Sweet swear words. Why hast thou forsaken me?

I just have to note somewhere that in the course of a week I have said, “crappola” and “frick.” Oh sweet lord. I knew it would be hard to quit cursing for me – it’s like breathing for me – but I never knew that it would lead to saying, “oh, rats!” for real. Who am I????

The pink bomb has detonated

I think pregnancy is an experience that can teach someone a lot about what kind of person they really are. They used to say the same thing about alcohol when I was growing up -- that you can tell what someone is really like when they are drunk. Back then, it meant that you may act all nice when you’re sober but when you’re drunk you kick puppies. Or you may act all cool when you’re sober but when you’re drunk you sing along to Billy Joel songs. Anyway, I found out that when I’m not pregnant I’m all Women’s college, subscribe to Ms. Magazine, NARAL pin wearing and when I am pregnant anything the color of pink turns me into a mushy nurturer that just wants to hug it and squeeze it and do it’s hair with a pink ribbon. I’ve known for a while now that I’m going off the rails a little bit with my desire to own all things pink, but it was like seeing yourself from behind in a three-way mirror for the first time when I passed the door to Betty’s room this morning. Last night I put pink curtains up in her room which already has a pink carpet, sheets, blankets, changing table cover, and closet full of clothing. Last night everything looked just fine to me. This morning, however, thanks to the sun coming through the pink curtains, there was a pink glow going on along with all the other pink and frankly, I was a little scared. I saw it as if for the first time and there is just no question that I have crossed the line. I think I should enter this date in the baby book that Betty will never see: November 29, 2006, the first time mommy lost her mind. It will be in the book right after the date where mommy first felt too competitive on Betty’s behalf and the date where mommy first said something inappropriate about one of Betty’s playmates.

Basis of comparison

Here's me with my best girl KJ who threw me the cutest shower ever this Sunday and is simply the worst person to be pictured with while pregnant. After seeing this I took a mental note that wearing black is only slimming if you can fasten your zipper. Love must be given to this lady who made cupcakes and strawberry icing from scratch, put proscuitto in the celery garnish for bloody marys and looks this good on four hours of sleep.

This is the new low.

Because of the fact that my body temperature has been at an all time high during the pregnancy, I confined myself to the indoors with air-conditioning for the entire summer and saw maybe ten minutes of sunlight a day. Also, because I have not been able to predict how I would feel from day to day, I have foregone any beauty regimen that requires an appointment. The result is that at 34 weeks, I am a very pale and unkempt version of myself with an extra 35 pounds. So yesterday I tried to bring myself back a bit with a trip to my hairdresser. I love going to her because she is really fun to talk to and I never see her unless I get my hair cut with her. But the truth is, she always gives me the same haircut and it is never the haircut I feel that I am asking for. Usually it’s no big deal because curly hair is going to do what curly hair wants to do regardless. But this time, with every other beauty attribute in the crapper, I had a little more riding on the haircut than usual. So when I left her salon with the same haircut again, only much shorter this time because I had very tentatively suggested a change that resulted in her removing another inch of hair, I was totally devastated. And let me just say that devastated for me as a pregnant woman is like twenty times more intense than a normal devastated. Well, long painful story short, thanks to a pair of very effective scissors and a huge amount of irrational f*ck-it attitude, I can now wear my hair in two ways: a bun or halfway up in a barrette. Yes that’s right. I tried to cut my own hair. It is now an uneven choppy mess that has solidified the fact that for the next four months mirrors are my enemy and my only friends are large sizes and self-tanner.

Rant #57

I’m going to start a secret society of pregnant women who are getting epidurals. The ridiculous part of this idea is that the membership in this society would be like 90% of all pregnant women. Why is it so secret? Because women who decide to go through labor without medication LOVE TO TALK ABOUT IT and make the rest of us feel like we’re doing something wrong. To me it sounds evangelical when I hear talk about birth circles, being “natural,” and doing it the way women throughout history have done it. One of the things I hear that makes me want to scream is “your body knows exactly what to do.” Really. Then let’s just go ahead and look up the protocol for your body when the umbilical cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck. That’s funny, I think I see the word, “die.” I mean how bizarre is it that women who live in this country and have access to all of the advantages in modern medicine somehow want to deprive themselves of it and instead opt for the painful and nerve-racking experience that women had to go through five hundred years ago? What is that about? If I were a sociologist I would study the connection between the American puritanical tradition and the “natural” child birth movement. But I’m not so I’ll just enjoy the company of my secret society sisters who will join me in saying, “all the more for us.”