Rock and Old

Last night Tom and I went to a Duran Duran concert. I found myself feeling sort of sorry for a 16 year old me who would have KILLED to see Duran Duran but could not afford it, whereas now I paid three times what tickets cost then, and I spent the entire time wishing I were in bed.

I could make a few excuses as to why I am so tired these days. This week at work has been particularly grueling, for example. But really, I'm just lame. Old and lame.

The second we entered the hall - about half the size of the stadiums Duran Duran used to fill which made me want to run backstage and apologize to the band - my ears started ringing. How is it that there are high-pitched frequencies only teenagers can hear, yet teenagers aren't at all bothered by the squealing of bad speakers turned up in volume to make up for quality? I don't remember ever thinking it was too loud when I was younger. But old people are notorious for the old "your music is too loud" complaint and now I'm a freaking cliche.

Luckily Tom, who is even older than me - FORTY if you must know, which is mind-blowingly old - foresaw this problem and brought... can I admit this? Oh all right. He brought earplugs. Yes, he brought earplugs to a rock concert and god bless 'im for it or my head would have exploded.

But we weren't the only ones suffering. Simon, the lead singer, was apparently feeling his age, too, or at least that's what I'm assuming based on the fact that he asked the audience to sing half his songs for him. I guess he was out of breath. It does seem the older the band, the more often they hold that microphone toward the audience with a limp arm, letting the audience do the work for them while they take a bit of a rest on stage. I sang more Duran Duran at the Duran Duran concert than Duran Duran did.

That all being said, it was still a great concert - the parts I was awake for, anyway. Despite the noise I was still able to sneak in a few cat naps here and there, which provided me with the temporary energy to stand for the particularly good songs. And of course standing helped with the whole singing from your diaphram thing too.

I think I'm going to write Duran Duran my first fan letter.

Dear Duran Duran,

You guys rock. You are so awesome. But next time could you keep it down a bit, and maybe start at 5pm so I can get home by my bedtime at 9? Also, please don't come on a school night. It throws off my whole week.

Thank you,

Karen

P.S. I enjoyed singing your songs for you. Please send my share of last night's ticket sales to the address below.

I Have Some News

“OH MY GOD YOU’RE PREGNANT!”

For the past two and a half years, this is what always followed any announcement that I had news. And then I had to disappoint whoever it was by clarifying no, I am not pregnant, I got a new job. Or was moving to another state. Or had finally dislodged that uncomfortable piece of lettuce from between my teeth. Or something equally dissatisfying.

Every time I went to my in-laws for dinner and accepted the offer of a glass of wine, everybody sighed dejectedly.

So, AHEM

I have some news. Yes, THAT.

While I busy myself with growing a person, someone I can’t see or feel yet but who nevertheless exhausts me beyond the ability to speak, very little else has changed. I guess I expected people to be flying across the country to bang on our door and deliver gifts and hugs. But except for the exciting moment of delivering the news, pretty much everybody went straight back to minding their own business. I guess they’ll be more interested when the child is outside my body.

There are a few exceptions. My mom, of course, is thrilled, and calls me her “sleepy knocked up girl.” Mom has a propensity for creating creepy nicknames when she is profoundly moved by a life event. When I was planning my wedding she called me her “baby bride,” completely missing the irony that I was getting married in Alabama, where such a thing could be taken literally.

So mainly I’m just left to myself, with whom I spend very little time because I am often sleeping if I am not at work. When I am awake I am generally trying to find something to eat that will satisfy some elusive, indefinable craving - which luckily, so far, hasn’t ever turned out to be coal or dirt, which I hear are some of the less enticing cravings pregnant women can get – while still following all the minute rules of the pregnancy diet. I have to say, for something the size of a grape with no digestive system, this kid is one picky eater.

Who knew you couldn’t have any soft cheese, like blue cheese, goat cheese – essentially, all the ones that smell the worst and taste the best? Before I knew I was pregnant I threw Tom a birthday party for which I made a platter of pear and goat cheese bruschetta, most of which I ate myself before the guests arrived, served alongside an enormous wedge of brie which I also consumed liberally. So already, before I knew the kid existed, I had completely screwed up as a mother by essentially hurling a murderous hunk of brie down my gullet at his poor undeveloped head.

So then I started to get paranoid. One night while cooking fake jambalaya from a box (“just add meat!”) I discovered that I can’t eat deli meats either. They have the same evil bacteria as my beloved cheese. So I stood beholding my already-cooked jambalaya, listening to my stomach growl (which it does a lot these days) pondering whether They really mean it or not. After reading online for about 45 minutes, and accidentally stumbling upon all sorts of unrelated-to-deli-meat horrors, I determined that so long as I cooked the meat until it was unrecognizable, it was okay to eat.

But now it seems that whenever a food is mentioned, suddenly I HAVE to have it. For example, I overheard somebody mention Cheetos the other day. I have never really cared for Cheetos but I immediately dug through my wallet for change and hurled myself desperately at the vending machine, PRAYING that it had Cheetos (it did). I stuffed them down my word hole like a ragged street urchin. And if you had told me a couple months ago, “When you’re pregnant, you can’t eat deli meat,” I would have scoffed. But now that I can’t, suddenly ALL I WANT is deli meat. What about Subway sandwiches? No more turkey sandwiches from the sandwich shop in my office building? How can a high-protein, low-fat food like turkey be bad for me? I find myself questioning everything I put in my mouth. How can I not, when a well-respected baby website posts prominently on the front of its “pregnancy health” page a question from a reader headed “Is it okay for me to eat vegetables?” Vegetables? I would have filed that under the “duh” category but apparently this is a question worthy of discussion! If I can’t trust vegetables, what can I trust? No wonder pregnant women are all nuts.

Oh! Nuts. That sounds good.

What's Really Important (aka The Pooping Blog)

Long before I ever got pregnant I developed an intense fear of childbirth not just because of the pain (my fear for that is, of course, to be assumed) but because of the fact that I might make a poop on the delivery table.

This has been a fairly constant concern that has weighed on me for many years, despite not having been pregnant. I don’t see how Tom could ever see me the same way again once he sees me poop on a table. Well, poop ANYwhere, but especially on a table.

Long before I became pregnant, when Tom and I were just throwing the idea of kids around, I would take care to mention as casually and as often as possible, “You know, I may make a poop on the table.” My goal was to intersperse this thought into so many non-related topics that eventually my husband would become immune to the idea.Tom responded at first with all the proper, supportive things: It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Nothing you do could make me not love you. I will always find you attractive. Until, around the fiftieth or so mention of it, I finally broke him and he blurted, “Will you PLEASE stop reminding me!?”

I’ve often wondered why this isn’t a larger concern for every expectant mother. Why aren’t there bulletin boards devoted to this on babycenter.com or ivillage? Except for Anne Lamott’s “Operating Instructions,” (which is how I found out about this possibility- certainly none of my friends told me) I have yet to find one mention of it in any of the books that are otherwise not at all shy about discussing things like “cheesy substances” or a thing called a “mucus plug” - the definition of which I haven’t had the courage to learn. How is it that a woman will open up about the most indelicate details of the state of her vagina during delivery but will NEVER mention making a poop on the table, which I personally find the most horrifying detail of all?

Now I know the answer. And I’m not going to be a tight-wad about it. I’ll share it with you. Nobody made me take a vow of silence about pooping when I became pregnant, so I’m going to assume a mob of large, irate pregnant women aren’t going to come after me with torches for divulging this heretofor unshared secret.

The reason they don’t obsess about making a poop on the table is this: A pregnant woman is delighted to make a poop ANYwhere, at ANYtime, no matter WHAT else is going on. I would gladly squat in the middle of the dining room table if it would guarantee me a nice bowel movement.

My life has become, and will remain, revolved around pooping. Mine now (or rather the lack of it) and later the baby’s. I think pregnancy constipation is nature’s way of making you truly appreciate the passing of a healthy dump so that you won’t be quite so aggravated by having to change a diaper full of it several times a day. No, instead of being irritated, you will be delighted that your offspring has been saved the discomfort of a backed-up bowel.

Too much information? Well, I think I’m just saying what everybody has always thought. As my wise friend says, a good bowel movement can make anybody’s day, not just a pregnant person's. And lately my moods are determined, for days at a time, by when I made a poop.

Heed my words, oh yee lucky people who can poop whenever you want to! Do not take it for granted! Lock yourself in that lavatory with a good book for awhile! Proudly flip on that overhead fan! And poop! By all means, go forth and poop with pride!