Winter

Williamsburg, 2013

I know it's technically still fall, but when the temperature is 38 degrees out, I call it winter.

I'll admit I have nerves about a winter pregnancy, because I tend to struggle a bit with the shorter, darker days and with feeling cooped up at home. I love the run up to the holidays, and all of the cooking and planning that that entails, but on a day to day basis, all the layers and logistics of going outside make me rather grumpy.

My spring and summer pregnancy with Axel was pretty great. We had a really mild winter that year, and I took little jaunts to Nevis and to the Virgin Islands, and then spent much of the summer in sundresses and flip flops, eating watermelon slices. There were a few unbearably hot days here and there, but I was generally blissed out from all of the Vitamin D and didn't really mind.

Alas, today I finally put all of my summer-ish clothes into a box under the bed, and it was a funny experience. I am not much of a clothes horse, but even so, a lot of our identity is wrapped up in why we wear what we wear. And it made me laugh to see that all of my warm weather clothes are suited more to traipsing around Vietnam or Morocco or India (in fact, a lot of them were purchased there) than they are to life in Brooklyn.

Of course, a few years ago, I was doing a ton of traipsing, for professional reasons and for the plain old adventure. But looking at all the floaty skirts and beaded tops (many of them, sadly, a little worse for wear) made me realize that that it feels like that phase of my life is indefinitely on hold. It's not that we aren't going to travel; it's just not going to be the freewheeling kind of stuff it once was, at least for a while.

When you are in the thick of the baby years, clothes get complicated. It was funny to see this shopworn pile of colorful things from what feels like a past life. In becoming a parent, so many of us are determined not to lose our identities. But those identities change. I could toss everything out, beginning again after this baby. But even the notion of that simple act sets my mind spinning...'Well, I should really wait until I am done with pregnancies and those early, messy baby years to really make any big changes...' I'm not quite ready to get rid of the improbable, impractical skirt.

It's no secret that Will and I would like a tribe, if nature agrees with our plans. We are set on three children, but in casual conversation with friends Will will slip in 'or four'...and hahahahahahaha. We'll see. So the idea of this post-infant phase, when my body is again my own and I am not likely to have banana wiped on my pants and will once again wander through markets in India? It's seeming like it's a long way away.

 I know, I know, one thing at a time. It's just that I am a planner. And so a simple errand goes from zero to 'How the hell are we going to raise four kids in the city' in about 30 seconds.

Hmmmm....

Istanbul, 2011

So it's hard to describe what it feels like to be pregnant.

I mean, I could bore you with how it feels, physically, but that's not really what I mean.

It's a really strong pull to meet this little person who is using my internal organs as his punching bags.

It's exciting, and such a transformative experience that the only thing I can liken it to is the weeks before leaving home for college, when you know this new life is ahead of you and have no capacity to picture it.

Or it's like when you are very young and someone says the word 'husband' and you have this vague image in your mind of what that word might mean to you someday, but you cannot see his face. Maybe he'll have a beard, you think.

Carrying another human being, in your body, is a bit like trying to picture that face, all those years ago.

It's like waking up one day and being told that blue is actually green.

You have conversations, but it's almost like they're in another language. You lose the thread of them because you can't unremember for even a second, that another person (a person who will become one of the most important people in your world but who is as of now still a stranger/alien) has colonized your body. And he is kicking you. From the inside.

It is not that you are obsessed with the baby, or babies, or pregnancy, or motherhood. You don't want to become the walking cliche. You have all these other things that you are passionate about.

But it's like you are standing in the middle of the stream, neck deep, maybe balancing on one leg, just trying not to get pulled under, and someone is quizzing you about world events. Like, say, Syria or the social security conundrum. But all you can think to reply is 'Anyone notice that I am up to my neck in the middle of this stream?' as they look at you like you're becoming very boring and self-centered.

Does this make any sense?

What I am trying to say, I suppose, is that in the thick of all this gestating and future-imagining, I just don't feel like...myself.

I go to leap up from the couch and find I have no core strength to speak of. I feel restless, and want to go for a five mile walk, but run out of steam after twenty minutes. Things don't taste the same, and even my emotions seem kind of, well, tampered with, as if I'm being pulled in a multitude of directions by invisible strings. I can't really predict my reactions to anything, and feel like I know myself less than before.

I look around at other pregnant ladies, and it seems totally insane that this is such a universal human experience. It's like being told that the world is, in fact, flat.

And so I look forward to meeting the baby. But also to having my body (and brain) back. To myself. To being alone in my own skin.

Preparations

Home

So we had a sort of tragicomic visit to our hospital last night to tour the labor and delivery unit. For some reason I had imagined that the tour would be really reassuring. You know: a cute nursery jam-packed with peach-fuzzy newborns and those "It's a Boy!" balloons everywhere. Orderly lists of things to pack and so on.

Instead, well, we got off on the wrong foot, somehow.

Will got stuck on the subway, and so was late. So I was there frantically texting him and worried that somehow he wouldn't be able to get into labor and delivery once the tour had begun. So I guess I was on edge and not in my most zen state going into it.

Then, as soon as the doors to the unit opened, we were met by a woman in labor (behind closed doors, but even so) screaming bloody murder. I mean, it sounded like a horror film. This was not the kind of intense moaning I've heard before on TLC or in the Business of Being Born. This was really unsettling.

The nurse who was leading the tour said something like "That's what natural childbirth sounds like," and seemed mostly unfazed. But at one point even she remarked that she hadn't heard anyone scream like that when a tour was happening. "We have an 80% epidural rate here," she explained. So between the tardy husband and the screaming, by the time we got to the C-section recovery area, I was really really rattled. I think I just don't especially like hospitals to begin with and so the whole thing felt very alien.

I guess I am feeling extremely unprepared for labor. I'm hoping that my childbirth class, which starts in a few weeks, will do a bit to assuage some of my worries, but, well, yikes. It's going to take a while to get that screaming out of my brain.

Doulas

Thailand, 2011

This photo has nothing to do with doulas, clearly. I just like it. I've been interviewing doulas lately, which feels a little bit like free therapy for the expectant mother. In giving them some background on my pregnancy so far, I've been able to express my ambivalence about my doctors and chat a lot about how I would like my labor experience to go (or at least, how I would like to feel.) It's helped me to articulate a lot of things and I really appreciate the relationship building aspect of the whole process.

Now, don't get me wrong. My doctors are great (I go to a group practice, so I rotate through the OBGYNs for each visit and one of them will be on call when I am in labor.) However, it's a busy office and sometimes I feel my appointments go like this: blood pressure, scales, pee-in-cup, everything okay?, off you go...

And I'm left with a question on the tip of my tongue but sort of feel squeamish about asking because everything seems so routine and on the clock.

So I knew from the get go that I would struggle in the hospital without a bit more TLC. I want all the clinical stuff to be taken care of, but I also want to feel like a special case. Women may have children every day, one-born-every-minute, etc., but for me this is a momentous first. What I love about the concept of a doula is that she visits you at home before and after birth, she comes to your house for the early stages of labor, and is with you throughout the whole experience. It's a lifeline for you and for the dad, as she can explain what's happening to him in non-medical jargon and just generally keep everyone as relaxed and positive as possible. She also acts as an advocate for you and helps with the initial breastfeeding (carrying on with you at home if need be.)

For me a doula has become my non-negotiable. I seriously don't know how women do this without them.

Roller Coaster

Williamsburg, 2012

Williamsburg, 2012

It's pretty easy to set me off onto a crying jag these days. One comment, or a scene in a movie, or a line in a book and there's this tidal wave of emotion (negative, positive, overwhelming) that has very little to do with the trigger.

Of course, it's most likely hormonal. But the science of why doesn't do much to temper my emotions when they're midstream.

When people ask me how I'm feeling, I usually assume they mean physically. But so far, the physical demands of pregnancy have been a walk in the park compared to the emotional ones.

It's hard to articulate without sounding as though I'm struggling. I swear, in any given moment, I'm perfectly content, and even blissfully happy. But then in a second I experience all of these really powerful thoughts and pregnancy feels like the hardest thing I've ever done.

Suddenly, I'm reconciling thoughts about my own childhood that hadn't occurred to me in 25+ years.

I'm acutely aware that now I am our baby's family and history. It doesn't feel like that history is something that begins in August. The baby is here with me now, thumping away at my insides, and he is already who he is. There are already three of us. The wheels are in motion.

Every decision feels that much more intentional. Is this the apartment we bring our baby home to? Is this the emotional environment we bring our child home to? It even occurred to me the other day that our 7 year old cats will one day die and that our little boy will experience that grief. It's inevitable.

There's that sensation, and then there's the sensation that there's so little I can control.

The baby's not even born yet and I can't protect him from city pollution and construction dust and crazy world events.

Take all of that and mix in a dose of awe and elation and Christmas Eve-level excitement and I can't-stop-looking-at-babies-on-the-street and you have a window into how I feel in any given moment. It's pretty wild.

Adios Winter

Park Avenue, March 2012

I feel like we've gotten off so easy this winter (which ends, officially, this week), with days in the 60s and 70s in February and March. By this time in the season, I'm usually cursing the cold and suffering from a major case of SAD, grumbling about New York and dreaming of moving to somewhere near the Equator.

But this year has been different. It's like everyone's on heat, semi-delirious to be able to wear sandals and short sleeves sonner than they had dared to hope they might. The sidewalk cafes are jam packed and at home, my windows are wide open.

I think it's definitely made my pregnancy thus far a bit easier, as it hasn't been difficult to motivate myself to go out for long walks or galavant around the city. I've even (sort of) forgotten those blurry, exhausted days around weeks 8 and 9, when buying milk at the corner store felt like an impossible task.  

And though I know August may well be oppressive, I'm relishing these months of wearing skirts and sundresses and being out in the world. I don't do well when I'm cooped up at home watching repeats of Anderson, and when I have to bundle up it's easy to make excuses to stick close to home.

Vice Squad

Paris, 2010

I was reading one of those addictive baby boards today, and an expecting woman wrote that a Starbucks barista refused to serve her a chai latte because of the caffeine.

So far, I haven't had anyone pounce on me in that way. In fact, it's been quite the opposite.

Earlier this spring, my father in law (who lives in Europe) informed me that Will's mother drank through all four of her pregnancies. He seemed to think my teetotaling was some nutty and brand new American fad.

At dinner with French friends on Friday, my female host poured me a glass of Champagne and, when I had a few sips, seemed practically triumphant. On Saturday, another friend, who has lived off and on in South America, kept informing me I could have a glass of wine if I wanted, all the while eyeing up my glass of water somewhat disapprovingly. Then there's the acquaintance who tells you her friend/sister/college roommate was backpacking through India/surfing big waves in Hawaii/running marathons at 8 months pregnant.

I seem to be surrounded by friends prompting me to taste a little charcuterie, try a little unpasteurized cheese, or hit the ski slopes, even when I say I don't really mind giving those things a pass temporarily. I'm glad they think I'm not a fragile creature and can make my own rational decisions.

But though I will happily taste an inch of wine with a meal and drink a small latte or cup of earl grey every day, I have mixed feelings about flouting doctor's orders. It's a little juggling act I do every day. Have I had any fruit today? Protein? Enough sleep, water, sun? Am I getting jittery from that coffee? If a medical professional tells me to avoid something, I generally do my best.

So next time you feel like telling a pregnant woman what she can or can't eat or drink, maybe reconsider. Unless she's swigging Jack Daniels or bungee jumping or has cut herself off from society to live in a germ-free bubble she's made from Saran wrap, chances are she's given her choices considerable thought and scolding (from either side) just isn't necessary.

Jinxing It

Williamsburg, 2012

Trolling around on birth month message boards like What to Expect or Baby Center, I'm often taken aback by how quickly it's so very concrete to people. They seem so very sure of their pregnancies.

4 weeks and they're penning Facebook announcements. 12 weeks and the baby's name is monogrammed all over the place. They're shopping up a storm and buying onesies by the armful for little Grace or Alexander. They say things like: "He really likes oatmeal."

I've even seen ultrasound pictures (in those tickers in the comments) where people have drawn things like tiaras on an image and scrawled "Mommy's little princess!", Perez Hilton style.

Then there's the matter of the baby shower. The invites that say, "Come celebrate Jenny and Jonas" always confuse me. Who's Jonas, I wonder???

I know that not everyone does any of the above. One friend followed her family's Jewish tradition, eschewing a shower and waiting until 8 days after each of her sons were born before naming them. In China, families celebrate the baby with gifts when they've reached 100 days old (and presumably not in utero.)

Whatever these rituals are rooted in, it makes a certain amount of sense to me. I guess, when it comes down to it, I'm afraid of jinxing it.

Then again, sometimes I have to give myself permission to celebrate and to visualize the future. Of course, Will and I talk about names and what our lives will be like with a baby in tow. But a few minutes into the conversation, it's almost as if we cut ourselves short with an unspoken not yet. When I speak out loud about the baby in a real sense, I'm half afraid to say things like "my son."

Obviously, I'm writing about my pregnancy on the internet. So there's a huge leap of faith there. But I'm also hugely superstitious. Beyond that little elephant (another leap of faith), I'm not quite sure when I'll feel ready to click buy, give him a name, actually make some headway on this imagined nursery.

I'm sure the time will come. Just not yet.

14 Weeks

Well...

I'm going to have to get someone to help me with these photos. I think the slight twist here makes me look like I've got more of a bump than I actually do, but I'll run with it for now.

14 seems like a good, solid number.

Unfortunately, Last night I didn't sleep all that well, and this morning at training I was a bit of a lost cause. My trainer is certified in pre- and post-natal whatever-it-is-that-we-do, so I'm not doing anything too extreme, but it still feels like a workout. Every time he suggests the rowing machine, I'm sure I give him a death glare.

My energy has been all over the map this week as well. At certain points, I don't feel pregnant at all, but when I do run out of steam it happens really suddenly, and I feel like I have to be horizontal immediately.

On the positive side, I tackled a big work deadline this week and so I now have a bit of down time to enjoy the sunny afternoon. Our next check up is on Monday, and I'm really looking forward to it as it usually means a peek at the baby and makes the whole thing seem less abstract.

Out first anatomy scan is also two weeks from today, and I'm hoping that's the day we find out the gender. Not really a "surprise" kind of gal.