LOVE goes to the Curb

36 & 37 weeks; astoria, ny

Oct 19:  36 weeks.  Little Fetus Froo Froo, I am told, is the size of a Honeydew Melon.

Oct. 20:

There
Was a chair
Called LOVE.
LOVE broke.
Where oh where
Goes a broken chair
called LOVE?

Before this sounds like a sad story, let me point out that we live in a small two-bedroom apartment in Astoria.  Which is in Queens.  Which is in NYC's five boroughs.  NYC is arguably one of the greatest cities in the world.  We have a constant flow of tourists.  We have inhabitants of many cultures.  We have great museums.  We have Broadway.
What we don't have is space.

And thus, unused furniture, broken or not, often must go the the curb.  But it can only got to the curb on "Big Furniture Day."  Otherwise, the city's garbage retrieval system will ignore it.  That is, if the furniture even lasts long enough for the garbage trucks to retrieve it.  Many a couch has been fetched by a guy with a pickup.  Or two guys, with no pickup, but with big arms.  (See vino & the bean blog entry.)

A few years ago, as I planned for my and Sheffield's wedding, I decided to imitate a DIY idea I found online.  The idea is that the Bride and Groom have their own personalized chairs at their wedding.  Thank you, vast internet, for the examples below:

As cute as these idea are, I put my own spin on it and named the chairs for what was becoming our "wedding theme."  (Before you gag, it is actually our life philosophy distilled into two words, and if you don't like it you can stop reading at any time, and you have no heart.)  I salvaged our two chairs from thrift and vintage shops in Staunton, VA, painted them, and labeled one "Dream", and the other "Love."  I lugged them to the venue on the Big Day along with a Honda-full of other DIY wedding stuff.  The freight elevator to my destination stalled, naturally, and I and the stuff were stuck for a short while, but that's another story...  The chairs performed their function beautifully all night through ceremony and reception.

 

Somehow, we've managed to keep the chairs in our small apartment for four years, but now, with a baby on the way, we are sure that space is more valuable than two DIY chairs that never really had strength-of-construction on their side.  We decided that one chair must go, and for the simple reason that it was the bigger of the two, and it was broken, the chair to go was LOVE.

Had it been a little lighter and had I not been working 40+ hours a week, and had I not been pregnant, I would have carried LOVE lovingly down the flights of stairs from our 3 floor apartment.  But, as it stood, with my eight months of bulbous belly, I decided instead to ask Sheffield to do it, as he is stronger, currently not working, and currently, not pregnant.

Coincidentally, my request fell right around our October 10 wedding anniversary, a tidy farewell indeed.  Yet the chair called LOVE went nowhere.

Broken LOVE merely moved from the second bedroom (soon to be nursery) to the living room, and eventually to the hallway/stairwell outside our apartment door.  This, I felt was highly inappropriate; we shouldn't be taking up that space, and I impressed my opinion upon Sheffield.  Sheffield was unmoved.

So was the chair called LOVE.

After reminding (nagging) him for ten days, I stood in front of him in all my spherical glory on the Sunday night before his birthday (Oct. 20) and demanded:  "You have to take the chair out tonight.  It's Big Furniture Night."  He did raise his eyes from the Bubble Witch Saga saga playing out on his MacBook and gave me a look, I took, as affirmative.  "If you don't," I say, "we'll have to wait another week."  Says he, "Okay."

Okay.

The next morning I woke up and instead of saying, "Happy Birthday, My Love."  I said, "Did you take out the chair called LOVE, My Love?"  Says he, "no."

Okay.

May I remind you that the chair is called LOVE?  And the chair is broken?  I didn't set out to make a metaphor, just a chair called LOVE.  You cannot make this s#!t up, people.

Well, I stewed for an hour as I ate my breakfast of leftover chicken curry (eight months pregnant remember?), and then elected to take LOVE to the curb myself.  Calm down, I'm still strong enough to carry a single wooden chair in one arm and have another to hold the railing.  If you are going to incriminate me, don't do it because I am pregnant and carrying a chair.  Do it because I am being passive-aggressive.  Or maybe, "aggressive-aggressive."  And there go I, cursing and spitting, to deposit broken LOVE to the curb on 33rd Street in Astoria, Queens.

I let Sheffield's birthday pass before I bring it up, but I eventually point out that broken LOVE is gone, and that Pregnant-I am to credit.  He is unhappy.

SHEFFIELD:  You shouldn't have done that as pregnant as you are.  Plus, I had plans for that chair.
ME:  Well, I didn't want to wait another week.  It's been in the hallway for ten days.

He shakes his head at me in disappointment, and I am baffled as to how I became the bad guy here???  It isn't until a retelling of the story to some of our friends (I mean, I'm not gonna let a metaphor that good go untold) that he clarifies.  I jovially explain to our friends about the broken chair called LOVE (ha ha ha) which Sheffield refuses to carry outside, and so I, cursing and spitting, and eight-months pregnant, (ha ha ha) must carry broken LOVE down to the curb (ha ha!)

Sheffield is not laughing.  He waits patiently as I tell the tale and then explains to me and our circle of friends:

SHEFFIELD:  You shouldn't have carried the chair downstairs.  That was silly.  And, I had plans for that chair.
ME:  But, Big Furniture Day is only once a week!!!
SHEFFIELD:  I was going to fix LOVE and offer it to one of our friends, so it didn't have to sit, broken, on the curb, and go to the trash.
ME:  Oh.
...
Well, perhaps you could have communicated that better.
SHEFFIELD:  Perhaps I could have communicated that better.  I'm sorry.
ME:  I'm sorry, too.  I shouldn't have carried LOVE to the curb.  I love you.
SHEFFIELD:  I love you too.  And... at least we still have DREAM.

Oct 21:  Birth Class II.  We watch the "Squatting" video.  Have you seen this?  It's these women in Brazil who squat to have their babies.  You should see it; it's fascinating.  But, if you don't, here's what happens, woman after woman, squats down, furrows her brows a little, exhales and a baby comes out of her vagina.  Afterward, she basically sighs and wipes her forehead.  You're making us look bad, Brazil.

Oct 22:  Making birth plan.  Every time I mention "birth plan" to a mother or someone in the birthing profession, I am met with a look (or often a phrase) that essentially points out that my "birth plan" is a sweet little narrative that I will tell to myself, and my "team," and someday to my daughter.  But it is fiction.

Oct. 23:  Kinesiologist appointment (getting pelvic floor ready.)  Midwife appointment (she suggests four types of tea that will help get my uterus ready.)

Oct 24:  Ultra sound appointment (amniotic fluid looks great.) Hair appointment (highlights look great.)

Oct 25:  Over two days, and with the help of two friends, I finish the baby room wall:

Oct 26:  37 weeks.  Conflicting internet wisdom:  Froof is either the size of Swiss Chard or Winter Melon.  I bend over to put tupperware away and throw my back out.  Is my back vulnerable because I am pregnant?  Or because I am 40?  Or am I just doubly vulnerable?

Oct 27:  Sheffield points out that it can't be easy to be pregnant.  At this stage, it's like carrying around 20 lb fanny pack.  Indeed, indeed...

Oct 28:  I read the first few pages of the Bradley Method book.  It's... well, have you read it?  It's a little... aggressive.  I wonder if I should continue reading, and then, wait, what, nope, too late.  I just read the paragraph stating that anti-nausea pills (which I've been consuming for seven months) can cause brain damage.  I am pretty sure the book is not referring to the type of pills that were prescribed to me by an obstetrician.  But, regardless, I am now inspired to quit the pills cold-turkey.

Oct 29:  This is a bad day.  I have been off the the anti-n's for 48 hours.  I wake up and - I am 8 1/2 months pregnant- throw up like a Sophomore on St. Patrick's day.  Then I have some calming anti nausea tea and repeat the vomiting.  Hard core.  I spend the majority of the day on the couch.  Perhaps, I will just have to go back on the pills.  Perhaps, this is just withdrawal.  History reminds me that I did throw up every time I decreased my dosage.  We'll see... in the evening, still feeling mildly nauseated...

Same day, later:  I start the hard boiled eggs and then forget them.  Completely.  I am absorbed in the cute-kid Halloween costumes on Facebook.  Then:

ME:  Sheffield, what's that ... food smell?  (I wrinkle my sensitive maternity nose.  He shrugs.  Beat.)  OH MY GOD!  EGGS!
SHEFFIELD:  Did you burn them?
ME:  I don't even know what I did.  There is no water left.

I am not allowed to be pregnant anymore.

Oct. 30:  I did not throw up.  Met first of several pediatricians.  Received these gems in the mail from my friend Pam Gibson.  They are so great and the real stuff is even better than this picture:

Oct. 31  Halloween.  Sheffield and I get to see hundreds of adorable children in adorable costumes.  We agree that the one-and-unders are best suited as Fruits and Vegetables.  Or Turtles.  Or Bugs.  *Sigh.*  She's not even out yet.