his brother for various reasons, the most likely being they are separated by 14 years and never had much common ground. Also, his parents have always given more (of everything) to his brother, but more on that later. My best friend has a rocky relationship with her sister, and a steady, solid one with her brother. I don't think for a minute she and I have a better relationship than she and her sister; I've observed too many siblings to believe that just because I generally treat her with more love and respect than her sister does that it translates into her liking me better. And, my husband's siblings? Well, lets just say that clusterf/// is the impetus for today's post.
Mr. R is the oldest of three, and if I may generalize about birth order, the older kid mostly gets screwed. Because they are first, the parents are the strictist with the rules which gradually loosen because it's all a parent can do to dress and feed 3 little psychos without having to spend every other minute of every day enforcing rules. The older kid also gets the most household responsibilities. We only think we've moved far away from the days when kids were put directly to work on the family farm, and if parents miss the opportunity to put the oldest on the chore-train, that's their loss. They are expected to grow up a bit faster ("that's not for big kids," "you need to share that toy because you know better," "act your age"). From a kid's perspective, the inequities start as soon as the second kid is born. As they grow up, sure, they can rationalize through it, but it doesn't change the fact that the one who had everything now has to share with a creature who is needier simply by being younger. The only way for the eldest to survive, emotionally, is to grow more independent, and by growing more independent, they cut themselves off from future "fair" treatment with respect to the sibs. Mr. R is much cooler about this than I am, probably because he's had his lifetime to figure out how to cope with it. In fact, his parents actually use his independence as a way to justify their unfairness. They think because Mr. R doesn't "need" anything that it makes it okay to give more (lots, lots more) to the two who are very willing to state their neediness to good ole mom and dad.
But, sometimes he exposes that old wound to me (unfortunately, it just makes me resent his family even more.) Honestly, Mr. R is a go-along, get-along guy, but when he orders the toppings on his pizza, he is absolutely inflexible. Why? Because growing up, he never got to pick the topping for the family's pizzas. Worse, he was allowed to state what he wanted (I mean, they're fair parents, right?), he just never "won" the topping vote because his brother was a whiny little bitch and either wouldn't eat a pizza not of his choice or simply threw his ass until giving him his options was the easiest way to shut him up. Mr. R. didn't try to compete in the bitch fit arena; he simply learned to eat the pizzas his brother chose. And, for his willingness to compromise, he has been rewarded with a lifetime of inequity.
I'm not going to delineate those inequities here. Suffice to say I don't believe I am doing my child a disservice by bringing him or her up as an only child. Mr. R, with siblings, and I, without, both try to honor our friendships (the enduring ones) as we would a sibling relationship. Better, actually.
Mr. R is the oldest of three, and if I may generalize about birth order, the older kid mostly gets screwed. Because they are first, the parents are the strictist with the rules which gradually loosen because it's all a parent can do to dress and feed 3 little psychos without having to spend every other minute of every day enforcing rules. The older kid also gets the most household responsibilities. We only think we've moved far away from the days when kids were put directly to work on the family farm, and if parents miss the opportunity to put the oldest on the chore-train, that's their loss. They are expected to grow up a bit faster ("that's not for big kids," "you need to share that toy because you know better," "act your age"). From a kid's perspective, the inequities start as soon as the second kid is born. As they grow up, sure, they can rationalize through it, but it doesn't change the fact that the one who had everything now has to share with a creature who is needier simply by being younger. The only way for the eldest to survive, emotionally, is to grow more independent, and by growing more independent, they cut themselves off from future "fair" treatment with respect to the sibs. Mr. R is much cooler about this than I am, probably because he's had his lifetime to figure out how to cope with it. In fact, his parents actually use his independence as a way to justify their unfairness. They think because Mr. R doesn't "need" anything that it makes it okay to give more (lots, lots more) to the two who are very willing to state their neediness to good ole mom and dad.
But, sometimes he exposes that old wound to me (unfortunately, it just makes me resent his family even more.) Honestly, Mr. R is a go-along, get-along guy, but when he orders the toppings on his pizza, he is absolutely inflexible. Why? Because growing up, he never got to pick the topping for the family's pizzas. Worse, he was allowed to state what he wanted (I mean, they're fair parents, right?), he just never "won" the topping vote because his brother was a whiny little bitch and either wouldn't eat a pizza not of his choice or simply threw his ass until giving him his options was the easiest way to shut him up. Mr. R. didn't try to compete in the bitch fit arena; he simply learned to eat the pizzas his brother chose. And, for his willingness to compromise, he has been rewarded with a lifetime of inequity.
I'm not going to delineate those inequities here. Suffice to say I don't believe I am doing my child a disservice by bringing him or her up as an only child. Mr. R, with siblings, and I, without, both try to honor our friendships (the enduring ones) as we would a sibling relationship. Better, actually.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
speaking from experience
If I read every book ever written on pregnancy and parenting, it wouldn't come close to providing the education I received spending time with two friends - new parents of twins - who know what the hell they are talking about. To this point, my thinking on the whole birthing thing was that when the pain started or the due date arrived, I would promptly go to the hospital and cajole my way into a C-section or an epidural. I have no desire to experience childbirth; in fact, the whole thought to me is gruesome, painful, brutish, and frankly embarassing. Laying on my back, spread eagle and grunting, is not something I relish. But, I have started reading every book ever written on parenting, and even before last night, I was beginning to suspect my thinking was flawed. My friend's delivery was evil, no other way to say it. She went in and was induced, "to speed things along." Sounds like a great idea, except that it speeded nothing along! She labored, unproductively, for 24 hours. She couldn't drink or eat, she couldn't sleep, and her husband was in the same boat. Finally, her caregivers offered her the C-sec, which of course she took, given the circumstances. The procedure was probably typical, but she lost way too much blood, and her cervix wouldn't contract because of the 24-hours of Pitocin coursing through her tiny body.
So. There's one story. I talked with two other friends last week, and their stories were also illuminating. One actually knew her labor was starting, but rather than go into the hospital, she went to work, said she needed something to distract her mind from the discomfort. She worked all day, went in, and delivered a healthy baby without much drama. The second chose home birth for two of her three, saying the first delivery (a C-section) was so bad she didn't want to chance repeating the ordeal. she also said sleep deprivation was worse than labor. She also said that while labor is bad, it is not more than one can handle.
Given all this, I'm thinking it is time to change my game plan. As always, my first reactions are informed by fear. On second blush, I'm pretty tough, and I'm still in great shape (this, assuming I don't completely pork out/veg out during the next six months), and I should be able to get myself through the initial throws of labor at home. It's going to take a fair amount of training on my part - mentally and physically. I need to look at new excercises, possibly yoga, and I need to get Mr. R on board with the plan because it would be immensely easier on him if I just let the hospital deal with my labor. And, I'm not even trying it without him (hell, the man runs marathons; he should be able to talk me through the bad spots, share some coping techniques). I think I need to be more "natural" about this. Just getting and being pregnant are things the doctors told me I couldn't do without medical intervention, so why not prove them wrong again? I'm so fortunate to have great friends, smart friends, trustworthy friends who do not have agendas, they just have experiences to share, and I'm (thankfully) smart enough to listen, even when I am hearing what I don't want ot hear. Lets hope they keep talking.
So. There's one story. I talked with two other friends last week, and their stories were also illuminating. One actually knew her labor was starting, but rather than go into the hospital, she went to work, said she needed something to distract her mind from the discomfort. She worked all day, went in, and delivered a healthy baby without much drama. The second chose home birth for two of her three, saying the first delivery (a C-section) was so bad she didn't want to chance repeating the ordeal. she also said sleep deprivation was worse than labor. She also said that while labor is bad, it is not more than one can handle.
Given all this, I'm thinking it is time to change my game plan. As always, my first reactions are informed by fear. On second blush, I'm pretty tough, and I'm still in great shape (this, assuming I don't completely pork out/veg out during the next six months), and I should be able to get myself through the initial throws of labor at home. It's going to take a fair amount of training on my part - mentally and physically. I need to look at new excercises, possibly yoga, and I need to get Mr. R on board with the plan because it would be immensely easier on him if I just let the hospital deal with my labor. And, I'm not even trying it without him (hell, the man runs marathons; he should be able to talk me through the bad spots, share some coping techniques). I think I need to be more "natural" about this. Just getting and being pregnant are things the doctors told me I couldn't do without medical intervention, so why not prove them wrong again? I'm so fortunate to have great friends, smart friends, trustworthy friends who do not have agendas, they just have experiences to share, and I'm (thankfully) smart enough to listen, even when I am hearing what I don't want ot hear. Lets hope they keep talking.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Why I hate my Blog
Blogging is giving me fits - doesn't mean I am ready to quit, but I put my aversion under the microscope, and this is what I saw. I'm not too busy or too lazy, I'm just not a first-drafter. Of all the things I've written, only once did I run with a first draft. I am a fifth-sixth-seventh draft person. I love to play with words, to pour over a thesaurus to capture the nuances of language. My first drafts are full of run-on sentences and sequential flaws; half-finished ideas and lots of marginal notes.
But my blogs entries are, esentially, first drafts . . . oh, and did I mention I used to hand write my first drafts? Keyboarding them is another beast altogether, though I am improving.
The blog sacrifices eloquence for authenticity. The entries seem unpolished, but that is the point. You capture the emotion with the first pass, and, so long as the entry is legible and mostly representative of the moment's reality, you've hit the mark.
I read two blogs regularly (one is now defunct). One is brilliant, and the other is absolutely banal. Now I know what lies behind my judgement and that is the perception that one is (was) completely contrived, containing only those things one was supposed to say, or feel, or do, in public. Boring as hell.
The other was raw and powerful - not because of the style of writing as I originally thought - but because of the level of exposure of the creator. And, equally important, the timliness of the posts.
I can't go back now and tell you how much election day rocked because that's not the point of the blog. The point is today, right now. It's okay to write about memories if that is where your head is when writing, but it is totally not okay to fake it.
My best hope is that my first-draft style improves. Better still, that I will be more "present" in my days in order to see things out of the ordinary to describe here. But, no pressure. If I have a boring day, I'll share it.
But my blogs entries are, esentially, first drafts . . . oh, and did I mention I used to hand write my first drafts? Keyboarding them is another beast altogether, though I am improving.
The blog sacrifices eloquence for authenticity. The entries seem unpolished, but that is the point. You capture the emotion with the first pass, and, so long as the entry is legible and mostly representative of the moment's reality, you've hit the mark.
I read two blogs regularly (one is now defunct). One is brilliant, and the other is absolutely banal. Now I know what lies behind my judgement and that is the perception that one is (was) completely contrived, containing only those things one was supposed to say, or feel, or do, in public. Boring as hell.
The other was raw and powerful - not because of the style of writing as I originally thought - but because of the level of exposure of the creator. And, equally important, the timliness of the posts.
I can't go back now and tell you how much election day rocked because that's not the point of the blog. The point is today, right now. It's okay to write about memories if that is where your head is when writing, but it is totally not okay to fake it.
My best hope is that my first-draft style improves. Better still, that I will be more "present" in my days in order to see things out of the ordinary to describe here. But, no pressure. If I have a boring day, I'll share it.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
For Marty
You were born in Philadelphia, PA. You graduated from high school the year my father was born, 1946, so that means you were born in 1928. I'd suspect you had lied to me about this, but I was with you for your 80th birthday this year. Your father was an executive for the railroads, I just don't remember which line, but you conducted yourself always in a way that spoke to "proper" breeding, and that was certainly no lie. You spoke fondly of taking the train the "the city," and that city was New York, where you spent a day (more than one, to be sure) shopping, and I always pictured you, a dapper young woman, departing Grand Central Station and leaving behind any clue that you were from anywhere other than there. I think you went to college, but then sometimes I don't.
You were married, once, to a man you came to hold in low esteem. You had three children with him, but rather than stay in an unsatisying, likely stifling relationship, for the sake of the children or because of the what the neighbors might think, you divorced him. And you never regretted it. Your first career was as an airline stewardess, and you certainly had the disposition for it: you were naturally inquisitive, and you made a game of drawing people out, mixing levity and sincerity to greatest effect. That is not to say you liked people equally or unconditionally, but it would have gone against your character and your rearing to be anything else. One year, you treated us on Halloween when you dressed in your old TWA uniform and even brought a picture of yourself from the day. As I expected, you were gorgeous - past and present. As a stewardess you capitalized on the opportunity to see the world: London, Paris, Rome, and so many more. On my first trip oversees, to London, you gave me a Brittish Pound from your own travels and told me to put it in purse; I might need it. On each successive trip, to each foriegn city, I found a similar gift from you in my mailbox, and those talismans shaved the edges off my travel anxiety.
You were always doing thoughtful things like that. I don't know how you remembered my departure dates, or Clara's daughter's birthday, or So-and-So's retirement, but there you were, and always with the most appropriate gift and card for the occasion. So classy. Many of these gifts were similar tokens from your own life's journey. You saved so much (and God knows how you found it), and you were generous with anyone who could appreciate your treasures.
You and I had an unexpected friendship, separated by 42 years - a lifetime. I felt grateful you did not discount me for my youth as I expect you were surprised how much I valued your experience. You were blunt (some might say rude but never me) and life-smart, and you had a mind like a sieve. I never tired of talking with you. You could talk about anything! You moved gracefully among your 80 years, as comfortable and fluent in the present as in your distant past. You were able to pick out the best in all those years, nurture it, and encorporate it into your present-day self. Never did you wax nostalgic about the good old days, nor did you accept exposed midriffs, tattoos, or consumer debt. I admired you so much, and with each symbol of friendship you showed me, I grew more confident in the woman I was, resting sure that if I was unwittingly a twit, you would have set me straight.
My world shrunk today, but I could never regret the pain in my heart for the great joy of knowing you, of being your friend. The details of your life as I have recalled them here are untrustworthy, and skeletal, and not likely the ones I will share with this little person in my belly today. Rest assured that the important details, the ones that really made you the incredible human being you were, burn bright, and they will be never be forgotten.
Godspeed, Marty
You were married, once, to a man you came to hold in low esteem. You had three children with him, but rather than stay in an unsatisying, likely stifling relationship, for the sake of the children or because of the what the neighbors might think, you divorced him. And you never regretted it. Your first career was as an airline stewardess, and you certainly had the disposition for it: you were naturally inquisitive, and you made a game of drawing people out, mixing levity and sincerity to greatest effect. That is not to say you liked people equally or unconditionally, but it would have gone against your character and your rearing to be anything else. One year, you treated us on Halloween when you dressed in your old TWA uniform and even brought a picture of yourself from the day. As I expected, you were gorgeous - past and present. As a stewardess you capitalized on the opportunity to see the world: London, Paris, Rome, and so many more. On my first trip oversees, to London, you gave me a Brittish Pound from your own travels and told me to put it in purse; I might need it. On each successive trip, to each foriegn city, I found a similar gift from you in my mailbox, and those talismans shaved the edges off my travel anxiety.
You were always doing thoughtful things like that. I don't know how you remembered my departure dates, or Clara's daughter's birthday, or So-and-So's retirement, but there you were, and always with the most appropriate gift and card for the occasion. So classy. Many of these gifts were similar tokens from your own life's journey. You saved so much (and God knows how you found it), and you were generous with anyone who could appreciate your treasures.
You and I had an unexpected friendship, separated by 42 years - a lifetime. I felt grateful you did not discount me for my youth as I expect you were surprised how much I valued your experience. You were blunt (some might say rude but never me) and life-smart, and you had a mind like a sieve. I never tired of talking with you. You could talk about anything! You moved gracefully among your 80 years, as comfortable and fluent in the present as in your distant past. You were able to pick out the best in all those years, nurture it, and encorporate it into your present-day self. Never did you wax nostalgic about the good old days, nor did you accept exposed midriffs, tattoos, or consumer debt. I admired you so much, and with each symbol of friendship you showed me, I grew more confident in the woman I was, resting sure that if I was unwittingly a twit, you would have set me straight.
My world shrunk today, but I could never regret the pain in my heart for the great joy of knowing you, of being your friend. The details of your life as I have recalled them here are untrustworthy, and skeletal, and not likely the ones I will share with this little person in my belly today. Rest assured that the important details, the ones that really made you the incredible human being you were, burn bright, and they will be never be forgotten.
Godspeed, Marty
Friday, October 31, 2008
countdown
I seem to be doing a lot of counting down lately. Like everyone else, counting down my financial well being is an option but one I'm not actually not exercising. Mainly, I countdown to the end of morning sickness (the problem being I have no idea when it will end just that everyone says it will end. And very suddenly). The irony of morning sickness (well, my brand of MS) is that it is not confined to mornings, and I haven't thrown up. I just find myself enjoying various food items one day and reviling them the next. So far, I have loved/now-hate applesauce, vegetable wraps, mixed vegetables, soup, white rice with Korean soy sauce, and apples. I just hope the sickness goes away before I run out of food groups. On the upside, I can handle coffee again, but it needs to be black and it needs to be after 10 AM.
I'm an ingrate and a blasphemer, but pregnancy is a drag right now.
The next countdown is to Nov. 4: for the election, of course, but also for the first ultrasound. Mr. R. is taking me to a specialist in Beechwood, and I'm so glad he is coming. I think this will involve some prenatal screenings, and that is nothing I can face without him. It should also involve the baby's first photo . . .
my co-worker noticed my bump this week and asked me, "how many you got in there?" I was horrified by the thought (her comment was quite hilarious) of multiples. What kind of a shitty mother am I? I know of a couple who have miscarried, like, 5 times. They finally committed to adoption, located a willing pregnant woman, and the woman just "changed her mind." I understand the ethical/emotional problems of sharing twins with this couple, but Goddamn! I know I can't handle two, and they only want one, ergo . . .
It's very disconcerting when you realize that YOU are the mother who would have let King Solomon cut the baby in half - remember that one? And the real mother revealed herself because she told Solomon to let the other mother have the baby rather than half the baby.
I'm seeing some things about myself that make me wonder why, after all this time, we end up pregnant when other couples clearly want it more, deserve it more? It just doesn't make sense.
Third, I'm counting down to the presidential election. I am working the polls between 1-7:30 PM, then I am pickling up pizza and parking myself in front of the telly to watch those returns roll in. I've waited 8 long, agonizing years for this, and I'm watching it if I have to ply myself with diet Mountain Dew and other foodstuffs high in caffiene. Heck, I might even partake in a champaign toast.
I'm an ingrate and a blasphemer, but pregnancy is a drag right now.
The next countdown is to Nov. 4: for the election, of course, but also for the first ultrasound. Mr. R. is taking me to a specialist in Beechwood, and I'm so glad he is coming. I think this will involve some prenatal screenings, and that is nothing I can face without him. It should also involve the baby's first photo . . .
my co-worker noticed my bump this week and asked me, "how many you got in there?" I was horrified by the thought (her comment was quite hilarious) of multiples. What kind of a shitty mother am I? I know of a couple who have miscarried, like, 5 times. They finally committed to adoption, located a willing pregnant woman, and the woman just "changed her mind." I understand the ethical/emotional problems of sharing twins with this couple, but Goddamn! I know I can't handle two, and they only want one, ergo . . .
It's very disconcerting when you realize that YOU are the mother who would have let King Solomon cut the baby in half - remember that one? And the real mother revealed herself because she told Solomon to let the other mother have the baby rather than half the baby.
I'm seeing some things about myself that make me wonder why, after all this time, we end up pregnant when other couples clearly want it more, deserve it more? It just doesn't make sense.
Third, I'm counting down to the presidential election. I am working the polls between 1-7:30 PM, then I am pickling up pizza and parking myself in front of the telly to watch those returns roll in. I've waited 8 long, agonizing years for this, and I'm watching it if I have to ply myself with diet Mountain Dew and other foodstuffs high in caffiene. Heck, I might even partake in a champaign toast.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
a week like any other, mostly
I realize Oct. 10 was a long time ago. I also realize that outside of being pregnant, my life is pretty boring, and I don't care to fill the ether with drivel (well, boring drivel). That said, we had our first OB/GYN visit on 13 OCT (our 13th wedding anniversary, to boot). Mr. R not only found out, officially, he was a dad-to-be, he also observed his first pelvic exam. We haven't talked about that yet and probably won't given his palpable discomfort with the experience. Perhaps all husbands should witness at least one in their lives to really appreciate the differences between boys and girls. I decided it would do him no good to protect him from the exam's indignities. It's merely a prelude of future rude, clinical, and slightly nauseating vantages he will have of my twat in days to come. Said exam revealed that I am 6-8 weeks pregnant. The doc could be no more accurate than that as my cycles are hardly cyclical and do not lend themselves to determining an "average cycle length." I will see a specialist on 04 NOV for an ultrasound, and he will estimate due date with far greater assurance.
So, clearly the magic of pregnancy wore off this week. Most mornings, I feel nauseous. I've already started to outgrow my clothes which seems to indicate I am gaining way more weight than is proper for the first trimester, and this puts me squarely back into my food-weight obsession mode (I sould be thankful for any reprieve from this, no matter how short-lived), the very place I was hoping to vacate for 9-12 months. I didn't think I was afraid to carry the weight of a pregnancy, but I apparently still have some bugs to work out. I caught a nasty cold and literally slept around the clock Thursday. This week, 9 months seems an interminably long time.
One final, positive observation: I watched the third and final presidential debate on tuesday. I've watched quite a few in my lifetime, but never has a candidate convinced me so thoroughly of his integrity and never have I shared so completely his vision of a United States in which I not only want to live and raise a child, but one in which I desire to actively participate and to rediscover personal sacrifice for national advancement. Also, I'm pretty sure I have a crush of Barack Obama. He's kind of a hottie.
So, clearly the magic of pregnancy wore off this week. Most mornings, I feel nauseous. I've already started to outgrow my clothes which seems to indicate I am gaining way more weight than is proper for the first trimester, and this puts me squarely back into my food-weight obsession mode (I sould be thankful for any reprieve from this, no matter how short-lived), the very place I was hoping to vacate for 9-12 months. I didn't think I was afraid to carry the weight of a pregnancy, but I apparently still have some bugs to work out. I caught a nasty cold and literally slept around the clock Thursday. This week, 9 months seems an interminably long time.
One final, positive observation: I watched the third and final presidential debate on tuesday. I've watched quite a few in my lifetime, but never has a candidate convinced me so thoroughly of his integrity and never have I shared so completely his vision of a United States in which I not only want to live and raise a child, but one in which I desire to actively participate and to rediscover personal sacrifice for national advancement. Also, I'm pretty sure I have a crush of Barack Obama. He's kind of a hottie.
Friday, October 10, 2008
economic woes
No exaggeration: these are the worst financial times since the Great Depression. Last week, we were reasonably sure we had reached the bottom. Then this week happened. Now, I am what you would call a "worrier," and not just the run-of-the-mill, garden-variety. I am Chicken Little, and the sky is always falling. So, when I learned that Congress failed to pass the first bailout package, I had a major stress attack, after which I promptly went to Aldi and bought them out of rice, beans, pasta, Spaghetti-O's (for my husband. He's like that), and batteries. The next day, I took my pregnancy test, and for the first time in my life (I've taken hundreds), it was positive.
Who gets pregnant now?! I mean, I would have stressed financing a pregnancy and a kid at the best of times, but in this current crisis, I was seriously ready to bail, and I took it to Mr. R., and now I must give you a paragraph or two of back story.
When we married, we were firm on not having children, thinking it more righteous to adopt should the maternal instinct strike. Turns out, I was infertile the whole time, so our lengthy, philosophical conversations about adoption v. procreation were for naught, but we did not yet know this. About 4 years ago, Mr. R. voiced an openness to children, and we resumed our philosophical discussion. This time, we decided to give procreation a try. And another. And another. And - well, you get the drift. My doctors at the time advised us to start infertility treatments ASAP as I was pushing 35 and obviously not very fertile. We did, but it didn't sit well with either of us. We went as far as the Clomid before deciding parenthood, along this course, wasn't for us. No offense to anyone who chooses IVF, but I think if you ask the higher power to guide you, you have to accept the answer. We gave up the dream again. And then we received a different answer.
And that's the really crazy thing because, though Chicken Little finds herself knee deep in the poop-la, she is unbelievably optimistic. At no other time in my life can I say I really felt so sure about the goodness, the rightness, of anything. That it is my own pregnancy is just unreal. According to the books on pregnancy, the baby is about the size of blueberry right now, so I will just call it my blueberry of hope for awhile and enjoy the peace it brings in this oh-so-troubled world.
Who gets pregnant now?! I mean, I would have stressed financing a pregnancy and a kid at the best of times, but in this current crisis, I was seriously ready to bail, and I took it to Mr. R., and now I must give you a paragraph or two of back story.
When we married, we were firm on not having children, thinking it more righteous to adopt should the maternal instinct strike. Turns out, I was infertile the whole time, so our lengthy, philosophical conversations about adoption v. procreation were for naught, but we did not yet know this. About 4 years ago, Mr. R. voiced an openness to children, and we resumed our philosophical discussion. This time, we decided to give procreation a try. And another. And another. And - well, you get the drift. My doctors at the time advised us to start infertility treatments ASAP as I was pushing 35 and obviously not very fertile. We did, but it didn't sit well with either of us. We went as far as the Clomid before deciding parenthood, along this course, wasn't for us. No offense to anyone who chooses IVF, but I think if you ask the higher power to guide you, you have to accept the answer. We gave up the dream again. And then we received a different answer.
And that's the really crazy thing because, though Chicken Little finds herself knee deep in the poop-la, she is unbelievably optimistic. At no other time in my life can I say I really felt so sure about the goodness, the rightness, of anything. That it is my own pregnancy is just unreal. According to the books on pregnancy, the baby is about the size of blueberry right now, so I will just call it my blueberry of hope for awhile and enjoy the peace it brings in this oh-so-troubled world.
Monday, October 6, 2008
twenty years later
I went to my 20-year class reunion last Saturday, and - wonder of wonders - I was the only one in the class pregnant. As if the 2o-year thing weren't enough, but pregnant? Definitely not happening.
In keeping with my original intent (documenting this pregnancy), Saturday marked THE WORST headache ever. Around 1 pm (I don't think I, 10-cup-a-day'er, had had one droplet of caffeine to that point), a dull paincloud formed where my left eye usually resides. It proceded up the left side of my face and held at my hairline, inflicting great vengeance on the top-left quarter of my face. So, there I am, laying in bed with one functioning eyeball, thinking it's probably a good idea to skip the reunion. Even on my best day, making small talk with strangers - worse, people who knew me 20 years ago in a tertiary way and worse still, without alcohol- is major stress. Truth is, I couldn't wait to leave high school.
So, the internal dialog went something like this:
I talk to my best friend every day; I don't need to go the the reunion to see her.
You've already purchased the tickets.
Was that an anneurism?
you haven't gained any weight since high school, and you look pretty good for an old lady.
STFU! I'm carrying at least 67 pounds of water weight, and the zit on my chin is bigger than my large toe.
your husband's a hottie, worthy of showing off. You'll be perceived as hot and successful by association.
My head might explode when I attempt to shower. Those water droplets pack a wallup.
you know you want to catch up with some of the folks from the class of '88.
Matt's dead and will be rolling over in his coffin at the thought of attending our 20th. He's probably the one behind this headache, making a last-ditch effort to save me from reunion hell.
It'll be fun (gauntlet thrown.)
And, oddly enough, it was. I think the point of the reunion is to allow the attendees can say, without pretense, "look at me! I've endured. I know, I know. I can't believe it, either, but here I am." In some way, we justify each other by validating our past. The further out I get from 1988, the easier it is to forget who I was. So, the reunion reminded me of who I was. It also made clear that I'm not that person anymore.
In keeping with my original intent (documenting this pregnancy), Saturday marked THE WORST headache ever. Around 1 pm (I don't think I, 10-cup-a-day'er, had had one droplet of caffeine to that point), a dull paincloud formed where my left eye usually resides. It proceded up the left side of my face and held at my hairline, inflicting great vengeance on the top-left quarter of my face. So, there I am, laying in bed with one functioning eyeball, thinking it's probably a good idea to skip the reunion. Even on my best day, making small talk with strangers - worse, people who knew me 20 years ago in a tertiary way and worse still, without alcohol- is major stress. Truth is, I couldn't wait to leave high school.
So, the internal dialog went something like this:
I talk to my best friend every day; I don't need to go the the reunion to see her.
You've already purchased the tickets.
Was that an anneurism?
you haven't gained any weight since high school, and you look pretty good for an old lady.
STFU! I'm carrying at least 67 pounds of water weight, and the zit on my chin is bigger than my large toe.
your husband's a hottie, worthy of showing off. You'll be perceived as hot and successful by association.
My head might explode when I attempt to shower. Those water droplets pack a wallup.
you know you want to catch up with some of the folks from the class of '88.
Matt's dead and will be rolling over in his coffin at the thought of attending our 20th. He's probably the one behind this headache, making a last-ditch effort to save me from reunion hell.
It'll be fun (gauntlet thrown.)
And, oddly enough, it was. I think the point of the reunion is to allow the attendees can say, without pretense, "look at me! I've endured. I know, I know. I can't believe it, either, but here I am." In some way, we justify each other by validating our past. The further out I get from 1988, the easier it is to forget who I was. So, the reunion reminded me of who I was. It also made clear that I'm not that person anymore.
Friday, October 3, 2008
first post
It's Friday, October 3, 2008. According to three home pregnancy tests (one on Wed., then two on Thursday just because something HAD to be wrong with the Wed. test), I'm pregnant. Like, 7 weeks pregnant. Like, 1/9+ of 'pregnant' happened already and I didn't even know it.
Bitter? God, no.
Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.
Nope. I still don't believe it, though my body gives me little with which to doubt.
Consider that 8 months ago, my uterine biopsy showed hyperplasia w/atypia; that for 10 years, I had no periods w/o synthetic hormones; and that we were told many times no babies were possible without IVF, we're pregnant.
So, as I listen to myself sharing this news with family and friends, I realize two things - thing #1: this is going to get old for them quickly. I'm clearly out-of-control, my observations are sappy, and everything I see/do/feel is passing through my ramped-up, pregnant brain; thing #2 - my observations mean everything to me, and someday, when I can no longer remember the world through the pregnant-woman's eye, when I'm convinced half the stuff I thought I felt didn't really happen, I will have this.
Thus, my blog.
Bitter? God, no.
Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.
Nope. I still don't believe it, though my body gives me little with which to doubt.
Consider that 8 months ago, my uterine biopsy showed hyperplasia w/atypia; that for 10 years, I had no periods w/o synthetic hormones; and that we were told many times no babies were possible without IVF, we're pregnant.
So, as I listen to myself sharing this news with family and friends, I realize two things - thing #1: this is going to get old for them quickly. I'm clearly out-of-control, my observations are sappy, and everything I see/do/feel is passing through my ramped-up, pregnant brain; thing #2 - my observations mean everything to me, and someday, when I can no longer remember the world through the pregnant-woman's eye, when I'm convinced half the stuff I thought I felt didn't really happen, I will have this.
Thus, my blog.
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