People Who Shouldn't Have Dogs

This morning I saw something kind of awful. It was a pair of golden labs cantering along side-by-side, taking quick happy glances at each other as they ran, almost literally kicking up their heels with pleasure at being outside on such a day. Everything was washed with sunlight and the hedges in front of the apartment buildings were blanketed in banks of snow. It was so lovely - but something about it seemed weird, and then I realized it was that the dogs were out on their own, without an owner.

"Are they loose?" someone at my bus stop asked, and someone else said, "Yeah." The dogs ran kind of aimlessly up the block, then turned and ran back down, and abruptly raced out into traffic. A woman nearby cried out, "Oh! OH, NO! God, I can't look," and clapped her hands over her mouth in horror as six lanes of traffic screeched to a halt. The dogs made it across the road and gallivanted off.

Just then my bus pulled up and I got on, out of sheer inertia. Even as the bus was pulling away from the curb I was thinking about what I should have done. I should have gone to catch those dogs. I was already late for work, but so what. I should have run after them until I caught them. I could use my scarf to loop through their collars to hold onto them. I could take them into my apartment and shut them in the bedroom while I called the humane society. Or I could look at their collars for ID tags that might have their address. About halfway through the bus ride I realized I'd seen them before, leaving a house in a neighborhood about a half mile away. The owner was some guy who followed after them as they trotted down the street. He didn't have leashes on them that time, either, but at least he was with them. I'm so angry at him for being careless with his dogs. Why can't he walk them on leashes like he's supposed to? and take care that they don't run away? I blame him for putting them in danger. Perhaps even now he is frantically driving up and down the streets looking for them, out of his mind with worry. I hope so.

It reminds me of the guy I saw loading his pickup, on the side of that same road not too long ago, with his puppy hanging out with him. The dog was just gazing at the guy with adoration, sitting in the road watching him. Cars had to swerve into the next lane to avoid hitting the dog. The guy didn't even notice. Someone said to him, "Watch that dog," and he absent-mindedly snapped his fingers at the dog, which moved closer to him but still not entirely out of the road. But honestly! You wouldn't set your infant down in a lane of traffic while you're loading your truck, so why would you let your dog sit there? I hate it when people are irresponsible with their animals.

The Friend

Last night my friend called, the one whose calls I dread. I didn't even realize I dread them until I picked up the phone and she said "Hello," and my heart gave a kind of unhappy thunk, just the way it does when I hear the particular squeak of the side door when mi amigo comes in to start his rounds. What's wrong with me? I should be pleased to talk to friends, right? But both relationships just make me feel kind of trapped and obligated. I don't feel like I have any control over either of them. I'm always desperate to leave the office on time so I won't get trapped in a language lesson (and smooched - he is always very affectionate in greeting me, more so than I'm comfortable with). And when my friend calls, I just know I'm going to be asked to do something I don't want to do.

The heart of the matter is that we're very different people. She's very adventurous and has a kind of wild, disorganized life. So what's fun for her - like going at the last minute to a steel drum concert in a shady part of town - isn't fun for me, and she makes me feel like a wet blanket for not wanting to do things like that. Sometimes I think, much as I admire her courage, that we're friends only because we've known each other through turbulent times.

Last night I was in my pajamas and all ready to spend the evening cozily reading. It was a blustery, cold night outside, and I'd walked partway home, so I was tired and so glad to be indoors. Then the phone rang and my friend said, "I need to ask you a favor." I said, "Sure. Just please don't make me go outside again tonight." But indeed I did have to go outside. In the end I had to cook her dinner (because her life is wild and disorganized enough that she hadn't had any - which is fine, I didn't mind that), and then we drove over to her apartment in a sketchy neighborhood and packed up some of the stuff she didn't get a chance to take when she moved last week, and loaded it into the car, and drove to a different sketchy neighborhood to unload it at her new digs. It was so cold and I was carrying heavy stuff, just like I didn't want to do. And driving in a bad neighborhood late at night, which I hate. My friend is very blase about it and confident - after all, she chose that place to live. She even talks contemptuously about people who are scared of bad neighborhoods. But it upsets me. I would pay twice as much to live somewhere safe.

After I left her place, I drove back through the bad neighborhood and got lost, of course, like I knew I would. I was just trying to follow the same route back, but the streets didn't look familiar. I drove up and down, pulling U-turns on side streets as I searched for the turn. I got honked at when I pulled over. The car was starting to make some weird shuddery noises and sound like it was going to break down. I felt paranoid and vulnerable every time I had to sit at a traffic light - trapped again - trying to avoid eye contact with people on the streets. Finally I got home.

Even after I had locked the deadbolt on my apartment and was back in my pajamas drinking hot chocolate, I still felt miserable. It was like the experience made me sick, and I couldn't shake it off even though it was over. Probably part of it is pregnancy hormones, telling me, "Don't do that. OK, you did it. Don't do that - ever - again." But I knew from the start that I didn't want to, and I still had to. Ugh! I wish these things weren't asked of me.

Advice columnists always say that no one can take advantage of you unless you let them. But I don't see where I was allowed to say no. She needed to pick up her things last night, because she needed clothes for work the next day, and I'm her only friend with a car, and there was no way for her to get from the old digs to the new digs on public transport. And no good reason for me to refuse, except that doing that kind of thing makes me feel sick inside - which she wouldn't have understood. It's true that she could have planned better and gotten the stuff she needed last week. Or taken a cab. Or asked for the favor during daylight hours on a Saturday. But she didn't, because to her driving around late at night isn't a chore and certainly not scary, it's a "wacky adventure," and why would anyone refuse except to be unreasonable and mean? Even now I can't find the words I could have used to tell her no.

Monty Guinea Pig's Flying Circus

I have a new ambition for my guinea pigs. I will teach them to play soccer. It will enhance the Traveling Guinea Pig Circus immeasurably - so far, the only trick was jumping through a hoop, which, granted, is very impressive and something I'm sure people would pay good money to see. Who else in the world has managed to teach their guinea pigs to do such an amazing trick?? But soccer cannot be far behind. I have great faith in the inherent ability of the pigs to learn pretty much anything for the sake of food.

Last night I took the first step and taught them to touch the soccer ball (actually, a ping-pong ball) with their noses in order to get food. They picked it up pretty fast, and were even able to remember it for periods of time lasting from 1-3 minutes. Longer than that, and they would forget and have to relearn it. I'm using Official Animal Training Techniques from the pros (a verbal cue and instant reward - Temple Grandin says that if animals don't get a reward within 1 second of doing a behavior, they won't make the connection).

Anyway, as soon as they have that down, I will make them push the ping-pong ball a few inches in order to get the reward. Then I will make them move it in a particular direction. Then I will build little tiny goals that I will set up on opposite sides of the play area. Then I will teach them off-sides and scoring and out of bounds, and knit them little soccer jerseys, and we'll be on our way to fame and fortune!

A Cheerful Entry For Once

It's snowing outside, my boss is going home early, and the baby is doing a series of acrobatics that feel like a cross between jumping jacks and salsa dance. It feels lovely - like a massage from the inside. It's all good.

I don't have much to say today except that I wanted to post a cheerful entry because so often I only write when I'm feeling slightly out of sorts. Which gives this blog a negative cast when really, most of the time I am in good spirits. Right now I'm feeling like, even if there are big and serious and scary issues coming up in my near future, like what I should do with my career and how I'm going to adapt to parenthood, that everything will be fine. Things will fall into place as I get closer to them - and it's impossible to sort them out ahead of time anyway.

Now, I'm off to see if anyone has left any more pre-Valentine's Day chocolate in the kitchen.

Midnight Adventure

be-boop.
My dream of robot armies marching in serene formation
through deserted streets
takes an unusual turn.
A lost cell phone whimpers in the gutter
crying for juice.
One maternal robot picks it up.
be-boop.
This is no dream.
I stumble out of bed to find the phone,
through shoe and keychain detritus on the floor.
In the living room I find my bag by feel,
unzip the pocket,
rescue the thirsty phone.
Another stumbling foray locates the charger on a shelf.
Only one convenient outlet not in use.
I plug it in, go back to bed.
be-boop.
Crap. Wrong phone.
Stumble to the corner where hubby's clothes are hung.
His coat is on the knob.
Nice coat, thick lining, many pockets.
Many many.
Zips are well-concealed.
I find the phone, slim square thing,
and different charger from the shelf.
This one has no prongs.
??? Oh. They fold out.
Plug this one into outlet in the hallway.
be-boop.
This is not a phone! An iPod? trailing cables, earbuds -
Since when has he had this?
Oh well.
More searching for subtle zips.
Another slim square thing - ah, this is it.
be-boop.
Don't worry, little one.
Here is your juice.
Now please shut up.
I stumble back to bed.

Some Thoughts of the Day

It's so cold outside. Little gritty bits of snow are starting to swirl around - it's like the sky itself is cracking and freezing and bits are flaking off. How does anyone survive outside? Especially the little birds with their bare legs and feet. How is there enough for them to eat to stay alive? How do they last through the long nights when the air feels almost too cold to breathe?

Guilt. I walk past homeless people every day who are standard fixtures - the woman outside the McDonald's, the man who holds out a frisbee like a serving platter for people to drop change onto, Boombox Man who's often rocking out to his battery-powered radio. I nearly always say "Sorry" when they ask for change, but then I feel bad about it, because of that damn diminishing returns thing - a dollar would go further, and mean more, for them, than for me. So I should give them something. Here I am trying to decide whether or not to shell out $300 for Bradley classes, and thinking it might be worth it, and to them $300 is an incredible fortune, even $3 is not bad - it could mean having a hot sandwich instead of going to sleep hungry. But there is so much misery in the world. How can I possibly try to appease it when really, I could give away all I have and still not make a dent in the suffering?

Raw meat is disgusting. I'm eating meat these days because I couldn't seem to get the recommended amount of protein for pregnancy when I was vegetarian. The other night, peeling chicken skin off a drumstick, the cold slimy layer of fat flopping around and sliding through my fingers, making my chapped hands sting, I thought about antibiotic resistance and factory-farm cruelty, and wondered if I was really doing the right thing. The knife I was using sawed ineffectively against the chicken skin, then slipped out of my hand and skittered across the floor. A piece of chicken fat dropped onto a fork that was waiting to be washed in the sink. Hair fell in my eyes, but I couldn't brush it away because both hands were slimy. I felt like every surface in the kitchen was becoming contaminated. After the chicken was in the broiler, I disinfected everything like a madwoman. Small consolation that after cooking, the chicken legs were tasty.

I am not nearly as down as I probably sound. Perhaps I should call this a clog (complaint log) or wog (worry log) rather than a blog. I think I'm mainly just worn out, working too much, and tired of being sick. Perhaps I will be more chipper in the spring.

Needs Improvement

I'm suddenly overcome with yearnings to be different. It's silly, because I'm finally in a place in my life where I have all the things I've been searching for, for pretty much my conscious life (or at least since my teens) - most importantly love, but also a home, a vocation, and promise for the future. Outside looking in, everything is rosy. If I wasn't me, I'd want to be me. Actually most of the time I still do. But over the weekend I was smitten with admiration for how sensible and strong and wise my mother is, how much I'd like to have the aura of warmth that she has, and to approach things with her grace. I feel flittery and nervous next to her, even when I try to be calm. I would like to glow through the rest of my pregnancy and make motherhood look easy and natural, be the kind of mother to my child that my mother is to me. But I worry that I just don't have it in me. And the fact that I'm worrying is probably proof that no, I don't, because it's exactly the kind of existentialist crisis that I specialized in growing up, and that my mother is too sensible to ever fall into.

Failing that kind of grace, I would at least like to be an interesting person, with a lot of ideas and things on my mind, and a variety of unusual hobbies like the friends we saw yesterday. This isn't new; I always feel, after spending time with them, that I should be more like them. They're musical and talented, support a bunch of social causes, have already traveled the world, and have a home full of fun things like Lego and children's books (although they don't have children). Everything in their home has a story, and most things were gifts from their wide and varied group of friends, from the Chinese instrument on the wall that was a wedding gift, to the salt shakers from a friend's Peace Corps stint in Peru, to the crayon drawings on the refrigerator from a nephew. I'll never have as many friends as they do. I even envy the quick, instinctive understanding of one another that they have - it is as far as I can tell a perfect relationship. Next to them I feel like the only interesting thing I've managed to do lately is get pregnant, and I feel terribly un-artistic.

Probably both the strength and the interestingness are things that can be achieved through practice, or at least improved. I will simply have to work on it.

Tears for Fears

Yesterday morning I went off to work in high spirits after a giddy tickle-fight with my husband, who is awesome. Over the course of the day, the spirits were progressively dampened, and I started panicking about not having found a doctor I like yet, whether it's really safe to give birth at the birth center like I was planning, whether we can afford this, being so tired all the time, the fact that I'm coming down with yet another cold, possibly not being able to find another job if I take maternity leave and don't come back to this one, how having a baby is going to eat into the time that I have with my husband, etc.

I want this child so much, and yet I still have flashes where I think I'm ruining my life/our lives. By the time my husband got home, I was curled up in bed crying. He didn't even have to ask many questions, just crawled into bed to hold me and said "Chances are, everything will turn out fine." It's amazing how much those few words helped. I could feel the weight lifting off me, and the tears dried right up.

One of Those Weird Conversations

I went into the video store and paused just long enough to drop my video in the slot on the counter - then because the guy was sitting right there, I said hi to him.

Me: Hey, how's it going?
Video Store Guy: Ah, it goes, I suppose.
Me: Well, I guess that's all you can ask for.
VSG: But is it? Sometimes I think one could ask for more. Like a pause button.
Me: Or rewind.
VSG: Rewind. Yes. Is that too much to ask?
Me: Why not ask for both? I mean, you're not going to get either.
VSG: Sometimes if you ask for too much, it won't happen. But if you're realistic in your requests, it could.
Me: Well, it depends on who you're asking.
VSG: I suppose different deities have different policies on these things.
Me: Yeah.
VSG: Asking for the optimal amount. That's what I try to do.
Me: Yes, well, good luck with that.
VSG: Thank you. Rewind and pause. It's not too much, is it?
Me: Let me know how it turns out.
VSG: Indeed I shall.

Unrequited Love

Last night I dreamed about my cockatiel, who died a few years ago. I feel like I'm never going to stop missing her. I often still think of her, and when I see other cockatiels in pet stores, I'm drawn to them right away. I still remember how powdery soft her feathers were when she would nestle up against my cheek, and how her crest would go up and down in wide-eyed amazement as she looked at stuff. She was funny and clumsy and adorable and totally focused on me - as soon as I came in the door, she'd start calling, this particular "where are you?" greeting call. When I answered it, she'd reply with another particular type of whistle, like "oh! there you are." Sometimes if I was just in another room of the house, she'd check on me with a "where are you" whistle and I'd whistle back, and she'd go, "oh! there you are." I don't think my family really got why I loved her so much because she wasn't friendly to them, even though she'd known them all since she was a baby. She would hiss at them, then go all soft and cuddly as soon as I approached her cage.

Thinking about her got me feeling guilty about my other parrot, who I still have - but he lives with my parents since he's pretty loud and we're in an apartment with thin walls. He's a little more friendly with my family, but he's still focused on me. When I come in, he's all eyes for me, dancing back and forth and squawking to get my attention, and the whole time I have him out on my shoulder, he's preening my hair and talking in my ear and making kissy noises. He is lovely. But it's so sad that he's like that with me, when I only see him maybe once every two weeks and only spend a short time with him. He's chosen me, and he's been with me all through my late childhood and adolescence and growing-up, but I can never love him back the way he loves me. He's had to watch me go off to college and then find my own mate - who he obviously feels jealous of - it drives him nuts to watch us kiss -, and pretty soon I'll have a baby who will take priority over him too. Loving anyone just opens you up to different kinds of sorrow.

Figuring Stuff Out

So yesterday's entry was kind of a downer, but I didn't mean it to be. I had a great time over the holidays, and got to spend time with all the people I love. I also had ten days off from work which was heavenly. I can't wait for maternity leave, which I envision as an extended vacation, blissful mornings in a rocking chair while my baby sleeps in my arms, trips to the park with the baby, time to read all the books I like, etc. (sleep deprivation? what's that?)

My dad and I have the same New Year's Resolution: to figure out what to do with the rest of our lives. I like my job all right, but I think it might be time for a change, so I'm looking at this as an opportunity to step back and reevaluate. I would love to come up with some kind of plan for making money that would allow me more free time during the day, the opportunity to set my own schedule, and less need to be political/confrontational with people. Some people might laugh that I even think my current job is at all confrontational, but to me it is. I also feel like I ought to be making more of a contribution to conservation - to what really matters. Meanwhile my dad also has to figure out, if he's not going to go back to work, then what he is going to do with his time. We're both too young to retire.

It's kind of silly because I feel like I don't have enough time to do all the interesting things I want to do, and there really need to be two of me if I'm going to have two full-time jobs, working and raising a child - but he doesn't have enough to do, and needs to find a purpose to fill the time. The obvious solution, to have him live with us and help out with the baby, makes me just as uneasy as it did when my mother-in-law suggested we just move closer to her and she would raise the child for us. It's our baby; I want to do it myself. If that means I end up exhausted and overcommitted, I guess that's just how it will have to be.

Everything is going great with the pregnancy so far. I finally started gaining weight. It's all thanks to ranch dip, which I slathered on baked potatoes every day for a week. I am now porkier than ever before, and my belly is getting rounder by the day. Still haven't felt the baby move, though I do spend long minutes with my hand on my stomach gazing into space trying to figure out whether I am feeling fetal kicks or digestive rumbles.

Holiday Guilt

The holidays are over, and I'm a little glad. I love all the anticipation and the sense of celebration that pervades everyday life around the holiday season - cookies in the lunchroom for no particular reason, decorations all over town, people smiling at one another more than usual. But somehow it seemed like too much this year. I couldn't wait for the feast to be over so I could get into fasting mode.

Sometimes I feel terrifically guilty about Christmas. This year, we're supposed to be saving money for a house, but instead, we spent lots of money on gifts that maybe weren't exactly what people wanted. And got in return, lots of things that were thoughtfully chosen for us, that we didn't particularly want or need. Not wanting or not being able to properly appreciate a gift from a loved one feels somehow like I'm rejecting the person, or the affection they were trying to express. I don't mean to - I want to appreciate everything, and I always appreciate the thought that went into a gift. But sometimes I just don't need another electronic gadget. Or another box of tea, or a beautiful ornament to sit on a shelf somewhere. I would rather spend an afternoon in the park with my family than have any gifts at all.

When we got back to our apartment after everything was over, and I started trying to find places to put all the new things (when already the apartment is crowded and cluttered with things that we just don't have room for), I felt like crying. All this stuff was supposed to make me happy. I think overlaid on the guilt that it doesn't, is the wretched feeling of duplicity because of course I acted excited about each new thing, and thanked the giver, and came up with reasons why the gift was perfect, just right, etc. It's such an emotionally complicated time of year.

I think Christmastime is sort of a magnification and extension of the year-round guilt I feel about my father. I always feel that I should be doing more for him, spending more time with him, etc. He's very sensitive to rejection, more so than most people, and he puts a lot of time and energy into doing these wonderfully thoughtful things for me.

When I was a kid, for instance, every year for my birthday he would design a treasure hunt. The hunts got more and more complex and amazing as I grew older, incorporating ciphers and things I had learned at school that year, and I would usually invite a gang of friends over to help and it would be an all-day adventure. We'd race up and down the stairs, to the top of the yard and back, searching for the next clue in a frenzy of excitement. I remember those hunts with the same rush of joy as I recall Christmases of my childhood, when I was at a peak of happiness pretty much all day long. But as I got older, somehow the hunts stopped being as much fun. My friends were growing up too and weren't as interested in participating. A couple of years, I couldn't get anyone to come over, and walking around by myself tracking down clues seemed kind of sad. I also started feeling that the obligation to appreciate the cleverness of the puzzles was outweighing the pleasure I got from solving them. But I didn't know how to tell my dad that he didn't have to keep making me treasure hunts each year. Once or twice I hinted that maybe I was outgrowing them, but then he would get kind of quiet and I could tell he was sad that I didn't enjoy the hunts he put so much love into. Finally last year, there was no hunt, and I was secretly relieved. Why is it that when you say, "I don't love this thing, but I still love YOU," people tend to only hear the first part of the sentence?

I've been thinking more about my dad lately because he's at kind of a low point. He doesn't have a job or friends really, or anything going on in his life that he can put his energy into. He's one of the most intelligent people I've ever known, and to see his talent and potential going to waste is hard. I'm afraid he is depressed, and I don't know how to lift him out of it. From time to time I try to get him involved in new things, and he always really tries - actually he tries too hard. He sinks so much energy into things that he burns out. He can't just enjoy trying a new skill, he has to get really good at it, or else "fail" and feel miserable. New people aren't just acquaintances that he can get to know better, they're instant friends whose unintentional rebuffs or preoccupation wound him. I don't know how to get him to relax. In the meantime, he's lonely and sad, and the things that work for my mom (church) and me (work and friends) to keep us involved with the world aren't there for him.

The Mystery of the Pregnant Mink

I've been wondering how wild animals handle pregnancy. My impression of life in the wild is that animals have to spend pretty much every waking moment foraging or hunting for food, and if they could gain weight, they would - but you hardly ever see a fat wild animal. I read an article about minks once, called "Living Hungry." A mink has to hunt continually, just to find enough food to survive. Their metabolisms are so high that if they don't make a kill and eat about once an hour, they die of starvation. They're an extreme example, but really life must be hard for any animal that doesn't have access to a grocery store. So when they get pregnant, how do they manage to put on the extra pounds?

Maybe they just spend more time eating, and less time keeping a watchful eye out for predators or defending their territories - they're forced to take additional risks in order to get enough calories. Or maybe they migrate to better hunting grounds or follow seasonal food, like whales traveling down the coast. (Though that raises the question of, if the hunting is better in those zones, why don't they just live there year-round?) It must be especially difficult for animals in temperate zones that mate in the fall and give birth in the springtime - because that means they have to gain all that weight in winter, the time of year when pickings are slimmest.

Or maybe in the wild, being pregnant is a normal state of affairs and most animals conceive every year, but then most of the babies die or get eaten. So it's a rare animal that spends a season non-pregnant or non-nursing, and without those extra demands on resources, that animal actually would be able to get fat. Maybe there is more "wiggle" room built into the system than it looks like - perhaps most animals don't have to spend all their time foraging just to survive, they eat until they're full and then have time to wander around doing other things (unless they're pregnant, in which case they just spend more time eating and less time wandering around). Still sounds like it's tough to be a mink.

I wonder about these things because, although I am not a mink, I have a high metabolism, and I'm not sure I can eat enough to gain the weight I'm supposed to. I try to snack extra, but then I usually don't have room for dinner, so I don't think I am managing to eat more than I did before I got pregnant. I think I am supposed to be gaining a pound a week from now on.

At the Clinic

I had a cool experience yesterday. I was calling around trying to find a place to get a flu shot, and found out that the city department of health gives them out for free (along with all kinds of other immunizations - childhood, preventive for travel, etc.). My tax dollars at work! They only give them out on Thursday afternoons, during a two-hour window, at a municipal building a couple miles from my office. So, I hustled on over there and found the building, which looked totally dark and deserted. The doors were unlocked, though, and the security guard told me to go up to the third floor. It was also dark and deserted. I wandered around trying doors, but they were all locked for the night. A cleaning crew was running a vacuum somewhere.

Then I tried another door, and it opened onto a hallway full of light, heat, conversation, and people. It was amazing. There must have been a hundred people there, standing and sitting against the wall, whole families, kids, people coughing. How did they all know where it was? Most of the people were Spanish-speaking and everyone looked tired. I put my name on the sign-up sheet and took my place at the end of the line. With all those people ahead of me, I figured I'd be there an hour.

To my surprise, they called me almost at once. I felt uncomfortably privileged as I walked past all the people and into the clinic. It turned out most of them were there for more complicated things, and there was a much shorter flu shot line inside the clinic.

As I sat down, the woman next to me smiled and said, "When is your baby due?" I turned to her with a million-watt grin. She's the first person who has noticed. I'm hardly showing at all yet. I said eagerly, "You can tell? You're the first! It's due in June," and just then the two women on the other side of me chimed in, saying, "I thought you were pregnant, the minute you came in," and everyone was congratulating me. They all traded theories on the baby's sex based on the way I'm carrying (all thought that it was a boy) and said that I was "carrying well" for my stage, though I'm not sure what that means. I felt lapped in friendship and sympathy and part of a community of women in that wonderful way I've felt just a few times before in my life. We were all different ethnicities and ages, and all laughing together like we'd been friends forever. It was just great.

Some Bold Plans

I've been researching places to give birth. The back seat of a taxi is looking like a better and better option. Just kidding.

Actually, after talking to a couple of hospitals in the area and touring a local birthing center, I am leaning toward the latter. It's basically an old farmhouse with three bedrooms - you show up when you're in labor, and a midwife checks on you periodically, and you have the baby all by yourself. The advantage is, no interventions, no pushy doctors, no fetal monitoring, no IV drips, no C-section. I'm worried to the point of obsession about being forced into a C-section. I know my body can do this on its own, given time. The down side of the birthing center is, no pain relief. They have hot showers, but no epidurals. When I told my friend that I was thinking of having natural childbirth there, she said, "You're brave." I don't think of it as brave though. I think of it as my only choice if I want to avoid being sliced up (now, and again for any child I might have in future).

I'm a little frustrated that it has to be this way. Despite the widespread availability of modern forms of pain relief, I'm going to have to do things the old, nineteenth-century way (actually, the way of all the previous centuries), suffering through every contraction, just because hospitals are so hyper and insane about interventions. I know that only 8-10% of women "need" a C-section (because their pelvises are too small, or because the presentation is wrong). But the hospitals in my area have a rate of 40%. Most of the time, the C-sections are given simply because doctors are tired of waiting and want to speed things up. It frustrates me that I have to hide at a birthing center just to escape that. Why can't it be my choice to labor as long as I want? Why can't I be the one to decide, instead of a doctor who doesn't even know me?

Anyhoo, so my job for the next six months is to psych myself up for natural childbirth. On days when I'm feeling good, it seems very doable. All those mantras about women's bodies being designed for it ring loud and clear. But then I stub my toe or hurt myself in some other way, and think, "Ahhh! I don't like pain! Make it stop!" and labor seems completely terrifying.

I also think I'd better keep my plans to myself. I just know that if I tell anyone, they will cheerfully say, "Hoo boy, you are crazy," and start relating tales of agony and try to convince me to go to the hospital. Even if it's really that bad, I don't need to hear about it. I need to be told, firmly and repeatedly, that it is fine and I can do it. "Si, se puede!"

Walking in Snowdrifts

It seems like I can't stay healthy for more than a few days at a time before I catch another cold. It feels like walking in deep snow, making just a little progress on the thin crust before I fall through into a mushy drift. I'm currently in the hacking-and-choking stage of the third cold of the winter. I managed to hold it at bay for a whole week - every morning I'd wake up with a sore throat and think, "This is it!" but then over the course of the day it would disappear, until I almost had hope that I was going to win.

Last Sunday the cold finally lost patience with me, stopped lurking, and went on the warpath. I went home early from work on Monday, fighting not to throw up in the bus. It was awful. The whole way home, I could feel my stomach heaving, and my throat starting to retch, and I just had to clamp my teeth shut and pray that no one was noticing. The second I got in the door to my apartment, I ran for the bathroom and threw up. It's not because of the pregnancy though. The baby's an innocent bystander, and actually hasn't caused me more than a few moments of nausea the whole time, which I appreciate. Although, I guess my immune system is probably suppressed on its behalf, and that's maybe why I'm getting sick so much.

I will also blame riding the bus, though, since people on the bus are always sick. It happens like this: I get on the bus, and invariably within a few minutes after I've sat down, the person next to me starts hacking. I quickly look away to inhale, hoping to get some uncontaminated air. The person on my other side chooses that moment to let loose a large, wet sneeze. I wait a moment or two so as not to seem rude, then quietly get up and move down the aisle to the standing-room-only section, where some guy launches a series of phlegmy coughs directly into my face. What gets me is the way no one on the bus even tries to cover their mouths. It's like a different culture.

Oh, enough complaining, though. The good news is that all the pregnancy books I anxiously peruse seem to agree that catching a cold isn't dangerous to a fetus (though taking cold medicines can be). So, that's all that matters anyway. I'm also happy because some friends gave us a bunch of baby stuff, so we won't have to go shopping for clothes, bassinet, etc.

Ode to Stretch Pants

Covering, not confining,
Shapely and refining -
To think I almost took you back
After try-on, to the rack!
Not work-appropriate, I thought.
Some instinct stayed my hand.
I relented, and I bought,
These pants that now I know are grand.
Now I wear you everywhere,
To work, and bed, while cutting hair.
"You'll wear those out," my mother said,
"Long before you reach month nine."
Little does she know - instead,
I'll wear you for my whole lifetime!

Tired, Happy, Worried, Tired

Things are good. I'm almost ten weeks along. At first I was really anxious and careful, I moved like I was made of glass, and was afraid of miscarrying from stress or exercise. Everything I had to do (climbing stairs, lifting and carrying boxes, taking a trip by plane), I instantly thought about the pregnancy, and then felt upset because it was all required for work, not anything I could get out of. As soon as I got home from work each day, I'd lie flat on my back, hoping to cancel out the day's worth of activity.

I've relaxed a lot now. For one, I seem to have come through all the stressful stuff fine (still pregnant, anyway), which gives me confidence that this baby isn't as fragile as I thought. For another, I don't really feel that pregnant. At first the knowledge occupied my every waking moment. Now there are whole afternoons when I completely forget about it. I haven't gained any weight, despite my best efforts. The first few weeks I ate at every possible opportunity, and even drank protein shakes before bed. Didn't gain a pound. I'm about to give up on trying and just let my body do what it wants, assuming the weight will come naturally in its own good time.

I'm really tired these days. Supposedly that is a common symptom of pregnancy. In my case it's because I started a second job, the kind of thing I can do from home. I wanted to get it underway now and then have it as an option to earn some money during my maternity leave. It is bringing in extra money, which is great, but it's also quite a time commitment. No more time for naps at the end of the work day. I worked a lot over Thanksgiving and will have to work every night and every weekend day for the next month, just to keep up. I feel like I'm running all the time, and never get a chance to rest. Of course that's not true. But the feeling of being harried, and being overwhelmed, never quite goes away. I haven't even had time to find a doctor yet, which is something I really need to do.

On the happy front, in those moments when I'm not actively working or worrying, I just close my eyes and feel gloriously happy. Having a baby is something I've dreamed about most of my life, that I was afraid would never happen. I'm so excited and glad. It's brought a particular tender new dynamic to my relationship with my husband, which I love.

I do get flashes of worry - not just about the regular practical things, like will I be able to avoid a C-section and will the baby be healthy and can we afford it - but about the long-term implications. Things we do now without a second thought, like spontaneously deciding to go to a movie and walking out the front door to make the next showing at the theater down the street, will be things we can never do after we have a baby. Or spending a whole day at a museum. Or going to lunch with friends. Or (gulp) sleeping more than three hours at a stretch. I'm anxious about the potential damage this will do to our day-to-day happiness. I don't want him to feel that I brought this on him before he was ready, or for him to get the brunt of the negative changes while I bask in the joy of motherhood. I will do my best to make it easy on him, but there's no getting around the fact that a baby will throw a lot of the pleasant aspects of our life together out of whack. So, we'll just enjoy our freedom while we have it, and keep our fingers crossed.

Then and Now

Feeling happy and lucky today. Sometimes I think back to my college days, or even high school, which were wonderful times. I remember staying up all night talking with my friends about life, the universe, and everything - the kick-ass play that we wrote together in high school - the afternoons I spent sitting on my dorm windowsill overlooking the quad, full of angst and loneliness, feelings of such overwhelming sadness that it was like a fierce joy inside me. I was usually lovelorn over some guy or another - or over love in general. It was how I wanted to be. The experiences I had in those growing-up years made me who I am, and I am glad to have had them. But when I compare that life to my life now, I can see that I have a baseline level of happiness now that I only used to achieve then on a particularly good day. Back then, I was ecstatic if I saw the guy I loved on my way to math class, if we exchanged a wave or a few moments of platonic conversation. Now, I get to see the guy I love every day. I get to kiss him! I'm allowed to hold him, and see affection in his eyes looking back at me. It seems nearly too good to be true.

Where's Erin??

I'm here! I just haven't been writing much, and I'm not sure why. I think I am reluctant to talk about being pregnant in my blog because so much of it is really personal. Not that I haven't written about personal topics before. This just feels like something I want to keep folded close for a while. And, it seems silly to blog about what I saw at the bus-stop or the little intricacies of friendship, when the pregnancy feels so overwhelmingly important and exciting to me right now. It's like saying "pass the butter" when there are fireworks going off right outside your window.

I haven't told anyone yet except for my family and a couple of friends. I'm afraid of jinxing myself. I especially haven't told anyone at work. Partly because that's the thing to do, you're supposed to soldier on through the morning sickness and not let anyone notice, because in case you have a first-trimester miscarriage you don't want to then go around to ALL your colleagues and explain that you are not, after all, having a baby. So that's a good practical reason. But also, I just don't feel like sharing anything that is close and special to me with people at work. I feel like they wouldn't appreciate it, so I don't want to "waste" it on them. I felt the same way when I got engaged, I didn't tell them until I had to (because I needed to ask for time off for the honeymoon). They acted happy for me when I finally told them. But my overriding feeling is that these people are not my friends, they don't understand me or what makes me tick, and it's not safe to bare my soul to them. I hold myself apart from them and share as little as possible. It has to do, I think, with their assignation of me to the lowest rank in the pecking order, and my refusal to accept that.

So for now, it's our secret. I have started sneakily wearing stretch pants because I could no longer fit into any of my regular work pants. I looove the stretch pants! They don't squeeze me at all. They are more amazingly comfortable than I thought any piece of clothing could be. I have not gained any weight yet, but my belly is pushing out a little bit. So I guess some other part of me has lost weight to compensate.

I'll write when I can, or when I can think of something good to post. In the meantime, thanks for bearing with the intermittent updates and for still reading my blog. :)