Born In Time

As if further evidence that I can be a dumbass was needed, in the car on the way home from Scranton on Monday, I threw my gum out the window* and promptly forgot about it, only to find out a few hours later that when I threw it out the window, it looped around and fell behind my back. At a gas station, I found myself not only fused to the seat, but with a giant white, sticky stain on the back of my shirt and of course, the car seat. Melted, ooky gum everywhere. How thrilling!

* I know throwing your gum out the window is gross and disrespectful and is LITTERING, I know, and dude, I deserved what I got. I hated to do it, trust me, I did, and while there is no acceptable excuse, I will say that we’d just cleaned out the car of all wrappers, napkins and stray bags and though swallowing it is usually my first option, my gag reflex tells me it’s not these days.

Anyway, this made me think of all those years I was a cigarette smoker and used to live in fear of igniting the back seat while throwing my cigarette out the window. This is further proof why using an ashtray or an empty bottle is a wise idea, littering concerns aside. (God, I can’t believe I did that. I deserved to light the car on fire.)

It is amazing to me that I am even here to write this, actually, since I’m pretty sure I should be dead, buried under what is surely the world’s largest mountain of unsolicited advice. I’ve mentioned this before, but I have a really high tolerance for unsolicited advice, and if you grew up with my sister, you would, too. She’s twelve years older than me, and has made it her life’s mission to ensure that I don’t make ANY of the mistakes that she did, so that I may live precisely the life that she ended up with, which, ironically, is a life that I would not have chosen, although it fits her very well. (We are night and day in terms of personality.)

Now, I have said precisely those words to her face, and I’m fairly certain she’d find that statement amusing, as it is so very true, and she’ll be the first to admit it, lest you think I’m shitting on her. I love my sister dearly, and she’s one of my best friends, and this is one of the fatal flaws of our relationship, but we have learned to deal.

I think, however, that even she would admit that this weekend crossed some kind of invisible line (she wasn’t there), and rather than go into details, I will only say that there were two things that set me off to the point where I have not been able to stop thinking about them:

1) There seemed to be a lot of passive-aggressive stories designed to inform us that parenthood is both a) exhausting; and b) very very hard. There were endless tales of how my nephews — three and one — are akin to a “three-ring circus” and how kids are “really hard, really exhausting.” There were also gentle reminders that we won’t be able to sleep until 10 a.m. once we have kids, and that Adam may have to stop wearing earplugs at night to drown out my snoring. And when I say “endless” I literally mean every five minutes, and that’s not an exaggeration. I almost snapped, and folks, I DO NOT SNAP. (Except right now! See? AM SNAPPING.)

First of all, the last time I checked, I won’t be giving birth to two toddlers, and though newborns are difficult, I will be not be thrown directly into that level of parenthood. Of you know, TWO TODDLERS. And oh my God, I KNOW that kids get up early, I KNOW. I also somehow know that you need to be able to HEAR THEM in the middle of the night. I HAVE ALSO HEARD THAT BABIES ARE VERY HARD.

2) When I mentioned that I wasn’t buying a carseat right now, and wouldn’t be for some time, there was WOOP WOOP PANIC, because OMG YOU HAVE TO BUY A CARSEAT. THEY WILL NOT LET YOU LEAVE THE HOSPITAL WITHOUT A CARSEAT.

I … I don’t even know what to say there. I mean, even the dimmest seem to know that you don’t carry your infant on your lap on your way home from the hospital, or, you know, EVER, and I know this, because I have seen those people on “A Baby Story.” They can’t form a sentence, but BY GOD, they know to buy a car seat. Also, I’m not sure when “not right now, at 19 weeks gestational age” translated to “never, I plan to Britney Spears It.”

I’m sorry I’m ranting. I love our families so very much. But these two sticky points aside, I think what upsets me the most, particularly in our situation, is that we’re the last of our siblings to have kids, and it feels like everyone assumes the baby(ies) we’ll have will be carbon copies of the existing babies, and that we’ll make the same decisions our siblings did, when in fact, they won’t, and we won’t. I would just appreciate it if we could all acknowledge that this is *our* baby, who will be his/her own person, parented by Adam and Jonna. I don’t want my kid to be compared to the existing kids — not now, and certainly not when s/he’s old enough to realize it’s happening. That’s not fair to them.

And, as I’ve said to my sister many times, I think some life lessons cannot be taught vicariously or through advice. Some things you *have* to experience for yourself to fully appreciate them for what they are, and I believe quite strongly that becoming a parent is one of those things. And oh my God, I KNOW I am in for a world of agony from strangers with regards to unsolicited advice once I become a parent, but would you believe I find that easier to swallow than familial advice? Also, it surprises even me that I welcome advice from my friends, but I think it’s because they have a much more realistic interpretation of who I am today, rather than the person I was growing up.

Another recurring theme in the unsolicited advice department from all angles appears to be my weight, which: oh dear. No woman, pregnant or not, wants unsolicited WEIGHT ADVICE. Many women in my family gained A LOT of weight while pregnant, and as such, I have been warned repeatedly to not let myself get out of control. Repeatedly. Like, every day. But, since the neverending pregnant barfing solved THAT problem initially, the rhetoric has shifted to the idea that I am not eating ENOUGH, even now that my barfing has slowed (not stopped, mind you, SLOWED). As such, if I am not stuffing my gaping maw every second, I’m getting YELLED AT for starving the baby and to stop worrying about my weight! Eat! Eat! EAAAAAAT!

Forgive me while I pause to put my hand through the wall. Anyone who knows me realizes that I don’t have body/food issues, and would never — NE.VER. — starve myself or my baby to avoid gaining weight. Ever. No, seriously, NEVER. One of the things that triggers projectile vomiting for me is overeating, even by the smallest margin, so yes, I am very careful not to overeat, but it is about PREVENTION OF BARF, not out of a desire to be petite demure pregnant lady. AM NOT DEMURE PETITE STARVING PREGNANT LADY. I SWEAR.

And if you saw me? YOU WOULD SEE THAT I AM NOT PARTICULARLY SKINNY. So why the concern, universe?

Anyway! Sorry! Tomorrow, I’ll be in a better mood, I promise, especially since I’m signing a lease on our new place (FINGERS FREAKING CROSSED). And in other good news, I feel the baby move CONSTANTLY and I wonder how I ever missed it. Last night, Adam felt his first kick from the outside, which was one of the coolest things ever. Finally, this barfy, headachy pregnancy is starting to have demonstrable ROI! (I KID.)

Happy Tuesday!

*Bob Dylan

45 comments October 13th, 2008