Different nests

Yesterday I had to perform an act that went against every nurture bone in my body: I sorted through my books and selected about a third of them to give to the goodwill. The reason that this was difficult is that after living in my parent’s house for 18 years plus a boomerang summer, I am conditioned to surrounding myself with books and magazines like a bird feathering the nest. Ever since I can remember, my parents have been engaged in a never-ending cycle of first acquiring books and magazines and then devising systems and structures that will hold all of them. Bookshelves lined the walls of every house we lived in and when the books outnumbered the shelves, they were added to the stacks of periodicals that capped off any available counter or table. After living on my own for ten years now, I have a strong suggestion of this behavior in that I have kept every book that I ever bought and obtained shelves in which to keep them instead of letting them go. But there is a major difference between us that I had to face up to yesterday which is that in my parent’s house you will find The London Review of Books, Art in America, Winston Churchill and Wittgenstein, and in my house you will find Jane magazine, a Sue Grafton mystery and the Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. So, in an effort to create room for the nursery, I acknowledged that I do not really need to hold onto the whole Jan Karon series for the rest of my life in the same way my parents hold on to a set of Shakespeare plays. This also led to the bittersweet realization that Betty will not grow up in the thoughtful academic environment I did, but holding on to paperback Stephen King novels isn’t going to change that.

High Score

I think B and I broke the world record on quickest registry experience ever. The way registering works is that the baby store gives you a laser gun that scans the barcodes of the items you want to add to your list. The effect of this method is completely predictable to anyone who has met my husband. Before I could say how does it work or where should we start, B was shooting away at baby bottles and pacifiers in full video game mode where the objective was to identify the category of item(s) sold on each aisle and shoot to kill anything pink in that category. Occasionally he would pause to look at the scanner and report cheerfully on how many items he had scanned. At one point I thought about putting my foot down to try and figure out what we would need, but the truth was, I found the store completely overwhelming. The bottle section alone was at least sixteen feet of different brands, sizes, packages, combinations and colors. I did at least try to keep in front of him so I could get a general idea of the aisle before he entered the arena but it just turned out to make me laugh the whole time because all I could hear was the scanner going off behind me like an approaching assassin. We must have looked like maniacs because each aisle we went through had little packs of parents and shoppers reading tags and referencing guidebooks and we would blast in, hit some buttons, touch some fabric, and shoot out the other end. The majority of our time was spent in the clothing section where B shot anything that had the word “daddy” on it and I selected any item that came in a three-pack or was made out of really soft material. Final score? 65 items in forty minutes.

Seven weeks of torture or ten weeks of panic?

When the third trimester hit I went into a tailspin of panic and somehow talked myself off the ledge by signing B and myself up for a seven week birthing class to be held in a yoga studio with a former doula. And yes. I knew it was completely not the class for someone like me who would prefer to be as far removed from the birth process as possible but what can I say. I needed a security blanket. So we went to the first class yesterday and started off on a great foot by being thirty minutes late because I got the starting time mixed up. “Not a problem,” I whispered to B as we waited for the nine other couples to adjust the circle and make room for us. “That means the class will only be an hour and all we missed was introductions!” This was the last optimistic thought I had because next question the teacher asked was if everyone had already purchased a book about birthing and we were the only ones who had not.

After that, the teacher talked to us about anatomy and stuff while I wrote notes to B stating all of the reasons why I thought one of the husbands was almost certainly gay. Then she introduced the concept of a “birth plan” where you state ahead of time where and how and with who you want to give birth… which is probably a relevant idea for people who have plans other than, “maximum drugs, minimal cutting.”

And then, with absolutely no warning, we were told that it was time to watch a birthing video. B and I turned to each other in terror and agreed that it was rather early on in a SEVEN WEEK CLASS to jump into the visuals. But being too self-conscious to leave we followed the class into the next room and tried to sit as far away from the TV as possible. The only thing I saw during the part of the video where the baby came out was a nano second of TV screen and three minutes of B’s shoulder.

The video was followed by an acupuncture therapist who spoke about the benefits of acupuncture for ripening and opening things and all I could think was how the only needles I cared about are the ones that would carry the epidural fluid into my body. It was at this time that I realized that the class was not an hour and a half as I originally thought but TWO and a half hours. For seven weeks. OMFG.

Finally, it came time for the ending relaxation session and I settled myself between B’s knees and leaned back on his chest. The teacher turned on some chanting music that I have only heard in yoga studios and can’t begin to describe other than to say that I’m sure that the only place you can buy it is in health food stores near incense and body wax. After the teacher talked us through the relaxation of our faces, throats and abdomen, B’s phone started to vibrate and he pushed me away to frantically search his pocket for the phone before it would start to ring. After several seconds of snapping the phone open and shut and hitting buttons we were back in place but I spent the rest of the relaxation period fighting the inappropriate giggles that some people experience during funerals.

And then on the way out we were asked to sign up to bring snacks one week and I did it. I may find the class to be of zero relevence to my lifestyle and preferences, and it probably hurts me more than B to go, but something about it provides me with a feeling that I am preparing myself and I'm just not ready to let that go.

Cry for me, argentina.

Week 29 is definitely the low-water mark of my pregnancy. Not only have I gone over the weight gain chart as defined by the fried food haters at Pregnancy Weekly, but I also “strained” my back and came down with a cold. When I say strain, I mean an intense sharp pain that goes across my whole back and prevents me from driving or putting my pants on. And when I say cold, I mean just a regular average cold, but the first one I’ve had in my adult life that I can’t take down with a dose of Nyquil. The result is that I am feeling very, very sorry for myself. So sorry for myself, in fact, that I am shamelessly campaigning for sympathy. I have found that carrying around a box of tissues gets the ball rolling nicely by extracting the obligatory question, “do you have a cold?” I am also naturally limping a little bit, but there is no reason to walk around with my hand on my back other than to indicate I’m wide open and ready to receive pity. It is working so well that I think I may be featured in the next Oxfam campaign.

Not hot mama. Big mama.

I am fully aware that I checked sexy at the door about three months ago but after this weekend I locked the door and shoved a chair under the knob. This weekend I purchased a belly support system which is constructed of a wide strip of white elastic that fits under your belly and around the small of your back. Wearing it is worse than the combo of pregnancy panties (picture very large briefs) and low riding jeans, which I accidentally wore together one day. To me it is worse because there is velcro involved, which adds intentionality and sound effects. I have noticed that there are some women out there who totally own their pregnant bodies and exude hotness as a result, but personally, I don’t feel a whole lot of ownership when I have to look in the mirror to get the band in place because I can’t see where it is if I look down.