Our daughter arrived. I have so much to say but am unsure what, if anything, I want to post here. That said, it'd be a huge omission not to mention it at all.
For the time being, I'll let Brent's eloquence stand in for any formal comment I might choose to write.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Entering the Home Stretch (and perhaps signing off)
Somehow, without meaning for it to happen, I went a month and a half without posting. It's not that I haven't had any thoughts or observations to share, particularly with regard to the biggest change in my life at present -- pregnancy. I guess I'm still not inclined to share them with the outside world. Indeed, if this large a gap goes between today's entry and the next time, I may just discontinue this blog.
Brent has been posting. Not with any ferocity, but what he lacks in frequency, he makes up both in terms of posting heartfelt messages and, more to the point, posting several of them when he does post. In contrast, I'm just not particularly motivated to do so. At least more often than not. But my contemplative husband's recent posting spree at least prompted me to check in with the blogosphere.
So hi. What's to tell? Well, in the last nearly eight months, my body has turned into this:
Yeah. Says a lot, doesn't it, that picture?
And it's not like I don't have any thoughts on it -- it's nearly all I can think about (or talk about or write about in e-mails to friends and family) -- it's just that I don't know where to begin when it comes to putting it down for the world outside to consume and digest. I'm nearly 90% through my first pregnancy, and the experience is so much greater than the sum of its parts that to kvetch about discomforts and complications (backaches, gestational diabetes, etc.) or to rave about the upsides seems so dismissive of the entire experience. I'm growing a person. I wish for her sake I could explain what it's been like. But the more I think about it, the more I feel like this isn't the proper venue in which to do it.
I've always said that the best way to piece together the various goings-on in my life is to read my personal e-mails in chronological order. I've never kept a diary. I'm not much good at this blogging thing. Virtually no one really writes letters longhand any longer; I certainly don't. While I certainly have every hope of describing for my daughter to be what this pregnancy has been like, assuming it ever occurs to her to ask, and while I'm certain that I won't remember it accurately if I don't write it all down, I haven't gotten to the point where I want to publish what I'm feeling. Not on a daily basis, and not even in weekly or monthly retrospectives.
I certainly express myself more quickly when I type text than when I write it out. I usually express myself more clearly when I type than when I speak. I certainly process (and remember) the written word more easily than I do things told to me. But just because I prefer to communicate by tapping keys on a keyboard does not mean I have no choice but to blog.
I'm entering into the end of one significant period in my life -- a pregnancy -- and about to embark on something so much bigger. I just don't know that I have any desire to share it yet. The fact that I haven't been motivated to post more than I have (and, God knows, when I'm motivated to do something, it gets done; just ask Brent) tells me that this isn't for me. At least not now. Reading blogs? Sure. Discussing them? Absolutely. Writing one? I just don't know.
I don't think that blogging is like trying to ice skate uphill. At least, it shouldn't be. So I am not going to put a lick of pressure on myself to update this for the time being. If the muse strikes, maybe I will return to it. If the year ends and I've nothing more to say in this forum, I'll do my darnedest to delete it, and find some other outlet into which I can better channel my energies.
It was better to have tried than not to have though, right? At least this way I can say I'm not just discounting it for want of having explored the option....
Brent has been posting. Not with any ferocity, but what he lacks in frequency, he makes up both in terms of posting heartfelt messages and, more to the point, posting several of them when he does post. In contrast, I'm just not particularly motivated to do so. At least more often than not. But my contemplative husband's recent posting spree at least prompted me to check in with the blogosphere.
So hi. What's to tell? Well, in the last nearly eight months, my body has turned into this:
Yeah. Says a lot, doesn't it, that picture?
And it's not like I don't have any thoughts on it -- it's nearly all I can think about (or talk about or write about in e-mails to friends and family) -- it's just that I don't know where to begin when it comes to putting it down for the world outside to consume and digest. I'm nearly 90% through my first pregnancy, and the experience is so much greater than the sum of its parts that to kvetch about discomforts and complications (backaches, gestational diabetes, etc.) or to rave about the upsides seems so dismissive of the entire experience. I'm growing a person. I wish for her sake I could explain what it's been like. But the more I think about it, the more I feel like this isn't the proper venue in which to do it.
I've always said that the best way to piece together the various goings-on in my life is to read my personal e-mails in chronological order. I've never kept a diary. I'm not much good at this blogging thing. Virtually no one really writes letters longhand any longer; I certainly don't. While I certainly have every hope of describing for my daughter to be what this pregnancy has been like, assuming it ever occurs to her to ask, and while I'm certain that I won't remember it accurately if I don't write it all down, I haven't gotten to the point where I want to publish what I'm feeling. Not on a daily basis, and not even in weekly or monthly retrospectives.
I certainly express myself more quickly when I type text than when I write it out. I usually express myself more clearly when I type than when I speak. I certainly process (and remember) the written word more easily than I do things told to me. But just because I prefer to communicate by tapping keys on a keyboard does not mean I have no choice but to blog.
I'm entering into the end of one significant period in my life -- a pregnancy -- and about to embark on something so much bigger. I just don't know that I have any desire to share it yet. The fact that I haven't been motivated to post more than I have (and, God knows, when I'm motivated to do something, it gets done; just ask Brent) tells me that this isn't for me. At least not now. Reading blogs? Sure. Discussing them? Absolutely. Writing one? I just don't know.
I don't think that blogging is like trying to ice skate uphill. At least, it shouldn't be. So I am not going to put a lick of pressure on myself to update this for the time being. If the muse strikes, maybe I will return to it. If the year ends and I've nothing more to say in this forum, I'll do my darnedest to delete it, and find some other outlet into which I can better channel my energies.
It was better to have tried than not to have though, right? At least this way I can say I'm not just discounting it for want of having explored the option....
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
On Dressing Preggernant Wimmins
One of the upsides of pregnancy is that you have license to go shopping for new clothing. By definition, your usual gear won't stretch to last you the whole nine months. That said, maternity togs get worn for, at best, nine months. (Not that I needed to bust into maternity clothes at the moment of conception. At eight weeks along, I supplemented my regular clothing with two pairs of pants with roomier waists, and it was not until after the Christmas holiday, as I inched into my second trimester, that I really broke out the maternity clothing on a daily basis.) Maybe twice or three times that if you plan on having multiple pregnancies.
Although I've gained and lost weight since hitting my adult height, I've stayed about the same size since I graduated college in 1998. There have been times when I've stretched the limits of my clothing, and times when my slacks were virtually falling down off my hips, but for the most part, I'm a tried and true size eight. Depending on how much I've yo-yo'ed up or down, I will fill everything out differently, but nothing over the last ten years has warranted either my retreating to size six clothing across the board or necessitated swelling into size tens. That's not to say that I don't have the odd size-six or ten article of clothing peppering my wardrobe; it's just that I'm basically wearing one size more often than not.
Because I haven't shifted sizes, I have a lot of clothing that has lingered in my closet for five years or longer. There are items from college that I still break out. Most wear out over time, but some things I've yet to part with, either because they're comfortable or because my finely-honed sense of nostalgia trumps practicality.
When you have a closet (or more than one) stuffed to the gills with options, it's hard to justify a shopping spree. I allow myself purchases to replace things that are hopelessly out of date, or things that have gotten worn to death, but I don't get a new wardrobe each season. I can't afford to.
Over the winter holidays, I was showered with several gift certificates for maternity gear at all of the usual suspects: Target; Gap; and Destination Maternity. I used them up, trying to get understated, classic pieces that would last the entire pregnancy, look as dignified as possible, and lend themselves to being reworn more often than I tend to re-wear my non-maternity clothing without calling attention to the fact that I was making the most out of a few articles of clothing.
I still didn't have enough.
I lucked out, however. Before I hit the midway point in my pregnancy, an old friend and a relative came to my aid with hand me downs. A grade school pal who lives not too far away and who had a son a year ago February offered me her castoffs to borrow, and my cousin's wife gifted me her maternity leftovers (claiming that she was done having children and that if my cousin wants any more, he'll have to carry them himself). More recently, a new neighbor posted on the local parents' listserv that she had a lot of maternity clothing in my size free to the first person to respond to her post.
It's awesome to be on the receiving end of such generosity. And, as with being the beneficiary of so many given-up subway seats during my lengthy daily commute (my back thanks each and every one of you nameless faces), I've decided that, once I'm no longer pregnant, I'll happily return the favor(s) to anyone in need.
Getting a wardrobe of hand-me-downs is terrific. Sure, there are some things I'd not be caught dead in and a few I'd never have chosen for myself, and only wear because, well, they fit. But for the most part, I have been showered with all sorts of neat new bits of apparel that didn't cost me one red cent. I get -- well, if not to reinvent myself, to dress up in all sorts of things (some of which are exceedingly comfortable and some of which actually look pretty darn cute on) I would never have spent the extra money on. In fact, in any given day since getting knocked up, it's more likely than not that at least something I wear is secondhand.
The clothing looks none the worse for the wear. In fact, it's a point of pride for me: I can't resist a good bargain. So when folks ask, I often tout the generosity of the women who hooked me up. And I know they've done well by me: just a week or two ago, my colleague made the unsolicited observation that I was "rocking the maternity wear." How cool is that?
If only there were a more practical way to do the same with non-maternity clothing. I know that in my batch of clothes dating back to the late 90s, I've got plenty of things that someone else would simply kill to wear. And I've cast a covetous eye towards friends' and neighbors' wardrobes, jonesing like mad for pieces of clothing that they are probably sick of wearing. I'll have to work on making that happen.
Although I've gained and lost weight since hitting my adult height, I've stayed about the same size since I graduated college in 1998. There have been times when I've stretched the limits of my clothing, and times when my slacks were virtually falling down off my hips, but for the most part, I'm a tried and true size eight. Depending on how much I've yo-yo'ed up or down, I will fill everything out differently, but nothing over the last ten years has warranted either my retreating to size six clothing across the board or necessitated swelling into size tens. That's not to say that I don't have the odd size-six or ten article of clothing peppering my wardrobe; it's just that I'm basically wearing one size more often than not.
Because I haven't shifted sizes, I have a lot of clothing that has lingered in my closet for five years or longer. There are items from college that I still break out. Most wear out over time, but some things I've yet to part with, either because they're comfortable or because my finely-honed sense of nostalgia trumps practicality.
When you have a closet (or more than one) stuffed to the gills with options, it's hard to justify a shopping spree. I allow myself purchases to replace things that are hopelessly out of date, or things that have gotten worn to death, but I don't get a new wardrobe each season. I can't afford to.
Over the winter holidays, I was showered with several gift certificates for maternity gear at all of the usual suspects: Target; Gap; and Destination Maternity. I used them up, trying to get understated, classic pieces that would last the entire pregnancy, look as dignified as possible, and lend themselves to being reworn more often than I tend to re-wear my non-maternity clothing without calling attention to the fact that I was making the most out of a few articles of clothing.
I still didn't have enough.
I lucked out, however. Before I hit the midway point in my pregnancy, an old friend and a relative came to my aid with hand me downs. A grade school pal who lives not too far away and who had a son a year ago February offered me her castoffs to borrow, and my cousin's wife gifted me her maternity leftovers (claiming that she was done having children and that if my cousin wants any more, he'll have to carry them himself). More recently, a new neighbor posted on the local parents' listserv that she had a lot of maternity clothing in my size free to the first person to respond to her post.
It's awesome to be on the receiving end of such generosity. And, as with being the beneficiary of so many given-up subway seats during my lengthy daily commute (my back thanks each and every one of you nameless faces), I've decided that, once I'm no longer pregnant, I'll happily return the favor(s) to anyone in need.
Getting a wardrobe of hand-me-downs is terrific. Sure, there are some things I'd not be caught dead in and a few I'd never have chosen for myself, and only wear because, well, they fit. But for the most part, I have been showered with all sorts of neat new bits of apparel that didn't cost me one red cent. I get -- well, if not to reinvent myself, to dress up in all sorts of things (some of which are exceedingly comfortable and some of which actually look pretty darn cute on) I would never have spent the extra money on. In fact, in any given day since getting knocked up, it's more likely than not that at least something I wear is secondhand.
The clothing looks none the worse for the wear. In fact, it's a point of pride for me: I can't resist a good bargain. So when folks ask, I often tout the generosity of the women who hooked me up. And I know they've done well by me: just a week or two ago, my colleague made the unsolicited observation that I was "rocking the maternity wear." How cool is that?
If only there were a more practical way to do the same with non-maternity clothing. I know that in my batch of clothes dating back to the late 90s, I've got plenty of things that someone else would simply kill to wear. And I've cast a covetous eye towards friends' and neighbors' wardrobes, jonesing like mad for pieces of clothing that they are probably sick of wearing. I'll have to work on making that happen.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Taking Inventory
So it's been over a month since last I posted. Lots has happened. I've discovered what gender my child will be: a girl. This was neither exciting nor disappointing for me -- I didn't particularly care what I was having, so long as it was healthy. It is good news only inasmuch as it helps me feel a little more connected to the baby-to-be. The pronoun shift from "it" to "she" is helping to get me ready for her arrival, which inches ever closer. Assuming she shows up on time, she will be here in fourteen weeks and five days.
Although my husband and family haven't had strong reactions, lots of strangers and acquaintances get this look of pity or disappointment when I tell them we're going to have a daughter. It's as if that's the second place choice -- one you will make do with rather than one you really wanted. This surprises me. Not that I'm blind to the fact that, even in 2008, women face adversity that men are spared. But it's gotten much easier for us to succeed than it was for our mothers or grandmothers, and I can only suspect (and hope) that the playing field on which my daughter competes with men will be even more equal by the time she comes of age to enter the game.
The little one has also started making her presence known in ways more noticeable than previously. Until recently, the biggest evidence of her was my ever-thickening waistline. A few weeks back, Squishy (the placeholder I've been using until she arrives and we settle on a name for her) started kicking me. It's pretty neat. It's bizarre, to be fair. The fact that she kicks with a rhyme and reason that is independent of my own -- that it's a reaction to stimuli of which I'm wholly unaware -- impresses upon me that this being I'm growing and nurturing is one increasingly independent of me. I mean she's not even been gestating for six months yet, and already she kicks when the mood strikes her.
There are other bodily functions of mine that happen without my willing them to do so. Blood clots when I get a cut. My heart beats without my consciously deciding I want it to. My hair and nails grow absent any volition on my part. But I still chalk those up to choices I am making -- albeit making with a part of my body other than my conscious brain -- on some cellular level. Squishy's movements are something else altogether.
On fronts other than the baby one, we've closed on our new apartment, we're slated to move this Wednesday (Hello, suburbia! Hello, square footage!), and in between the closing and the move, we've managed, with the help of a couple of contractors, to get the place into some semblance of shape. I still have a bunch of things to pack, but progress is being made nicely, and that's reassuring.
I wish I had more to add. I'm not sure I'm cut out for blogging. These days, I'm too busy living life to want to memorialize it. Moreover, I'm not sure I want to have this pulpit for communing with the outside world. It's funny: if I want to recount what's been going on lately, it's easy enough to pound out a five-paragraph piece to e-mail a friend. But it's difficult when it comes to writing for all the world to see. Writing for a readership of one -- the intended recipient of an e-mail message -- is significantly different for writing for an audience with size unknown. It gets back to the issue I raised in a post I wrote last September: I don't want to share the same quantum of information, or deliver the information the same possible way, to every potential reader out there. There's much more I am willing to share with friends than with strangers. Exes and bosses? I want them to know even less than strangers. So I wind up filtering and self-editing to the point that what I started out trying to say gets so diluted that I wind up not saying anything at all. Either I simply don't bother to post or I post words that don't pack half the punch of my original, distilled message for fear that that might offend someone or reach an audience I'd rather remained blissfully oblivious of my inner thoughts.
I actually logged on today with the intention of deleting, rather than updating, this blog. Abandoning it isn't the way to go. I'm either in or out, I'd figured. But then I saw two unmoderated comments. Two people had read my last post and decided to respond. Nothing nasty. Just feedback. And that was enough to get me to stick with it -- for a little bit longer, at least.
Although my husband and family haven't had strong reactions, lots of strangers and acquaintances get this look of pity or disappointment when I tell them we're going to have a daughter. It's as if that's the second place choice -- one you will make do with rather than one you really wanted. This surprises me. Not that I'm blind to the fact that, even in 2008, women face adversity that men are spared. But it's gotten much easier for us to succeed than it was for our mothers or grandmothers, and I can only suspect (and hope) that the playing field on which my daughter competes with men will be even more equal by the time she comes of age to enter the game.
The little one has also started making her presence known in ways more noticeable than previously. Until recently, the biggest evidence of her was my ever-thickening waistline. A few weeks back, Squishy (the placeholder I've been using until she arrives and we settle on a name for her) started kicking me. It's pretty neat. It's bizarre, to be fair. The fact that she kicks with a rhyme and reason that is independent of my own -- that it's a reaction to stimuli of which I'm wholly unaware -- impresses upon me that this being I'm growing and nurturing is one increasingly independent of me. I mean she's not even been gestating for six months yet, and already she kicks when the mood strikes her.
There are other bodily functions of mine that happen without my willing them to do so. Blood clots when I get a cut. My heart beats without my consciously deciding I want it to. My hair and nails grow absent any volition on my part. But I still chalk those up to choices I am making -- albeit making with a part of my body other than my conscious brain -- on some cellular level. Squishy's movements are something else altogether.
On fronts other than the baby one, we've closed on our new apartment, we're slated to move this Wednesday (Hello, suburbia! Hello, square footage!), and in between the closing and the move, we've managed, with the help of a couple of contractors, to get the place into some semblance of shape. I still have a bunch of things to pack, but progress is being made nicely, and that's reassuring.
I wish I had more to add. I'm not sure I'm cut out for blogging. These days, I'm too busy living life to want to memorialize it. Moreover, I'm not sure I want to have this pulpit for communing with the outside world. It's funny: if I want to recount what's been going on lately, it's easy enough to pound out a five-paragraph piece to e-mail a friend. But it's difficult when it comes to writing for all the world to see. Writing for a readership of one -- the intended recipient of an e-mail message -- is significantly different for writing for an audience with size unknown. It gets back to the issue I raised in a post I wrote last September: I don't want to share the same quantum of information, or deliver the information the same possible way, to every potential reader out there. There's much more I am willing to share with friends than with strangers. Exes and bosses? I want them to know even less than strangers. So I wind up filtering and self-editing to the point that what I started out trying to say gets so diluted that I wind up not saying anything at all. Either I simply don't bother to post or I post words that don't pack half the punch of my original, distilled message for fear that that might offend someone or reach an audience I'd rather remained blissfully oblivious of my inner thoughts.
I actually logged on today with the intention of deleting, rather than updating, this blog. Abandoning it isn't the way to go. I'm either in or out, I'd figured. But then I saw two unmoderated comments. Two people had read my last post and decided to respond. Nothing nasty. Just feedback. And that was enough to get me to stick with it -- for a little bit longer, at least.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Whose Prerogative?
Today marks 17 weeks of gestation. So I'm inching ever closer to the half-way point of this, my first pregnancy. That said, I'm still at three months and change. Into the second trimester. But three months and change isn't particularly impressive sounding.
Depending on the clothing I have on, my posture, and the angle at which you observe me, I can either look barely pregnant at all (assuming you didn't know what I looked like pre-conception) or pretty darn preggernant. One thing I've learned -- I'd heard it said, but it's different when you discover something firsthand -- is that when you get knocked up, everyone thinks it's their god-given right not only to pass judgment on your appearance, but to do it out loud and, worse still, to your face.
I've gotten an earful of "you're really showing," and "only 3.5 months? I'd've guessed you were at least five months along!" in the last few weeks.
I'll never be anything but supportive to fellow pregnant wimmins again. They need the positive feedback. We need it.
I shudder to think what I'll look like in June, to say nothing of early July, if I'm getting these sort of comments at this point. My belly will likely need its own zip code.
Depending on the clothing I have on, my posture, and the angle at which you observe me, I can either look barely pregnant at all (assuming you didn't know what I looked like pre-conception) or pretty darn preggernant. One thing I've learned -- I'd heard it said, but it's different when you discover something firsthand -- is that when you get knocked up, everyone thinks it's their god-given right not only to pass judgment on your appearance, but to do it out loud and, worse still, to your face.
I've gotten an earful of "you're really showing," and "only 3.5 months? I'd've guessed you were at least five months along!" in the last few weeks.
I'll never be anything but supportive to fellow pregnant wimmins again. They need the positive feedback. We need it.
I shudder to think what I'll look like in June, to say nothing of early July, if I'm getting these sort of comments at this point. My belly will likely need its own zip code.
Monday, January 21, 2008
The XX v. XY Debate
So my family is taking bets. My sister told me that everyone suspects I'm carrying a girl.
I don't yet know what we're having. We've scheduled the full anatomy scan for next month -- when I hit 20 weeks' gestation. I imagine we'll find out then.
There's sometimes a chance that an earlier ultrasound can predict the baby's gender. My first two did not. My gut tells me that, had there been a penis to see at the last ultrasound (conducted about four weeks ago), the tech would have pointed it out. She said that she didn't like to guess because predictions made based upon ultrasound readings taken at that early stage have only a 40% chance of being accurate. (Although, as Brent pointed out, that seems curious considering gender is an either/or proposition, and if you guess blindly, you have a 50% chance of being correct. Strange.) So I think it's a girl, too, although I can honestly say I have no strong preference, apart from it being a healthy, happy baby. There are benefits and drawbacks to both, and we'll love whatever we get.
Still, the votes aren't all in, and it's just too early to tell.
I don't yet know what we're having. We've scheduled the full anatomy scan for next month -- when I hit 20 weeks' gestation. I imagine we'll find out then.
There's sometimes a chance that an earlier ultrasound can predict the baby's gender. My first two did not. My gut tells me that, had there been a penis to see at the last ultrasound (conducted about four weeks ago), the tech would have pointed it out. She said that she didn't like to guess because predictions made based upon ultrasound readings taken at that early stage have only a 40% chance of being accurate. (Although, as Brent pointed out, that seems curious considering gender is an either/or proposition, and if you guess blindly, you have a 50% chance of being correct. Strange.) So I think it's a girl, too, although I can honestly say I have no strong preference, apart from it being a healthy, happy baby. There are benefits and drawbacks to both, and we'll love whatever we get.
Still, the votes aren't all in, and it's just too early to tell.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Two Pink Lines
So I've not checked in in a while. That's not been a function of my having had nothing to say. Quite the contrary. It's more a function of my desire not to spill the beans.
But I'm far enough along now that I guess I can post it for anyone who might happen across this page to see.
I'm pregnant. Due July 11th of this year. It'll be our first child.
On November 3, 2007 -- which I can't believe is already more than two months ago -- I took a pregnancy test. We'd only been "trying," if you can call it that (it was more like not actively doing anything to prevent conception than charting and taking temperatures and all that jazz), for a little under a month. I'd been dizzy and lightheaded for the better part of the previous week, and that wasn't typical. Figuring I'd get a negative test and that that would confirm that I was just on a 30-day schedule instead of my previous 28-days-like-clockwork one, I decided it made sense to stop all musings re: impending Mommyhood out of my head.
The test was positive. Two more tests later that day clinched it. But that first test -- with its two, rather than one, pink lines -- confirmed that I was pregnant.
Nothing will ever be the same.
But I'm far enough along now that I guess I can post it for anyone who might happen across this page to see.
I'm pregnant. Due July 11th of this year. It'll be our first child.
On November 3, 2007 -- which I can't believe is already more than two months ago -- I took a pregnancy test. We'd only been "trying," if you can call it that (it was more like not actively doing anything to prevent conception than charting and taking temperatures and all that jazz), for a little under a month. I'd been dizzy and lightheaded for the better part of the previous week, and that wasn't typical. Figuring I'd get a negative test and that that would confirm that I was just on a 30-day schedule instead of my previous 28-days-like-clockwork one, I decided it made sense to stop all musings re: impending Mommyhood out of my head.
The test was positive. Two more tests later that day clinched it. But that first test -- with its two, rather than one, pink lines -- confirmed that I was pregnant.
Nothing will ever be the same.
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