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By now you should’ve seen the update and at least one ultrasound photo — we’ve posted liberally on Facebook, Twitter, and this blog, so yeah: it’s a boy. And seeing as how most people we know have one, if not two, girls, we’re pretty stoked to do what we do best: things differently. It prevents us from having to ask, much less take, others’ advice.
Anyway — back to the title. When we scheduled the ultrasound, I was a little consternated when they told me to come with a full bladder. You know coffee? That delicious, delicious beverage I’ve been drinking for nearly as long as I could breathe? It has wreaked wonders on my bladder, the type I’ll pay for when I’m fifty and am wearing diapers to my child’s college graduation. But dutifully, this morning, I drank four tall glasses of water (about 15 oz each), the last three of which in the hour and a half before the appointment.
Hospitals, let me say this: It is NOT NICE to tell a pregnant woman to have a full bladder AND KEEP HER WAITING. Ten minutes to do paperwork may be on time for hospitals, but all I could think of was taking that cheap ballpoint pen and fashioning a shunt for my bladder. It was another achingly painful ten minutes before the ultrasound tech deigned to take us into her lair. But the powers of observation were strong with this one:
“Are you uncomfortable?”
YA THINK, LADY?
“Um, I really have to go to the bathroom,” I said. The jury conferred briefly before handing me my Understatement of the Year trophy and a sash, which I’m still wearing.
“I could see it in your eyes,” she said. Because they were five feet in front of my head? “Let me just take a quick peek and see if you can empty some of that,” she said.
Yeah, right, ‘some of that,’ I thought, pondering that when a dam breaks, it doesn’t just empty some of the reservoir behind it.
She got me on the table, put that ooey gel on my belly, and set the transducer against my skin. On the screen, all you could see for miles was an ocean of bladder. There was a tide and current and everything, even a faint Coriolis effect in the lower hemisphere.
The ultrasound tech deemed it acceptable for me to evacuate part of my bladder, and duly fished out a disposable coffee cup and sent me along to the bathroom. “You can let out a cup, no more.” Right. And you can breathe, but please, just once a day.
Fast-forward (you’re welcome) to the scan: Internets, we have a very active little boy. Of the two times we’ve seen him, he has not been still for an instant. The does not bode well for Ye Olde Mother-to-Be, but we’ll see how it goes. Fetus spent most of the hour-long scan banging his head against his placenta, kicking about, and stubbornly facing away from the tech.
Tangent: My 100% Scandinavian mother married my recalcitrantly Scottish-and-whatnot father, and lo, their genetic material met, found each other to be suitably obstinate, and mated. The net result is Me, and if stubbornness were an Olympic sport, I’d be a medal contender every year.
So really, I’m just reaping what was sown before my time.
Most of the scan went well, although there were a few uncomfortable moments: one, when I was squinting at the screen, wondering why the vertebrae looked triplicate: does the baby have three spines? The tech explained something about “facettes,” which sounded like mispronounced “facets” to me, but whatever. Another odd moment was when the tech decided to perform exploratory surgery in my lower right quadrant with the transducer, trying to find an ovary, or perhaps that quarter I swallowed when I was four. I was pleased when the baby kicked at the wand. That’s my boy.
However, the worst part was when the tech was exploring the other side of my abdomen for whatever its Bermuda Triangle had taken from her. Evidently she found it, or didn’t find it, and scanned back towards the baby’s spine. I saw the image appear on the screen, and she exclaimed something that was the Old Conservative Adventist version of “Fucking hell!” (it was actually “Oh my goodness!”), and time stopped.
About ten hours later, him gripping my hand so tightly they’d have to surgically unfuse the pair, Matt asked, “Um, is that good or bad?”
“You get what you want if you wait for it,” the tech said triumphantly. Either the baby had a momentary lapse of stubbornness and we finally had a good profile shot, or else she is very good at covering up a verbal gaffe.
It’s a boy.
Today is the Big Ultrasound, the one that not only tells us the sex of our fetus, but also the one that tells us if there are any abnormalities. Like if the child has forty-two fingers and three toes. Or something more serious. And Internets, I confess: I am so nervous. What if all those bagels and cream cheese and green grapes caused some sort of problem? What if that week I ate an entire casserole of macaroni and cheese has plugged baby’s heart? What about that one time I took ibuprofen by mistake?
So as excited as I am to find out if we’re having a Nameless Baby Girl or a Nameless Baby Boy (yeah, still stuck there), I’ll be far more excited next week after we meet with our doctor and she, hopefully, tells us that everything looks great. In the meantime, stay tuned for gender news….
Internets, pardon me while I violate the sanctity of my marriage. You know my husband? sometimes known as @misteranthropic? the one who knocked me up? Yeah. Him. Recently, he bought the newest version of the iSlut, sorry, iDumb — no, that’s not it — iClone? Anyway. You know. That shiny thing he never uses to actually talk to people on, the one that requires you to purchase its insanely priced data plan which is only offered by one company that also leases your testicles when you buy it? That.
My ire was not terribly aroused by this purchase because he’d saved up for it, is selling his iPod and just sold his old iPhone to pay for the new thing. So fine, get the new phone, see if I care, as long as my bank account doesn’t change.
Life could have been just fine, oh yes it could’ve, if he’d just outlined the cost, how he was paying for it, and never said another word. BUT COULD HE DO THAT? OH NO. Here’s what happened instead, night after night.
So I’m pregnant, right?
(“Oh my god, yes, we get it. Shut up already about being pregnant.”)
Well, fine, but that state of being plays a prominent role in my going to sleep before @misteranthropic and getting up well after he’s left for work. Because I don’t actually sleep during that time: I fall asleep, sure, for a few, blissful hours. Then at about one in the morning, I wake up and begin to worry: what if the house isn’t warm enough in the winter? What if I give birth at home? If my water breaks in bed, do we have to get a new mattress? What if the baby has five heads and two fingers? What if we never, ever, agree on a girl’s name and it’s a girl — will we just live in the hospital until one of us offs the other and signs the damn birth certificate? And then at about six, when I’ve exhausted all my worries, I fall asleep again. It’s ridiculous, and it makes me extra grouchy.
So when it’s 10:15 and I’ve just drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by a sharp jab to the shoulder, I’m not all cheery.
“What?”
“Oh, were you sleeping?”
“YES.”
“Oh. Never mind.”
“WHAT.”
“Oh, well, look–” And he’s handing me his old iPhone. I can make out the UPS logo, but I have to put on my glasses to read anything on THAT GODDAMN TINY SCREEN. Then I see that he’s pleased, because his new phone has now been shipped from Anchorage, Alaska, to Trenton, New Jersey. Whoopdeefuckingdo.
The first night, I glared for only a second because the look of pure, boyish glee was — gag alert — heart-melting. It was so cute, I may have kissed him.
The second night, when the phone moved from New Jersey to Kuala Lampur or wherever, I rolled over without a word.
The third night, when the phone moved from Kuala Lampur to Jodhuppurstonfordinghamopolis, I sat up when he nudged me and said, “Oh, really? Wow, honey, that’s great” and then threw the damn thing across the room.
The fourth night, I slept like a baby.
Okay. So the phone finally arrives, and what does this dignified, white-collar worker do? He quits work early that day to go get it, and it’s like he’s found a new mistress: one with smaller pixel-pores who he can carry in his pocket and croon lullabies to at night when they fucking sleep together.
Yeah. Italics AND all caps.
So there you have it: we’re having a new baby, and my husband has found a new, sleek, shiny, non-bloated wife. My only consolation is that my order of Greek Nescafé Frappé mix has left Greece and arrived in Jacksonville, FL, with an estimated delivery date of July 6.
So this may be weird, but it’s my goal to buy/get/obtain baby equipment without having to get it new. Yes, that does make me something of a freeloader/moocher (speaking of which, special thanks to my sister for all her maternity clothes!), but it also conforms to my philosophy of Not Buying Crap and Reducing My Carbon Footprint. And anyway, if someone’s not using it, I might as well.
Today’s find: a white Pottery Barn crib from the consignment store here in town for only $75! (And yes, I double-checked to be sure it hadn’t been recalled.) Here’s to hoping we can completely stock and furnish the baby’s room with reused and recycled stuff. And that the crib came with the appropriate hardware. Hmm.
Saw my OB today. Was shocked — shocked! I tell you — to find out I tested negative for STDs. All that teenage promiscuity for nothing.
Otherwise, everything was normal: cell counts and all manner of blood tests; the uterus position and size; the fetal heartbeat; the decreasing nausea and increasing energy levels; and my, ahem, symptoms. In fact, the only thing slightly out of whack was the position of my bellybutton. Who knew you could have a bellybutton lower than normal? Between that and my eye doctor telling me I have, quote, huge nerve bundles in my eyes, unquote, I’m beginning to develop a body dysmorphic complex, or whatever that is. As if the growing belly and hereditary double-chin aren’t already doing that to me.
Anyway, Fetus, when you’re old enough to read, know that at 16 weeks, we were, to quote the Farming Game, right on time and farming like a pro.
Lately, a few things about being publicly pregnant have been grating on me nerve. Yeah, that’s singular. And, apparently, Irish. And because I worry less than I probably should about other people’s feelings, I’m saying what I think about those things.
1. If you use the words “preggo,” “preggers,” or “womb,” I will glare.
2. If you tell me, “Everyone’s hoping it’s a boy,” I will respond, unoriginally but cuttingly, “We just hope it’s healthy.” Then you will say, “Well, of course,” and feel foolish.
3. If you criticize or question my dietary choices, I will probably cry. I’m pretty sure I can tear up on cue these days. And if you’re lucky, I won’t also vomit on you, which I can also just about do on cue.
4. If you comment on my “baby bump” (another term closely related to No. 1), I will mince no words in pointing out I’m a lot fatter right now than I am pregnant (see also No. 3); it’s just that I can’t suck it in any longer.
5. If you ask if it was on purpose, I understand your curiosity and I will try to be polite through my gritted teeth instead of screaming FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YES, but that’s still a rude question.
6. If you ask me if we “tried anything” to have a child of a certain gender, I may be tempted to answer with graphic detail. G-R-A-P-H-I-C. Maybe even demonstrate. (Seriously. I can’t believe I’ve been asked this.)
7. If you so much as touch my belly, so help me god you’ll lose that hand.
Other items for the shit list:
8. Polka dots — seriously, why? On clothes, decorations, baby gear, etc. Is it the roundness that people associate in some Freudian manner with the pregnant belly? LIKE I WANT TO LOOK ANY ROUNDER.
9. Winnie the Pooh. The strength of my irrational distaste for that animated series is beyond words.
10. Baby-talk. Gag me.
I’ve eaten plenty of my own words lately (cf. “I’m never having kids!”), and I’m sure I’ll have a few more portions to consume before all this is up, but getting this off my chest feels better.
Internets, that first trimester wasn’t much fun. (Well, the second week — REDACTED.) I’ll spare you the details on morning sickness (“morning” — ha!) and its constant, accompanying queasiness, but I will say the fatigue that goes along with it must be what it’s like to be on horse tranquilizers: Getting out of bed in the morning took a Herculean, gravity-defying effort; cooking and cleaning seemed a lifetime ago; class prep usually involved digging up last quarter’s notes in the ten or fifteen minutes before students arrived. Suffice it to say, not a shining quarter for me, although I’ve been very pleased with the quality of student writing I’m seeing, despite my sub-par energy level.
Then there were the cravings and aversions. I’m not militant about my diet, but Internets, it was a little distressing to go off coffee, chocolate, alcohol, and cheese all at the same time. Not because I wouldn’t have had them, but because I didn’t want them, and experienced (and am still experiencing) the strongest aversions in my life. So my diet for the past three months has consisted of whatever I think I can keep down, and it seems to mainly consist of Cheerios, Eggos with real butter and boysenberry syrup, fresh fruit, and my mom’s kick-ass Gravenstein applesauce. And occasionally a prenatal vitamin, when I can get one down. (Speaking of horses, have you seen those fucking pills? Do the manufacturers not understand how the sight of one of those brick-sized supplements triggers nausea in a pregnant woman even faster than the thought of a moldy cheese sandwich?)
But there have been some good parts that range from okay to jaw-dropping. Finding out we were pregnant can be filed under jaw-droppingly happy: I took about four home pregnancy tests that were so slightly positive that I thought them to be inconclusive, so I finally went to a clinic for confirmation. Joy. Finally telling the family and friends was also more fun than it probably should have been, thanks to the rampant skepticism on the part of, oh, everyone. (I believe my mother-in-law’s reaction was one of the best: “Seriously? Really? Seriously? On purpose?”)
Another pleasant development has been how great The Husband has been about everything, although it’s not surprising because he’s generally awesome: He’s cooked and cleaned and held my hair back and gone to the store at 10:30 p.m. for grapes, and he talks to my belly, even though I don’t think the baby can hear yet (which is probably a good thing because he once played Ziltoid for it, the poor fetus).
On a related note, I understand the shock and surprise many of you felt at our announcement, and I will admit to decent amounts of guilt for misleading you all, especially if I said anything over the past X months about “never having children.” It’s just that when we changed our minds, we didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if we would actually have the baby we wanted, and therefore didn’t want change any expectations. A self-preservation thing, you see. But it was totally worth it for the looks on your faces when we finally did announce our news. And that guilt? It’s not weighing too heavily on my mind.
Haven’t talked this over with the Husband yet, but sure he’ll agree: since we can’t agree on a name for the fetus, have decided to sell naming rights to child (see also: sports stadium naming), with proceeds going toward child’s college fund. This offer applies to first and middle names only; if you wish to buy the child’s last name, there is a secret minimum that must be met, proceeds of which go to what we’ll call “The Early Retirement Fund.”
I’m standing firm, garbed with the belt of truth opinion, a breastplate of self-righteousness, and my feet fitted with the readiness to kick parents’ asses everyhwere: Yes, it’s another post about childish things by someone who doesn’t have children. Assess my ethos and get riled up accordingly.
This week’s topic: Grandparent names. I remember when my first sibling procreated and the discussion of what my parents should be called by the impending grandchildren –
[because, y'know, "Grandma" and "Grandpa" just wouldn't do, oh no! -- grandparents these days need unique names, not unlike parents who think an alternate spelling will showcase their child's uniqueness (instead of "Michelle" it's "Meeschelle"; instead of "Susie" it's "Souziee"; instead of "Chelsea" it's...hey, wait a minute...), and that same vanity appears to affect all generations, young and old; because grandparents these days aren't "grandma," they're "gramma" or "mimi" or "meemaw"; not "grandpa" but "pawpaw" or "poppy"]
– and, figuring that what my parents’ grandchildren called them wouldn’t really affect me, I offered my suggestions: “Grumps” and “Grim.” That was probably the first time my mom was even a tiny bit glad that I’m not having children. Suffice it to say, my family went in another direction with the name choices, and I was left to my child-free devices. Little did I know that listening to the sound of my nieces and nephew calling my parents “Pops” and “Grammie Lou” WOULD DRIVE ME UP THE WALL.
[Fortunately, my personality is such that the wall and I are intimate acquaintances, so much so that my foot- and handholds are quite well worn.]
It’s not that I want every grandparent to be “grandma” and “grandpa”, nor do I think everyone should have a “traditional” (or white/Anglo) name like “Tom” or “Sally.” Far from it. But I do find the overplanning wearisome — yet another part of a child’s life decided for him or her — and I would prefer to see grandparents’ names evolve naturally. Sure, go with “nana” if a child couldn’t pronounce “grandma” and it was this cute malapropism the kid hung onto. I see no problem with that. But to purposefully decide to misspell or go phonetic — is that necessary?
Not that it matters, mind you; my parents already have their new grandparent names firmly affixed, so were the flying pigs of hell to freeze over and we to have children, they’d probably go with the names established by the more procreationally inclined siblings.
Actually, to hell with hegemony; I’ll teach my kids to call their grandparents by their first names. Ha! Take that, Bwuth and Mawy Woo.
We were supposed to go boating on Sunday, which would have been a great way to beat the heat, but instead we’ll be out in the heat putting up the remainder of our fence — partly because we’re lazy and should’ve done this months ago (e.g. in May), and partly because we didn’t think the puppy would be SO DAMN EXCITED about being outside in the 100-plus degree weather. Her favorite activity — aside from gnawing on whatever forbidden object is nearest and showing her skill as the Westminster Poo Champion — is belly-flopping onto the grass, and then ten seconds later, scooting over toward a fresh shady patch, and then another, and another…. In fact, the damn dog would rather lay in the grass and then pee inside, where she doesn’t ruin valuable cool surface area.
Actually, I’m beginning to think that it’s a bit harder to have a dog than to have children because, aside from the rather major issue that dogs grow up faster than kids (THANK YOU, NATURE), kids generally can’t chew the table legs, pee/poop/slobber with reckless abandon in every conceivable corner, and willfully hide from you, all at the same time. My understanding is that kids tend to do these things in stages (not that I particularly want this process to grow longer, but I’d love to have fewer worries). And kids have diapers. AND, AND, THEY DON’T HAVE THOSE GODDAMN SQUEAKY CHEW TOYS.
Hang on, I’m not done. More evidence: the house is a mess, I haven’t showered, I’ve done a load of laundry every day since she arrived, and only on two of those days has the laundry not been poo-related; no one gets a good night’s sleep because yes, I have to let her outside and feed her in the night (see also: poo laundry); she cries if you aren’t with her ALL THE TIME, and then when you are with her, she prefers biting your feet to chew toys, as the footholder squeals louder.
But the fact remains that, while I suppose you could just put your child out to pasture in the back yard while you go about your day, it remains socially acceptable to only do this for dogs. So in order to allow her to enjoy the yard without adult supervision, and so I can finally take a goddamn shower without worrying about stepping out into a pile or puddle of Lucy fluids, we’ve got to finish the effing fence while simultaneously resisting the urge to flop down onto the grass right beside her.
Now I realize that, oh, every child psychologist in the world, and probably 99 percent of parents would disagree, but that’s why I have the tag “opinions on childish things by someone who doesn’t have children.” Which is to say, I really don’t care.
Today’s issue is brought to you by the nonverbal lungpower of my niece and nephew. They are about the same age, which is nearly 2. And it is fortunate that they are adorable and giggly most of the time, because the little bit of time they spend screaming? Well, let’s just say I could push them off a glacier and make it look like an accident.
So my theory is this: children’s lungpower should develop as they mature. Let them make low-decibel noises like cooing and giggling, sure, anytime after birth (or, what the hell, I’m not ageist: before birth, too); but the high decibel noises, i.e. SCREAMING THEIR BLOODY LUNGS OFF, that should not be possible until they’re able to verbalize what they want or need.
But, you say, how else will they learn to communicate?
Don’t worry, I thought that through, and here’s my answer:
QUIETLY.
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