It's All Coming Apart

I couldn't help but notice the excruciating hip pain I've been experiencing during the night. I noticed it mainly because my body makes sure I'm awake for it. God forbid I should sleep through any really interesting pain.

I explained the hip pain to my doctor who responded, typically, "That happens often in pregnancy." My doctor responds this way to most issues I raise with her (and you may not believe this, but I am not a problem patient; I do my reading, and only bring up a concern on the rare occasions I haven't found the answer myself). I could say, for example, "Yesterday while I was typing, three of my fingers fell off." And she would respond, "That happens often in pregnancy," and would most likely prescribe Tylenol. They (the "They" assigned to all Very Important Decisions) have determined Tylenol to be the one medication unlikely to cause instant death to a pregnant woman, so doctors like to dispense it liberally. "Take Tylenol," sounds better than "Just deal with it," particularly when addressing concerns like missing limbs.

She had an actual explanation for the hip thing though: my joints are loosening to allow my pelvis to widen so I can accomodate my growing baby. Now, that's pretty cool, I admit. What the human body just automatically knows to do without my having to read it on babycenter.com first is pretty amazing. However, a reason is not a solution to the problem. Agreeing that this is, indeed, a very wise course of action for my body to take does not make it any less painful in the middle of the night.

In addition, the shifting and growing that is going on has managed to land everything on my bladder. Now, I am the kind of person who already had to stop at every rest stop on a road trip "just in case." I have a terror of being too far from a bathroom, something that has always been inate in my makeup but was made worse by a situation in Costa Rica on my honeymoon involving no outdoor toilets, a lot of mud, and poor balance. Anyway. Suffice it to say that my life has now become absolutely consumed by bathroom locations. I have to know where the closest toilet is at all times, because I never know when this darling little girl will decide to start using my bladder as a trampoline. I realize there is very little to do in there, what with no TV or ipods (we run a tight, boarding-school-like ship in this here womb), but her new-found hobby has become increasingly stressful for me. I spend most of my time either going to the bathroom or thinking I very urgently need to go to the bathroom.

The thing is though, it doesn't matter if you have babies or don't have babies, it will all fall apart eventually anyway. "Use it or lose it" and "Use it and lose it" are nature's mottos when it comes to women. If you have a baby, chances are good that later in life, due to all this stretching and pulling and realigning of parts, you will sneeze one day and your uterus will fall out, causing you much embarrassment at the public pool. However if you don't have a baby, They say you have a higher liklihood of getting breast cancer. I managed to beat all the odds: I am having a baby, but not until the age of 35, which means my uterus will fall out AND I am more likely to get breast cancer.

The rules extend further than baby-making parts. For example if you don't exercise, you'll have a heart attack and die. If you do exercise, your hips, back, knees, feet, legs and torso will have to be replaced later in life. My mom has to have reconstructive knee surgery. She was stupid enough to be really healthy when she was younger, and ran marathons and irresponsible things like that. So now she must pay the price by slowly (and painfully) replacing each of her body parts with prosthetics. She is extremely creeped out by this, but I think it'll be cool to have the Bionic Woman for a mother. When she leaps onto rooftops I will stand on the ground with my own busted and useless knees, thinking of the day I, too, will become part Terminator, and encouraging her by making the requisite "DA-na-na-na-na," Bionic Woman sound. That's only if they let her through security at the airport though because apparently prosthetic knees can sometimes be mistaken for weapons of mass destruction. But then, so can a tube of toothpaste so you might as well have bionic knees.

What is my point? I don't really have one. Except to say that one way or another, everything will fall out or off eventually so you might as well just do whatever you want, whether it's birthing babies, running marathons or peeing your pants at work because your baby decided to solute Obama's acceptance speech with a firm fist to the bladder.

I have to go to the bathroom.

Did I Ask You?

"When I went into labor with my first I almost bled to death. I bled on the table for seven hours. I'm lucky to be alive."

"You need to get wait-listed for pre-school NOW. In fact, if you had a brain in your head you would have registered your child before you conceived him. That's not very responsible parenting."

"They couldn't figure out why I wouldn't stop bleeding but I was starting to see spots when the doctor finally showed up and reached up into my raw, oozing VAGINA and..."

"My friend waited too long to get waitlisted and ended up finding some random woman in the phone book who turned out to be a Jehovah's Witness and her baby's first words were, 'For this I have been born, and for this I have come into the world, that I should bear witness to the truth.' No,really..."

"And you can't buy just ANY crib, because up until 2005 the safety regulations weren't carefully monitored and 9 out of 10 children get their heads caught between the bars and die every year..."

"...and YANKED the rest of the placenta out with her FIST while I screamed, 'Holy Mother of God please take me NOW!'..."

"...then one day the kid comes home and says Santa Claus is the work of the devil..."

"... HUGE gush of blood all over the bed and the doctor and a bright white light..."

"...CRIB DEATH..."

"...and I am just so relieved I got him into daycare finally, because what's $2,500 a month for peace of mind and a caretaker who wasn't charged with manslaughter? Charged, not sentenced but still..."

"...and then they CUT OFF MY CLITORIS..."

"...forecasting college will cost thirty million dollars a year by the year 2020..."

"...fed it to some CHICKENS..."

"...college degree to teach finger-painting plus there's Early Mozart and Intro to Physics and you've signed up for astronomy already, right? No? Who let you procreate? What kind of a parent are you?!"

"BUT ABOVE ALL ELSE BE SURE TO KEEP YOUR STRESS LEVEL DOWN!!! IT ISN'T GOOD FOR THE BABY!"

Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Grouch?

One of the truly fantastic things about being pregnant is that while I've always been a pretty grouchy person, I can now totally get away with being an overbearing bitch with virtually no repercussions. Well, except with Tom. He sees through me like a cheap Frederick's of Hollywood teddy. But everyone else, when witnessing one of my red-faced temper tantrums, goes, "Aw."

One of the things that has always gotten my goat (what an odd expression; yet fun) is when people don't do their jobs properly and nothing can get me going faster these days than lazy ineptitude. Nevermind that I've discovered "pregnancy brain" is not a myth, and I can't do my own job properly anymore. But maybe because of that it's even more imperative that other folks do.

Take, for example, the mailman. The mailman has exactly two jobs (whereas I, I feel the need to point out, have about 70,000): Take the outgoing mail away; leave the incoming mail in the box. But it seems that our mailman can only do one or the other on any given day. Therefore, if I leave an outgoing Netflix movie in the mailbox, with the little red indicator flag up, the mailman will likely only be capable of leaving mail that day. Yet oddly he will have the presence of mind to put the red flag down, obviously forgetting what he was supposed to do BEFORE that part, which always fools me into thinking maybe he's caught on to the other 50% of his job duties. But at the bottom of the pile will be the tell-tale red envelope his under-stimulated cranium neglected to register and it NEVER FAILS that when I first see it, despite there being NO WAY the new movie could have shown up simultaneously, I will get a little excited. And then inevitably disappointed and really pissed off when I realize it was the movie I was trying to return.

I have very little energy these days. My entertainment, particularly during the week when I use what little energy I do have to complete 9 -10 hour work days, depends solely on Netflix. When the mailman can't do ONE of his TWO jobs correctly he has completely ruined a pregnant woman's entire social life. So every afternoon I make the treacherous stomp up our steep driveway ranting like a lunatic because the mailman failed me once again. "Aw," go the neighbors.

Another thing that really chaps my hide (not as fun as getting my goat) is that people just can't let go of the fact that the Fourth of July is over. It's OVER, people. In fact, it was over WEEKS ago. What this means, and I'm very sorry to break this to you, is that fireworks are NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE until December 31st. Normally I wouldn't give a rat's ass if you wanted to blow out your eardrums all night long, every night, two doors down from my house, but my dog minds A LOT. And when my dog minds, I mind. Because this means she barks and carries on at whatever ungodly hour (because apparently people who worship the Fourth do not have to get up early for work the next day) you choose to titillate your unimaginative senses FOR THE FIFTEENTH NIGHT RUNNING with a few illegal explosions in our very quiet, very dog-friendly neighborhood.

And it's not like she's only bothered during the actual fireworks. My dog who normally has the memory of a gnat is now terrified of going outdoors anywhere close to dark. Despite the fact that the sun doesn't set until 10pm at this time of year, Theo, to be on the safe side, boycotts the outdoors as of 4pm and retreats to her perception of safety: under the bed. Which means getting her to go to the bathroom between the hours of 4pm and 8am is a colossal struggle that usually ends in someone getting bitten.

The other night, when we hadn't seen the dog in about two days, I, like a complete moron, stuck my arm under the bed in an attempt to coax Theo out and of course got my hand chomped. I completely lost my shit (haven't I provided this dog with absolutely every possible luxury, including unending amounts of love and devotion? and this is how I am treated?!) and started screaming at the top of my lungs while simultaeneously slapping a yard stick hard against the tile floor about a foot away from her face, "GET OUT HERE GODDAMNIT! YOU'D BETTER COME OUT HERE! I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR ASS YOU LITTLE SHIT!" I don't remember the exact words, but you get the gist.

Tom came flying down the stairs at the commotion, gently wrestled the yardstick away from the crazy pregnant woman, and, amidst a lot of growling and snarling (Theo's, not Tom's) finally got the dog out and took her outside for a pee.

When he got back he said casually, "Next time you threaten to beat the dog while making highly suspicious slapping noises with a yardstick, you may want to make sure the windows are closed."

Apparently several suspicious neighbors had heard my innocent little tirade and come out to investigate. I was mortified. I volunteered at the ASPCA! I donate money to animal shelters every year! I WORSHIP this dog! I'M the one who got bitten! And now all our rude neighbors who can't give up their firecrackers think I beat my dog when I'm the one who should be getting the sympathy here. ME! Me, the poor pregnant lady who can't get any sleep because her dog is busy barking and biting her!

"Aw," anyone? Anyone?

私の胸対世界

I think my body's newfound discovery that it can create life has gone to its head. Er, my head. Whatever. In any case, it has decided, completely independently of my brain, that if it can create a whole human being without any outside assistance, it makes sense to go ahead and try to take over the world.

My body, of which I no longer have any control (if indeed I ever did; I'm beginning to think it has LET me think I was in control this whole time as a part of its ingenius plan) is approaching this lofty goal via several strategic maneuvers simultaneously. The first is to cultivate my breasts into two giant, independent living organisms that will conquer, Godzilla-like, the planet Earth, one city at a time.

My body launched its plan almost immediately after conception. "Hey," it said to itself (but not through my ears, lest the traitors relay the message to the conscious part of my brain), "if we can create a whole person in the uterus, why not in other parts? There's TONS of unused space in the boobies! And - hey - there's TWO of them! We can conquer the world twice as fast!"

Ever since then my breasts have been steadily swelling on a daily basis to the point where when I walk down the street, Asian tourists point at me, shriek, and run terrified in the opposite direction. Tom and I have nicknamed my twin Benedict Arnolds Pinky and the Brain ("What do you want to do today Brain?" I hear one whisper to the other in the middle of the night. "The same thing we do every day, Pinky - try to take over the world!")

I think they've already succeeded with the male population. From what I can tell, I need only be within a ten-foot radius to render the male of the species completely helpless. That part's pretty cool, actually.

Meanwhile, not the type of body to put all its eggs in one basket, it has launched the simultaneous Take Over the World By Emitting Deadly Gasses Until Everybody Is Dead campaign. Seriously, I'm surprised Bush's minions haven't arrived at our house seeking out Weapons of Mass Destruction. There is a green cloud that hovers over our home, and I think the dog's dead. Tom says no amount of gas can make him love me less, which is very sweet, but I know a sense of self-preservation is going to kick in for him at any time, and he will understandably try to smother me in my sleep. My body has already thought of this and has it covered - it'll just send the breasts in to hypnotize him, something that has become sort of a new-found hobby for my body which, I have noted, doesn't seem to bother Tom a whole lot.

But while other people can always run away, I can't. I'm stuck with myself. I try scurrying quickly to another room when I've dropped a bomb but there are only so many rooms in the house. I think perhaps this approach might backfire on my oh-so-clever body, because I'm feeling awfully light-headed, not to mention lonely.

So don't panic yet; it's very likely I'll be the cause of my own destruction without anyone having to call in Mosura. However, if you see a giant tit coming at you, you may want to run away just in case.

P.S. for funnsies, plug the title of this blog into an online Japanese-English translator

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!