Week 18: My taste buds have a new lease on life

Earlier in my pregnancy I read What to Eat When You’re Expecting, which should be titled, How to Feel Guilty When You’re Expecting. The author suggests that pregnant women should not eat any products made of white flour and haughtily calls bagels, donuts and even biscuits empty calories. Has this woman ever been pregnant? Or alive?

I am not a junk food junkie, but I occasionally allow myself to taste the flakiness, creaminess and stinging sweetness of the confectionary arts. I remember the day my Mom taught me about this. I will premise this story by telling you that my Mom is probably the most intense health-food lover I have ever known. I remember going to friends’ houses as a child and feeling very confused if I saw white bread or cookies in their house because it made me question their Christianity. In our house, “cookie” meant raw oats, raisins and natural peanut butter rolled into balls.

I took ballet until I was sixteen and while I loved it, I had no potential in the profession. One day my Mom was driving me to summer dance camp and I mentioned that I felt like eating a Milky Way. Later in the day my Mom stopped by the studio to drop off the candy bar while I was in class, as a surprise. As it happened the director, known for her snobbery and strictness, was sitting at front desk. As my Mom handed her the candy bar the woman glared at the bar and said, “Well, that’s not very healthy!” I imagine she was picturing the wardrobe department letting out another tiny costume for me.

“Well, she felt like having a candy bar.” My Mom told her indignantly, and left.

When my Mom told me that story I felt so proud. When I remember it now, I feel so thankful that she did not pressure me to have a body that I would never have. Though she was normally Captain Sugarless, she taught me that day that sweet stuff in moderation is alright.

To the theorist that says pregnant women should not have pastries, I say, ha—go ahead and ruin your fun. I have never enjoyed food as thoroughly as in the last four months and plan to, within reason, continue to enjoy it. Last night I had a craving for a Boston Cream donut and sent Dave out to Dunkin Donuts. I have never appreciated Boston Cream until last night and I don’t know if I ever will again. But last night it was the best food I could eat and I have no regrets.

Week 16 - Pop Pop

This week marks one year since we said goodbye to my mom’s father, my dear Pop Pop. We surrounded him in his last days, fulfilling his wishes and genuinely laughing at his jokes. He was strong-minded until the last moment, snapping witty comments and maintaining a grip on the remote control. I cannot adequately describe those last days, because they are of the variety that is so close to my heart that I cannot back up enough to see them clearly.

Jessica and I drove down to central Delaware to be with our Mom, at her semi-request. It was a read-between-the-lines kind of request, but we heard the plea for our support loud and clear. The visit was supposed to be a couple of hours so that we did not interrupt Pop Pop’s rest. Then he asked that all of his children come as soon as they could.

As the house filled with our aunts, uncles and cousins, Grandma Nancy filled the tables and breakfast bar with food and wine. We rotated from sitting beside Pop Pop, picking at the food and consoling each other. The day reeked of the impending, but we tried to laugh as much as we cried.

One of the most poignant moments for me was standing in Pop Pop’s bedroom with him when one of my uncles arrived.

“Oh good, you’re here.” I sighed.

He flew to the edge of his dad’s bed, grabbed one of the older hands with a younger, matching version, and said, “I should have said this a long time ago. I love you, Dad…” I left the room as he finished the soliloquy.

When all seven of his children, three daughters-in-law, and a sample of his grandchildren were present, Grandma Nancy ushered us into the bedroom she had shared with Pop Pop since their retirement over twenty years previous. We had communion, cried and sang hymns as Pop Pop lie there, taking it all in. Grandma Nancy hovered over him and said, “Oh, thank you everyone, thank you so much for being here.”

Pop Pop had cautiously sipped his wine with all of us during communion, but during a lull in the tears and song, he suddenly sat himself up, said, “The Lord said drink his wine!” and emptied the glass.

“Oh, bless his heart.” Grandma Nancy muttered as we shared an appreciative laugh.

It has been one year since my mom left the tearful message on my voicemail at work, “Your Pop Pop is gone, hon. He died a few minutes ago” and I mumbled something to my boss and hurried home. I found my sister sitting on the steps in my apartment sobbing and had nothing to do for her but sit down and do the same. It has been a year since I began to realize that death is a part of life and there is no escaping or fully understanding it. It has been a year since I have held firmer to my belief of Heaven and the promise that Jesus left us.

As this new life grows within me, and I can sometimes feel the onion-size body moving, I cannot help but remember what is most significant in life. Those final days and moments of life are not consumed by anything but our love for each other. The only regrets involve the grace and kindness we did not give. The treasures are those acts of love that we did give.

“May your soul be blessed, may your body rest on the mountain where you were born,may your spirit soar, where there's joy ever more, may you find your way in peace.”
(Mark’s Song / Eastmountainsouth)

Week 16: Trying to hear peace over this running commentary

“Are you …. pregnant?” The woman hesitated, scanning my still-flattish midsection.

“I am, four months.”

“Okay…” She smiled, “The last time I asked a woman she told me she was adopting.”

I was mid-tour yesterday in yet another day care center. This one boasted a Christian base and a very nice infant teacher, but other than that, it was nondescript.

I skulked through two more centers during my lunch break today. One had harsh lighting and linoleum floors throughout. The next was slightly better with a constant video feed onto the internet of each classroom as well as sign-language lessons for infants. Online I have found long lists of questions to ask at each center, but while I’m ambling through each one, I just wait to feel if it is right.

I could not help but hear the myriad of voices that still resonate from growing up in a fanatical Christian home school community. The voices chanted in unison the theory that sending your child to day care, or public school for that matter, is a close cousin to selling their soul to the highest bidder.

“How could you just leave your three-month old baby here?” One squawked.

Another muttered aloofly, “You obviously don’t care if your baby bonds with you.”

“Don’t you realize that being home and making your children and house your life is your calling, as it is every woman’s?” Another said, condescendingly.

Allow me to explain. I know that some women want to be full time homemakers during some points in or all of their lives. Please note that I said want to be a full time homemaker. I do not believe it is a blanket calling, as I do not believe there is one blanket calling for men. Usually when I admit that I do not want to drop out of school, quit my job and retire to my home for the next twenty years I reap a crop of stutters and stares.

I believe that God gives two parents for a reason and not every Mommy wants to be a homemaker and not every Daddy wants to work extra-long hours to support everyone. Dave and I are hoping for some kind of alternative arrangement in which we both get to spend time raising our babies and spend time in our careers. The details of this are yet to be determined.

So, on I search, because we need all of the information before we can make a decision. I will continue trying to diminish the voices of the 16-passenger-van driving, long-skirt-wearing women that swarmed my youth. I am just waiting to feel what is right.

Week 15: Sounds like an athlete

A couple sat across from us in the waiting room, seated a few inches from each other and studiously read magazines while making occasional, quiet comments. We, on the other hand, were going to hear our baby’s heartbeat in a matter of minutes and felt like students on the last day of school. We sat close on the narrow, hard office-sofa and waited anticipatively.

He started laughing, “Listen to this.” He told me a story about a project he was doing at work and a significant mistake that included the listing of a deceased celebrity as available to chat online. He was laughing so hard he could barely get the words out, which made me laugh. Then we were laughing uncontrollably, covering our mouths to mute the noise and swiping at the tears in our eyes.

I glanced at the couple across the room and they acted like they did not notice our commotion. Once we were subdued we returned to our magazines. I continued reading an article with questions and answers related to stages of pregnancy. I scanned one question about fierce mood swings and poured over the answer.

“When does that start?” Dave was looking over my shoulder and pointed at the part of the article I was reading.

My eyes crept over his face, searching for sarcasm, but found none. “Aw, you’re nice.”

“I’m serious.”

I stared at him blankly. “It’s happening.”

He just laughed. God knew what he was doing with this match, I thought. Oblivion truly is sweet.

And then we were called into the office. After the ominous weigh-in, urine sample handoff and the blood pressure-cuff strangle, I was flat on my back waiting for my tummy to be covered in lubricant.

“I’m leaving the practice, just wanted to let you guys know that.” My doctor said as she worked the microphone over my stomach. She explained the reasons and I worried that I would miss the sound of the heartbeat in an effort to listen politely. “I’ve had this problem all evening, where is that heartbeat? Could you just lower your pants a little more?”

The doctor continued to search and I finally asked, “Are you sure there’s a baby in there?”

I meant it as a joke but I think it flustered her. “I’m sure.” She replied with an effort toward laughter.

There it was. It sounded so fast, like the baby was doing aerobics. All I could see was Dave’s face smiling as if he just saw a glimpse of our happy future.

“It’s so fast.” I murmured.

“That’s how I know it’s not yours. Sounds perfectly normal.” She lifted the instrument and the sound stopped.

As we walked out to the car I admitted, “I wish she has let us listen longer.”

“Me too.”

“They have things like that that you can use at home.”

“Yeah? Let’s go get one.”

Fifteen minutes later we were in our new wonderland. Babies R Us. Half hour after that we were trying to copy the picture of the smiling couple on the front of the package, each wearing the headphones as “Daddy” searched for the baby’s heartbeat on “Mommy’s” tummy. All we heard was static.

“Stop breathing.” Dave suggested.

The instrument was simply not as sensitive as the doctor’s, so we got nothing. We put it away and sat there, the beats we had heard replaying in our minds. I finally believe it. I can finally let go of my skepticism and believe that we truly have a baby growing inside of me.

Week 11: Is it okay to cry in court?

It was all I could do to hold back from throwing myself onto the row of chairs in the courtroom and letting loose the sobs swelling in my throat. That is to say that the proverbial hormonal roller coaster has not slowed.

Three hours earlier I arrived at the municipal court, fifteen minutes early and hoping to be in and out in time to get home and make dinner. I sat toward the back, one polite chair between myself and another person. There were over a hundred people in the room, fathers and sons, middle aged women, young ment and most of them sat tensely in silence. I guessed many of these people were not here for a simple traffic ticket.

Ten minutes after court was scheduled to begin the mediator ambled into the room and took a seat in front of us. The door opened behind me and in my peripheral vision I saw a tall, slim girl scanning the room for a seat. She tapped her fingers on her thigh as her eyes darted around the room.

“There’s a seat here.” I whispered.

“Thanks.” She breezed by me, wreaking of cigarettes. She sunk her frame in the seat and curled over herself, jammed her finger nails between her teeth and waited.

“This seems like it might take a while.” I whispered to her.

“We could be here until nine.” She sounded well-informed.

The mediator began to call names and meet with each person to discuss their case. Sarah was called and uncurled herself from the seat next to me.

“What’s going on, Sarah?” The mediator asked as she approached him. The familiarity was distinct. I could not hear the entire conversation, but I did hear the words community service and criminal record pass between them. As she stood there, I noticed the multitude of bruises and cuts on each of her arms.

Sarah returned to her seat and her nail biting. A moment later she began to leave and return every five minutes, returning each time with a more pronounced smell of cigarettes than before. At one point she whispered to me, “I’m sorry, I just get nervous and I have to walk around.”

An hour later my name had not been called and a mediator called a recess. At the beginning he said the names would be called in roughly alphabetical order, which made me think, not for the first time, I had married well.

“I wonder if I have the right date.”

“Come here, hon.” Sarah squeezed her way through the crowd and out the door. When I reached her she had a list of names in her hand, which she had taken from a slot next to the door. “Check if your name is here. If it is, then you have to stay... Not that I’m a pro or anything.” We both laughed and sat on the stairs as I looked until I found my name.

Time crept by and I finally saw the mediator. He offered two terrible options -- a $400 fine and no points, or a $100 fine and 2 points -- for the tiny slip I had made as a driver. I picked one and returned to the court room. There five, out about 150, people were still waiting. Sarah was one and she was sitting in the front row, almost bounding out of her seat with anxiety. When she was finally was called she stepped up to the table with weak confidence and the mediator sat beside her.

“Judge, Sarah has been here many times over the years, always for something related to alcohol. Please consider that she is a single mother and has some, well, some other issues—if I may approach you.” He stood up and went close enough to mutter something to the judge.
The judge rattled off typical consequences for the offense and then recommended a mental health center in the area, “Do you have insurance?”

“N-no, I don’t. But I will go to AA.” I could hear the tears breaking her voice. "I'll do anything. I'm trying..."

They reached a conclusion, but it was before the conclusion that I wanted to lie down and cry for her. There she stood, fragile in every sense and desperate for a change. Responsible to raise a child, she was unable to care for herself. I chided myself for my impatience at having to wait in the courtroom for three hours. I would leave that courtroom and return to my good life and she would leave to desperately try to continue hers.

As she left to go to the court clerk I wondered if I should go after her. I could offer to help her find services—counseling, medical, shelter—whatever she needed. Instead I prayed, remained in my seat and waited stiffly.

When it was my turn to see the county clerk I found that Sarah was still there. She paid her fine and I followed her out the door.

"I work in human services,” I offered, fumbling through my bag to find a business card. “I might be able to help you find the services you need.”

“Would you?” She asked, taking my card. "They just don't understand that I can't afford--"

“Just give me a call.” I smiled.

Walking into our house, I smelled dinner. I closed my eyes, in awe of even the basic luxuries I have everyday. I collapsed into Dave’s lap and sobbed as I told him about Sarah.

“You’re sweet.” He said generously as I mopped my face with my fists.

I would have felt sorry for her no matter what my emotional state, but it was just the thing that my fragile emotions needed to tip me into profound commiseration.

Week 10: A Return to Puberty

So far pregnancy is much more like puberty than it is what I imagine womanhood to be. The preteen body insecurities and center-stage mentality are both present, and the bit of ration and maturity I have gleaned since early adolescence has vanished. My body has typically been fairly thin in reasonable proportion. I like it that way, for the most part. However, my body is now spreading a little wider than I have ever seen it and my chest is changing to an are-those-things-real size. In most of my clothes I feel like a lumpy, giant-breasted 11-year-old.

I imagine that I am already showing. However, it has been so hot for the past few weeks that I have neglected my normal five o’clock work out on the treadmill and viewing of My Wife and Kids. I am sure the lack of exercise has had some bearing, as it always does, on my increasingly-pudgy tummy. I don’t think my walnut-sized child could be asking for so much space just yet, but I’d rather think he or she is doing just that.

Week 9: I'm gonna LOVE this kid.

Last night was the second prenatal doctor visit. I sped over after class and Dave met me in the parking lot. We sat in the waiting room, jabbing sarcastic comments at each other and laughing like preteens. When my name was called Dave was playing a game on my palm pilot and I was idly flipping through a design magazine. We followed the nurse as she led me to the scale. I stepped on and watched as the numbers rose.

“Oh, gosh.” I said, embarrassed, then felt guilty since the nurse obviously weighed more than me. “So how much have I gained?”

"One-point-six pounds.” The nurse said, jotting the number on my chart. “That’s great!”

I know from mounds of research that I will gain 2—3 pounds per month, so I guess less than two is fairly reasonable for the first month. I have not been on the treadmill in a few weeks because the weather is blazing hot. I have tried to walk outside when I have the chance, though. I do not want to be a fat mama!

The visit did consist of things unrelated to vanity issues. The doctor told me that my blood type is A negative. She explained that a negative blood type is a recessive gene so if Dave is positive it is likely that the baby is as well. If mine and the baby’s blood were ever to mix it could cause problems since my body would create antibodies to the opposite blood type. I remember hearing something about this in human development last fall, I believe in the glossery it was the Rh Factor. Anyway, I will have to get a shot to prevent my body from creating these antibodies. I spent the ride home contemplating my luck on manifesting two recessive genes—my blood type and my handedness.

I went to Café Bueno tonight with Danna and while talking about the baby I said, “You know, I just don’t think that I realize how much I’m going to love this baby.” I guess I have focused so much on the logistics that I have no idea how much this child will impact my heart. It’s exciting to know that I will love someone so immensely whom I haven’t even met yet. It’s I think I am more emotionally involved now that I realize.

Week 6: Anxious

I am struggling between fear and elation about the baby, whose heartbeat has begun tapping inside that tiny chest this week. Fear is the most common emotion lately. Then, sometimes, a tiny beam of light pin-pricks through my doubt and I know I am falling in love with those small, webby hands and feet that are just starting to move inside of me.

Last night I dreamt about our baby. It was a boy with pale skin and light hair. I looked at him and thought, “That can’t be my baby.” But then I looked at him and I immediately loved that child strongly, naturally. Dave zoomed him around like an airplane and I told him, “You can’t do that with an infant.”

A few days ago God reminded me of the verse, “Do not be anxious about anything, but with prayer and petition offer your requests to God” (Philipeans 4:6). He encouraged me to begin to pray every time I start to worry. That is going to have to become habit; my tendency is to worry to the point of obsessing.

I have no solving words to end this with. Just that I want to pray more. Trust more. And what I truly want to do is relax and enjoy this wonderful time, more.

Week 5: An Invasive Exam

On Wednesday, in two days, I will be six weeks pregnant. Thirty-four to go. Well, I survived my first prenatal visit, which did not exclude a rectal exam. I imagine that this is only the beginning of intrusive and otherwise inappropriate exams of my physical body. The nurse answered my long list of questions and the doctor reassured me that everything would be fine.

“Being pregnant is easy.” He told me from behind his large desk. I could not help but wonder how many women, just a few notches more feminist than me, would have reached across that large desk and slapped his face. I settled for a quiet smile. Other than his male faux pax I found him exceedingly reassuring. “Your grandmother did it, your great grandmother did it, you’ll be fine. Also, everyone will give you an opinion and tell you whatever you’re doing is wrong—don’t listen to them.” Though my first impression of him was dismal, I left the appointment with confidence.

I do not feel pregnant. I don’t have morning sickness (thank, thank, thank you, Jesus). I do, however, have so much gas that if there were a way to siphon it, I could fill my gas tank. And I want a beer, more so than any other time in my life.

So, here is a list of the things I love than I cannot have for at least the next 8 months: coffee, alcohol, hot dogs, pepperoni… but it will be worth it. I get a baby.

Tonight I’m going to tell my mom. She’s visiting for Rebecca’s birthday. She’ll probably scream and start dancing around the house. I guess I actually hope she does.

I’m going to stop now. I want to. In some respects, I know that since I am pregnant I can whatever I want. Oh yeah.

Week 4: Knocked Up

I’m knocked up. Last night I took not one, but two pregnancy tests. The first test was of the variety that indicates pregnancy with two lines and not pregnant with one. I stared at the stick for a few minutes until a second line appeared. The second line was almost invisible, which made me doubt its validity -- and that is what I get for going cheap on such a significant piece of equipment. Dave remembered the digital, and more expensive, test that reads Pregnant and Not Pregnant. We decided that was what we had to have.

It was 10:30 at night, on a Wednesday. The first was Stop n’ Shop, but they only carried a few brands and the fancy digital one was not among them. However, tried-and-true Pathmark had just what we needed. I plunked down fifteen dollars for the package of two, thinking I probably will not need the second test for quite some time.

Once home, I peed on the stick carefully, hoping I had 5—7 seconds worth of pee in me after taking the first test. I didn’t. Ok, it probably won’t show if I am, I thought. Before I could wash my hands the result pregnant was on the screen. Ohmygosh.

“Babe, come here.” I stood in the hallway, trying to maintain a poker face. He stood up, a smile washing over his face. He looked at the test and all I could see was his illuminated face. “We have no idea what we’re getting into.” I said as we hugged. He kissed me and I wrapped my arms around his neck, positive pregnancy test dangling between two of my fingers.

As I walked into work this morning I wanted to shout out, “Preggo! Right here!” but Dave and I agreed to keep it a secret for a little while, as a precautionary measure. One exception, of course, was Janet and I called her from work as soon as I had a chance this morning.

“So what’s your story?” She had received a play-by-play of my wondering and hopefulness since we had discontinued birth control earlier in the month.

“Two positive tests.”

“Oh, I’m gonna cry. I really think I’m going to cry.”

“Can you believe it?”

“No. Oh my gosh.” I gave her every detail in the same teen-girl-secrets tone I'd used since we became friends at age sixteen. When I said we have no idea what we are getting into, she said, “No, but neither did we. You’ll be fine.”

Then her latest addition began to scream in the background. “See what you have to look forward to?”

“Oh, goody.”

I conveniently lost my voice today, so I left work around noon to recover. I checked out a stack of pregnancy books at the library and spent the afternoon looking through them and watching Where the Heart Is. There is baked corn in the oven and taco meat on the stove. Dave will be home from in a few minutes. Jesus is so good. Life is wonderful.