5. How wild and free other people get when talking about pregnant women. Yeah, comment about my size. Go ahead, ask me if I'm about to pop. Sure, make a weird comment about my body, even though it's doing something pretty difficult and amazing. No, that's totally fine. Yeah, that's normal. It's allll normal.
4. How amazing I'd find it all. I'm not one of those 'life is a miracle' people (yet), because we don't really say that about any other animal. No one is saying, "Wow, look at all those baby snakes. What a miracle." Or, "Wow, look at all those tadpoles. It's a miracle!" We usually just say that about ourselves. But the other day, Chris and I were just kind of marvelling at how, right now, there is a little person living inside me that is made up of both of us. She used to be the size of a period on a page, and now she's the size of a cabbage, and I really didn't have to do much except wait for it to happen. That's just...that's just crazy!
3. How absolutely crazy and protective I am becoming already. I looked at 12 daycare centers before finally choosing one. And even though the one we decided on seems like a safe, nurturing environment, the thought of leaving my baby there makes me want to throw up. I tested myself by imagining leaving her at any of the centers and had the same result. Also, I am not-so-secretly hoping that our elderly pet rat, Winston, kicks it before the baby comes. The thought of a smelly, dirty rat in our apartment with our fresh, sweet newborn is not one I want to have. If he's still around, it's OK, I'm just saying that I'm not going to be too shaken up if he happens to pass away peacefully in his sleep. Sorry, Chris. I love him, but...gross.
2. How much it would make me think about my own parents. I imagine them going through all of the things that Chris and I are--all the uncertainty, all the excitement, and the throwing up (my god, the throwing up!)--and I think that someone felt the way I feel about Sophie about me, and someone got just as excited about me kicking them in the ribs, and someone worried about how I was doing 'on the inside' like I worry about my baby. It makes me appreciate even more that life is a cycle, and I was, and am, very lucky to be loved like that.
1. How ready/not ready I am to be a mom. I know that for the time being, my responsibilities as a mom are to eat well, continue to not drink/smoke/do drugs/eat deli meat and predatory fish, but soon, that list will expand. The first year or two is basically about keeping the kid alive, warm, dry, fed, and watered, and I think I can do that stuff. Yes, I'll be tired. Yes, I'll be cranky. Yes, I'll probably write insomniac blog postings that make little sense while breastfeeding at 3AM. But I think I can do that. It's the stuff that comes afterwards that makes me nervous. Stuff like if my kid asks questions I don't know the answer to, or asks about what happens when you die, or why bad things happen to good people, or if she can't make friends at her new school, or if she is bad at math, or if she gets rejected by someone/a school/a job that is important to her. I can tell her what I think about those things, but I don't want that to automatically become what she thinks. That's really important to me, and I don't know how to do that yet.
I have a lot to learn. My hope is that when this kid comes out, I'll get to know her and be able to be what she needs whenever she needs it. And if I can't, she'll have to talk to her dad. And if he doesn't know, she'll probably be asking some of you for help. Just a warning.
xo
Monday, September 26, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Holy Sheets
In about two weeks, Chris's lovely parents are coming to stay with us for a week. I'm really excited about it because it's been over a year since we've seen them (other than our weekly Skype dates), and because I am one of the lucky people in the world who has great in-laws. And no, I'm not just saying that because they read this blog. They're just nice people to be around and it's always great to see them.
In any case, Chris and I have been putting off setting up their room because that's also going to be the baby's room, and we've been sort of in denial that everything is happening so soon. But when we were reminded that they will be arriving in a little more than two weeks, we (OK, I) became suddenly energized (and a little panicked) and decided we cannot put this off any longer.
So we went to Target with the goal to buy sheets. We're both college-educated, mostly-sane adults, and at least Chris is fairly reasonable and calm under pressure. But something happened in that bedding aisle at Target. Something terrible. We were reduced to confused, sweaty toddlers by the number of choices, the expense of things, and the narrow cultural divide between us.
It went something like this:
Chris: Here are some mattress covers.
Me: Those are just to protect the mattress, not to make it more comfortable. See? It's crinkly plastic. Your parents can't sleep on that.
Chris: What would make it more comfortable?
Me: These ones! These ones right here! (pointing to large, foam mattress toppers)
Chris: Those are like $150! What about these ones over here?
Me: No! Those ones are just soft, but they don't have padding! They just keep the mattress from getting dirty.
Chris: But how can you tell how thick they are?!
Me: You just open the package and feel it!
Chris: But how do you know how thick it is? It could just be folded a million times, so it would feel really thick!
Me: I don't know. You just...just open the box more!
Chris: This is a nightmare.
And:
Me: OK, if we buy this down comforter we'll need to get a cover for it.
Chris: What? Why?
Me: Because that's what real adults in America do!
Chris: Fine. I found one cover here. It's for a Twin bed, though. And it's the only one they have.
Me: Here are some over here. They're $50!
Chris: Why is this so terrible?
Me: Because this bedding aisle is clearly our personal version of hell.
And:
Me: What about these t-shirt sheets?
Chris: My parents don't want to sleep on t-shirt sheets.
Me: Why not? They're so soft! These other ones are like 225 thread count and feel like crap.
Chris: Not everyone wants to sleep on a t-shirt like you do.
Me: Fine. Let's get the other ones.
(Long pause.)
Chris: ...well, actually, in the long term, the t-shirt ones might be better. These other ones will probably just get worse the more you use and wash them.
Me: AUUUUGHH!!! (followed by the sound of me overturning a decorative pillow display)
In the end, we went to Bed Bath and Beyond and got a great set of sheets and pillows and a nice feather bed without too much hassle. We hugged in the store when we found the sheet set.
And that was our weekend, in a nutshell.
Hope you're well!
xo
In any case, Chris and I have been putting off setting up their room because that's also going to be the baby's room, and we've been sort of in denial that everything is happening so soon. But when we were reminded that they will be arriving in a little more than two weeks, we (OK, I) became suddenly energized (and a little panicked) and decided we cannot put this off any longer.
So we went to Target with the goal to buy sheets. We're both college-educated, mostly-sane adults, and at least Chris is fairly reasonable and calm under pressure. But something happened in that bedding aisle at Target. Something terrible. We were reduced to confused, sweaty toddlers by the number of choices, the expense of things, and the narrow cultural divide between us.
It went something like this:
Chris: Here are some mattress covers.
Me: Those are just to protect the mattress, not to make it more comfortable. See? It's crinkly plastic. Your parents can't sleep on that.
Chris: What would make it more comfortable?
Me: These ones! These ones right here! (pointing to large, foam mattress toppers)
Chris: Those are like $150! What about these ones over here?
Me: No! Those ones are just soft, but they don't have padding! They just keep the mattress from getting dirty.
Chris: But how can you tell how thick they are?!
Me: You just open the package and feel it!
Chris: But how do you know how thick it is? It could just be folded a million times, so it would feel really thick!
Me: I don't know. You just...just open the box more!
Chris: This is a nightmare.
And:
Me: OK, if we buy this down comforter we'll need to get a cover for it.
Chris: What? Why?
Me: Because that's what real adults in America do!
Chris: Fine. I found one cover here. It's for a Twin bed, though. And it's the only one they have.
Me: Here are some over here. They're $50!
Chris: Why is this so terrible?
Me: Because this bedding aisle is clearly our personal version of hell.
And:
Me: What about these t-shirt sheets?
Chris: My parents don't want to sleep on t-shirt sheets.
Me: Why not? They're so soft! These other ones are like 225 thread count and feel like crap.
Chris: Not everyone wants to sleep on a t-shirt like you do.
Me: Fine. Let's get the other ones.
(Long pause.)
Chris: ...well, actually, in the long term, the t-shirt ones might be better. These other ones will probably just get worse the more you use and wash them.
Me: AUUUUGHH!!! (followed by the sound of me overturning a decorative pillow display)
In the end, we went to Bed Bath and Beyond and got a great set of sheets and pillows and a nice feather bed without too much hassle. We hugged in the store when we found the sheet set.
And that was our weekend, in a nutshell.
Hope you're well!
xo
Friday, September 9, 2011
50 "First Dates"
Since my real dating days are (thankfully) behind me, I've had to find a substitute for the awkward, disappointing, and sometimes hilarious process of meeting people for the first time in the hope that they will someday become an important part of my future. My substitute has recently come in the form of looking for our future daycare.
Thinking of myself as a kind of laid-back person, I went into this process thinking, "I just need to find someplace close to work or home that will keep my baby alive all day." There was no thought about philosophy, curriculum, or methods as I set up "first dates" with these centers.
The first center I went to made me cry. Not then, but later on, at home, to a very patient Chris. There was a baby lying on the floor, crying sadly, and no one went over to even look at him. The entire time I was there, my attention was divided between the crying baby and whatever the center director was saying. I thought, "Dude, if you want to impress me into bringing my baby here, go pick up that one." But no one did. And then I imagined them not picking up my crying baby for that amount of time. DATE OVER.
I went to a center with such rigid standards about feeding, diapering, days off, and payments, that I left already feeling like a bad mother. I had a real first date with a guy who was so meticulous about his eating habits that I ended up feeling like I was ruining myself, nutritionally, when I used a little soy sauce on my sushi. Same feeling, same result--I will never see either of them again.
But yesterday was the worst daycare first date of my life. I was hesitant to even go on this one because it was located in a church, and we've decided that we want to raise our baby with a mind that is open to all cultures and religions. A religious daycare, especially one that is in a church that neither Chris nor I were raised in, is not what we'd like to give our little sponge-minded Sophie.
In any case, I went into the daycare date with an open mind. Like the time I met the painfully-skinny, socially-inept future lawyer at a wine bar, my expectations were low, but it seemed like a good thing to do at the time. The director showed me around the standard infant room, then asked if I had questions. I always ask the same three questions: Is there availability for March, can I come breastfeed on my lunch hour, and will you use the cloth diapers I provide?
The director literally scrunched up her nose. "You know, the short answer to the cloth diaper question is 'no'. And what with water being a resource, too...well, why would you want to use cloth diapers?" Not to be made ashamed of my crunchy, granola center, I looked straight at her and said, "Well, I could go into a long thing here, but disposable diapers make up a considerable percentage of all waste in our landfills." She still shook her head. "We just can't. It would require too many extra steps."
I pressed on. "You know, we're going with a cloth-diaper service. All you'd have to do is put the dirty diapers into a plastic bag and then hand it to us at the end of the day." She stood her ground, still refusing to even try it. One of the glassy-eyed teachers spoke up, oh-so-helpfully. "We had a family who sent in these...biodegradable diapers. I think they used cloth at home." Her disdain was almost palpable.
"Right," I said, with the same feeling in my gut as when the skinny future lawyer began to tell me about how he wanted his future children to have a French au pair. The date was over in my head before the check arrived.
Then the director led me to the toddler room, where all the kids were sleeping. The teacher, a disheveled lunatic, was crouched down over a stack of construction paper leaves and was making a big deal out of writing each of the toddlers names on them. The director pointed into a room where the toddlers were taking their naps. "They all sleep together, but when they're awake, we keep them separated by personality."
"Oh, really?" I said. "I took a lot of personality psychology in college--how do you determine the personality of 18-33 month olds? Like, Type A and B? Or extroverts and introverts?"
The teacher peered up at me. "No, like the ones who pick on other kids and the ones who act like little victims. I mean, they're all young in here right now, so they're all annoying. And all of them are Type A because they're mostly only children. You know how only children are." The center director nodded. "Yes, they don't have to share anything, and they get too much attention."
I wanted to remind them that when Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me," he didn't follow that up with, "except for all those bratty, only-child toddlers." But I didn't. Just like I didn't tell that malnourished future-lawyer that I thought telling me how much money he was someday going to make was arrogant, and a huge turn-off. I just got the hell out of there and never went back.
It hasn't been all-bad, though. Last week, I think we found The One. I had the same feeling walking into it as when I met Chris for the first time. It just felt right. It felt like somewhere I could leave my baby and not cry (after the first few weeks, of course). The clientele and staff was diverse. They have families come in to do presentations of various cultural cooking and customs. They love cloth diapers and have a private room for moms to breastfeed on their lunch hours. It is licensed. Their teachers have education, and look happy to be there.
I'm still going on these daycare first dates, mostly because I want to say I've seen them all. In my dating days, I saw it all, too--the rich guy who didn't respect women, the short, shy engineering student, the British mechanic, the hippie teacher. But when it came to my future, I picked the one who felt the most natural, the most comfortable, and it was the best decision I could have ever made. And when it comes to picking a place for our little baby Sophie, I'll do the same. My gut says that it will be right, and it hasn't led me astray yet.
xo
Thinking of myself as a kind of laid-back person, I went into this process thinking, "I just need to find someplace close to work or home that will keep my baby alive all day." There was no thought about philosophy, curriculum, or methods as I set up "first dates" with these centers.
The first center I went to made me cry. Not then, but later on, at home, to a very patient Chris. There was a baby lying on the floor, crying sadly, and no one went over to even look at him. The entire time I was there, my attention was divided between the crying baby and whatever the center director was saying. I thought, "Dude, if you want to impress me into bringing my baby here, go pick up that one." But no one did. And then I imagined them not picking up my crying baby for that amount of time. DATE OVER.
I went to a center with such rigid standards about feeding, diapering, days off, and payments, that I left already feeling like a bad mother. I had a real first date with a guy who was so meticulous about his eating habits that I ended up feeling like I was ruining myself, nutritionally, when I used a little soy sauce on my sushi. Same feeling, same result--I will never see either of them again.
But yesterday was the worst daycare first date of my life. I was hesitant to even go on this one because it was located in a church, and we've decided that we want to raise our baby with a mind that is open to all cultures and religions. A religious daycare, especially one that is in a church that neither Chris nor I were raised in, is not what we'd like to give our little sponge-minded Sophie.
In any case, I went into the daycare date with an open mind. Like the time I met the painfully-skinny, socially-inept future lawyer at a wine bar, my expectations were low, but it seemed like a good thing to do at the time. The director showed me around the standard infant room, then asked if I had questions. I always ask the same three questions: Is there availability for March, can I come breastfeed on my lunch hour, and will you use the cloth diapers I provide?
The director literally scrunched up her nose. "You know, the short answer to the cloth diaper question is 'no'. And what with water being a resource, too...well, why would you want to use cloth diapers?" Not to be made ashamed of my crunchy, granola center, I looked straight at her and said, "Well, I could go into a long thing here, but disposable diapers make up a considerable percentage of all waste in our landfills." She still shook her head. "We just can't. It would require too many extra steps."
I pressed on. "You know, we're going with a cloth-diaper service. All you'd have to do is put the dirty diapers into a plastic bag and then hand it to us at the end of the day." She stood her ground, still refusing to even try it. One of the glassy-eyed teachers spoke up, oh-so-helpfully. "We had a family who sent in these...biodegradable diapers. I think they used cloth at home." Her disdain was almost palpable.
"Right," I said, with the same feeling in my gut as when the skinny future lawyer began to tell me about how he wanted his future children to have a French au pair. The date was over in my head before the check arrived.
Then the director led me to the toddler room, where all the kids were sleeping. The teacher, a disheveled lunatic, was crouched down over a stack of construction paper leaves and was making a big deal out of writing each of the toddlers names on them. The director pointed into a room where the toddlers were taking their naps. "They all sleep together, but when they're awake, we keep them separated by personality."
"Oh, really?" I said. "I took a lot of personality psychology in college--how do you determine the personality of 18-33 month olds? Like, Type A and B? Or extroverts and introverts?"
The teacher peered up at me. "No, like the ones who pick on other kids and the ones who act like little victims. I mean, they're all young in here right now, so they're all annoying. And all of them are Type A because they're mostly only children. You know how only children are." The center director nodded. "Yes, they don't have to share anything, and they get too much attention."
I wanted to remind them that when Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me," he didn't follow that up with, "except for all those bratty, only-child toddlers." But I didn't. Just like I didn't tell that malnourished future-lawyer that I thought telling me how much money he was someday going to make was arrogant, and a huge turn-off. I just got the hell out of there and never went back.
It hasn't been all-bad, though. Last week, I think we found The One. I had the same feeling walking into it as when I met Chris for the first time. It just felt right. It felt like somewhere I could leave my baby and not cry (after the first few weeks, of course). The clientele and staff was diverse. They have families come in to do presentations of various cultural cooking and customs. They love cloth diapers and have a private room for moms to breastfeed on their lunch hours. It is licensed. Their teachers have education, and look happy to be there.
I'm still going on these daycare first dates, mostly because I want to say I've seen them all. In my dating days, I saw it all, too--the rich guy who didn't respect women, the short, shy engineering student, the British mechanic, the hippie teacher. But when it came to my future, I picked the one who felt the most natural, the most comfortable, and it was the best decision I could have ever made. And when it comes to picking a place for our little baby Sophie, I'll do the same. My gut says that it will be right, and it hasn't led me astray yet.
xo
Friday, September 2, 2011
Jerk Store
I had my first encounter with a rude pregnancy commenter last night. Chris and I were buying concessions at the Vikings game, and a woman looked me up and down and said, "Wow, you must be almost ready to pop." I told her that, in fact, I had about 13 weeks left. She looked shocked. "Is this your first?" she asked incredulously. "Yup," I replied, praying for this conversation to be over. She continued. "Really?! Are you maybe having twins?" At this point, phrases that I can't type were swimming through my mind. Because I was born and raised in Minnesota, I didn't say any of them out loud (to her, at least). I just laughed and shook my head and said, "No, just one." She shook her head in amazement. I grabbed my bison burger, sans fries, mind you, and got the hell out of there.
Then, for the next 14 hours, I both privately and publicly stewed about it. I am like Seinfeld's George Costanza after being told, "Hey, the ocean called and they're running out of shrimp!" The responses I could have said, should have said, have been piling up, and they're not nearly as polite as, "The jerk store called, and they're running out of you!"
I don't consider myself to be necessarily vain, but I don't enjoy being told that I look enormous. I also don't like the thought that maybe I look too pregnant, because that makes me think that maybe I'm doing something wrong, pregnancy-wise, and maybe my baby will be unhealthy because of it. I'm happy to gain this weight, happy to get round, happy to get stretch marks if that means I'll produce a nice, healthy baby. But the fact that what I eat, what I do, how big I get could mean trouble, well, that's something I'm sensitive about.
So, while I could have said something to the effect of "My doctor, who went to med school, says I'm measuring perfectly. Did you have to go to med school to get this job?" or "No, I'm not expecting twins. When are yours due?", I didn't. I also didn't spew off the string of profanities I believe this exchange deserved. Because I was raised in Minnesota, where we're taught to nod and smile while being insulted. And because there were children present.
xo
Then, for the next 14 hours, I both privately and publicly stewed about it. I am like Seinfeld's George Costanza after being told, "Hey, the ocean called and they're running out of shrimp!" The responses I could have said, should have said, have been piling up, and they're not nearly as polite as, "The jerk store called, and they're running out of you!"
I don't consider myself to be necessarily vain, but I don't enjoy being told that I look enormous. I also don't like the thought that maybe I look too pregnant, because that makes me think that maybe I'm doing something wrong, pregnancy-wise, and maybe my baby will be unhealthy because of it. I'm happy to gain this weight, happy to get round, happy to get stretch marks if that means I'll produce a nice, healthy baby. But the fact that what I eat, what I do, how big I get could mean trouble, well, that's something I'm sensitive about.
So, while I could have said something to the effect of "My doctor, who went to med school, says I'm measuring perfectly. Did you have to go to med school to get this job?" or "No, I'm not expecting twins. When are yours due?", I didn't. I also didn't spew off the string of profanities I believe this exchange deserved. Because I was raised in Minnesota, where we're taught to nod and smile while being insulted. And because there were children present.
xo
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