Crazy-Make-a-Baby

33 weeks.  astoria,  ny

Sept. 28:  33 weeks.  Size of a durian.  Don't know what that is?  Neither did I.  Here's a pic: Durian.  And steps for eating one:  http://www.wikihow.com/Eat-Durian

Someone offers me a seat on the subway.  This time, it's a man.  Guys, you gained a point.  The man that offered me his seat did not speak English as a first language.  White American Men, you are still in ranking lowest in this social observation.

Sept. 29:  For the fainting, I was encouraged to take an iron supplement.  The pill form can make one constipated and I am unwilling to go there.  (Or not go there, as is more appropriate.)  So, I bought the liquid kind, of which I am to take a mere 10 ml.

People.

It's gross.

Sheffield catches a whiff and, while repulsed, cannot refrain from giving it a try.  "It's not worth it," I plead with him, even though I know he won't listen.
And that curiosity killed the cat,
And that Sheffield is a cat on his 1,000,099th life.

So he tastes the liquid iron supplement, and I admit I am slightly comforted that he gags and compares it to "16 year-old rancid prune juice."

Misery loves Curiosity.

Sept. 30:  Every time I point my toe I get a Charlie Horse.  Every.  Time.  Toe-pointing is how I wake up every day, evidently, though I never noticed until it started instigating the lower leg seizure.  I am not trying  to do it.  I'm half-alseep and have been waking and stretching like this for 40 years.  I am trying to retrain myself to flex my feet when I wake up, which feels awesome, when I can drag my fuzzy brain into consciousness soon enough.  Recently, while catching up on what-size-fruit-or-vegetable-is-my-baby-this-week, I caught the list of "Symptoms You Might be Feeling This Week" and "What To Do About Them."  Charlie Horse is listed!  In the feet!  Great!  What do I do, Wise Baby Internet Site?

"Don't point your toes."

Thanks geniuses.  Are our pregnant brains that useless?

Oct 1:  Today I wear my non-maternity "skinny" jeans to work.  This-  this, my friends is astounding.  Because the jeans are skinny.

And I am not.

But the combination of low-rise and elastic allows them to rest just below the bump and miraculously not slide off.  I am feeling pretty cool.  I wear a slouchy sweater that was just handed-down to me and my cool grey half-boots (also second-hand.)  It's not that I am trying to hide my pregnancy, just trying to look cool in pregnancy.  I see other ladies doing it, and I want to be like them.

At Whole Foods on 14th Street, I pick up three kinds of prepared soup -because pregnant brain cannot be bothered to choose- and I get in the rather lengthy lines.  A young male WF employee approaches:

YOUNG MALE WF EMPLOYEE:  Um, ma'am, if you don't mind my asking, are you... are you "expecting?"

ME:  Wow, good eye!  These are skinny jeans!  (Say I, in my head.)

ME:  (In reality)  Yes.

YOUNG MALE WF EMPLOYEE:  Um, you can just go around.  They'll take you at register 35.

ME:  Well, isn't that nice.

Then I shimmy (squeeze) past all the skinny NYU girls with their quinoa.

As a subway-riding New Yorker, its a bummer to miss out on the "pregnant lady" parking spaces.  So, a hearty shout-out to the NYC Union Square Whole Foods for their efforts!  And to the kid who's job it is to distinguish the pregnant ladies from the poochy bellies.  I guess at WFoods on 14th Street, it's not that hard.  Besides us pregnant ladies trying to cram organic foods into the amniotic fluid, it's mostly NYU dance majors.  Who are shaped like middle-school science-fair poster-board.

Oct 2:  Drinking Regular Coke is for hangovers and what I call "Crazy-Make-a-Baby."  You want to see a fetus rock-and-roll?  Drink Coke.  You don't even have to finish the can.  Just give her a few sips and watch the fireworks.  (*Calm down, I don't do this just for fun; I was feeling nauseous at work and thought a few sips might help.  It did.  And the dancing fetus was an excellent lesson in sugar sensitivity in the young.  Consider me forewarned.)

Oct 3:  On Friday after a relatively long week of work, I call Sheffield and ask him to meet me for dinner out because I don't want to cook.  We go to a diner around the corner, so I can order and omelet and pancakes.  Yes, for dinner.  Yes, and yes again.  When I have eaten the pancake and half of the omelet, Sheffield calmly explains that our apartment is "in shambles."  What does that mean, I wonder to myself, and then out loud.  "I took everything out of the closets and didn't have time to sort it and put it back, so I left it on the living room floor."  I am unenthusiastic about this apartment description.  Here's what it looked like:

The weekend unfolds, and the shit is still on the living room floor.  Somehow, I manage to get through Saturday and Sunday by getting out of the apartment as much as possible.  But come Monday morning, this shit is in my way at every turn.  I cannot get to the few clothes that fit me.  I cannot see in the full-length mirror to see if I am actually, in the clothes I've chosen.  I cannot reach my laptop.  Or the printer, both of which I need.  I cannot open the refrigerator door.  The REFRIGERATOR.  (If you have been following this blog even a little, you know how drastic this is.)  I admit I got a little huffy and didn't hide my displeasure though Sheffield was sound asleep.  I was "slamming around" a bit, yes.  When I dropped some shoes on the bed beside him, Sheffield woke with a start, "What?  What happened?"

ME:  I CANNOT GET TO ANYTHING I NEED.  YOU HAVE TO GET THAT SHIT OFF THE LIVING ROOM FLOOR.  OKAY?

Sheffield:  (Groggily) Okay.

ME:  (Deep, possessed, murderer voice.) OKAY.

When I come home from work, he recalls the above morning exchange as such:  that I punched him while he was sleeping and told him to clean the living room up.  (I did not punch him.  He's an actor.  He exaggerates.)  But he had made this progress:

"Very good," I say, "you may live to meet your daughter."

Oct 4:  This is the day of my NY baby shower thrown by my friends Amy and Jen.  It is super adorable and fun.  They get the word out that we are hoping for credit toward our diaper service and surprise us by a Book theme.  We now have an impressive children's library, and the books were stuffed with diaper gift certificates.  Our baby's warm dry butt thanks you.

Oddly, the only pictures I took feature the awesome cupcakes over my two awesome hostesses.  Hmm...

 

Post-shower, I try on the nightgown that my mom sent me.  I love it.  I will wear this and only this as soon as I stop working.  I will wear it at the hospital.  I will wear it when we bring her home.  In fact, I am posting this blog 3 1/2 weeks later and, guess what?  I am wearing it right now.