If you were looking for maternity yoga pants anywhere in the greater Boston area, be warned, I HAVE BOUGHT THEM ALL. For some reason it has ONLY JUST DAWNED ON ME, almost 26 weeks into this pregnancy, that the time of yoga pants outside of the home has come. I’ve never done this. Despite looking slovenly on hundreds of thousands of occasions, I have always had this feeling that leaving the house in yoga pants was verboten, akin to wearing sweatpants. I assumed I didn’t have the figure for them anyway!
SO MANY ASSUMPTIONS, DISPROVED. Also? I don’t care. We’ve established that pregnancy is a generally disgusting state of being for me, and since we reached a new low this week — that of angular cheilitis — and I’m smearing Lotrimin on my lips three times a day, let’s be real here. Should I be concerned about yoga pants? Should a person who regularly pees in a bladder protection garment, barfs all over town and smears JOCK ITCH cream on her FACE really be concerned about yoga pants in public? REALLY?
Besides, I’d forgotten that one of the small gifts of pregnancy — the only gift, really — is that once your belly eclipses your boobs, every single OTHER part of you looks delightfully tiny. For the first time in my life, I have an ass the size of an elf! A very large, elephantine elf, but compared to my belly, IT IS AN ELF’S BEHIND.
(Leave me to my illusions, friends.)
These are the things that make me wonder about people who claim to love pregnancy. If you love pregnancy, you have to tell me: Do these things just not HAPPEN to you? Do you not barf for nine months, pee through your pants and get YEAST INFECTIONS ON YOUR FACE? Or are you just made of tougher stuff than me?
Separately, and despite all of this horror, I often forget that I’m pregnant. I guess I’m just used to living this way, but sometimes I glance in the mirror and wonder WHEN my midsection got so FAT and my God, was I not paying any ATTENTION TO WHAT I EAT? Then I remember that oh, right, there’s a person in there (I HAVE TWO VAGINAS) and also, I barely eat, so obviously, I am pregnant.
Anyway, I have a question for you. What do you do for your kids’ birthdays? Sam’s birthday is March
7 6 (OMG, I got my OWN CHILD’S birthday wrong the first time), and we’ve only ever had a family party for Sam, and cupcakes for her little playgroup, but most of her friends have had capital-P Parties, with other kids and sometimes at outside locations. I don’t know, you guys, this is so hard for me because I just don’t see myself doing it, but then of course I FEEL GUILTY. And I don’t judge anyone who DOES fun/big parties for their littles at ALL — we love going to them — but I am generally a lazy mom, and also, she’s GOING TO BE THREE. Is she going to remember this? Or care? PROBABLY NOT.
(Small irony in this statement is that one of my first memories is of my third birthday party, held at — wait for it — Weiner King. Yes, Weiner King.)
So, ugh. I just don’t want to do it because it’s just not my personality to do so, but then I feel bad NOT doing it, like I’m missing my opportunity for her to have a good time, and everyone ELSE is doing it, but them I’m like SHE IS THREE, GET A GRIP, MY GOD.
At any rate, it’s time for my nightly salad of hummus, lettuce and cabbage with a drizzle of vinegar and some feta. Adam LOVES when I eat it in bed, as you can imagine.
*Bon Iver. I’m meh on the guy, but I try. Also, get it? Kind of like babies? BUT NOT AT ALL, REALLY.
February 16th, 2012
Well, that was an enjoyable week! Few weeks? GOD I DO NOT EVEN KNOW. Y’all, we had the plague, and I know no one wants to talk about being sick, but it was hideous. Coughing! Barfing! Coughing! Peeing through pants! ALL THREE OF US. Well, wait, the peeing was just me, but don’t worry, I finally bought some Poise pads, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but my God! Incontinence products are a pregnancy GAME CHANGER, did you know this?
(I think most people knew this.)
But seriously, I would gladly do ADVERTISEMENTS for these things. Before their discovery, I was doing laundry up to SIX TIMES A DAY. FOR MYSELF. THIS IS SO HUMILIATING.
One of the things that I keep thinking about is how if this baby works out (NO ONE COUNTS CHICKENS UP IN HERE), I am done with having children. Done. D O N E. Done. Whenever I hear other people having this conversation, it’s almost always after their child is already born, and they find themselves looking around, asking if everyone is here yet.
I want to be that way, I really do, but there are so many factors that help me realize that this is it. I would LOVE more children, honestly, I would, and I think if I’d started having them in my twenties, there would be a real possibility of having more. Alas, I’ll be halfway to 37 when this little peanut is born, and if my experience with Sam is any indication, I wouldn’t be remotely ready for another for at least three years, which puts me halfway to 40, and let’s be honest, here, my fertility is not particularly ROBUST, and at current rates, I’m guessing pregnancy would strike naturally at age 65, at which point my fetus would doubtless have nine limbs and four eyes, and I just don’t HAVE twenty years of trying to conceive in me, you know what I’m saying?
I would have — and will — fight for two. I don’t have the fight in me for three, which is sad, maybe, but there it is. And frankly, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to the hard parts being over forever. I don’t want to say that I want to wish any of it away — certainly not — but there is something thrilling about knowing this is likely my last pregnancy. I will never, God willing, barf for nine consecutive months again. I can put the Poise pads away until I’m geriatric. Save for nursing, I’ll have my body back to myself again, forever. Ibuprofen and I will be lovers again, forever and ever amen, and never shall we part.
And you know, I just . . . is it bad to admit I’m not a newborn person? I want to love them, and I do, of course, love my newborn babies, but I don’t enjoy them the way I do, say, babies six to nine months and even up. If humans gave birth to the equivalent of a one-year-old, I would have THIRTY CHILDREN, YOU GUYS. I WOULD.
But ugh, newborns. The non-sleeping. The mystery of what they could POSSIBLY NEED from a long list of MYSTERIOUS THINGS. They just . . . aren’t enjoyable. Then, of course, there is the potential for screaming and not-sleeping and newborns are SO STRESSFUL and so help me God, the only way I’m getting through this next child of mine is because I know, deep-down, that I’ll never have to do it again. When she sleeps through the night, that will be it, save for the usual regressions and sicknesses and setbacks, which are all infinitely livable compared to the everyday stress of wondering just how long your eyes will stay closed—if they close at all—before you’re jolted awake by that teeny tiny wail of neverending need.
God, though, I am also acutely AWARE now of how worth it they are. With Sam, I had no idea. I thought that was my life forever. I thought this tiny little pupa-like THING was all I would ever get, and I didn’t see how much fun kids could be. I had no idea she’d turn into a mail-obsessed comedienne who loves to be naked and hates purple popsicles and enters a room with, “What UP, Daddy?” when she’s feeling feisty.
Thank goodness there’s an ROI I’m aware of this time, is what I’m saying. But even so. I’m done. I’m looking forward to taking things in our family from the GROWING a family stage to that of raising one.
So yes. Two and done.
Is it weird to know that while she’s still in utero? Related: I will be handing my maternity clothes out to LITERALLY ANYONE. ON STREET CORNERS. HERE, HAVE SOME PANTS.
February 13th, 2012