I honestly cannot believe that the Babymoon has come and gone. I can't decide if I am more sad that it's over or completely panicked that we are this much closer to having our daughter. The weekend in NYC was exactly what I needed: some time away with Jeff to aimlessly stroll around a big urban city anonymously. We had so much fun walking from our hotel near 30 Rockerfeller Plaza down to the Greenwich village and around Central Park. I hadn't factored in the extra challenges of a being a 7-plus-months pregnant tourist, but we weathered my hydration and urination needs with some creativity and tenacity.
I have to say that I have a pretty serious crush on NYC. I keep telling people that Jeff and I rode the subway 7 times, and during each of those 7 rides, a fellow commuter offered me a seat. In Chicago, I ride the El approximately every single morning of my life and have been offered a seat only 3 times. Also, when my bladder almost exploded in the DSW near Washington Square, this lovely young woman offered me her place in the bathroom line. That has never happened in Chicago. I don't mean to be bitter, and I usually don't even take up the offers for special treatment, but there are some mornings after bounding up the three flights of stairs at my El stop-- when I am schlepping a bag and a purse and, oh yes, a future contributing member of society in my belly-- I just wish I could get a little courtesy or an offer for a seat. Actually, most mornings, I just want the seat because it's hot on a train during rush hour and I usually forget my water bottle. The prospect of fainting on the El floor is so terribly unpleasant that I am about to convert to the world of the buses, even though it will add approximately 78 minutes to my 6-mile commute.
I am not saying I want to live in NYC, but I am saying that Central Park is pretty amazing and the sheer amount of museums could keep me, Peppermint and Jeff busy during our maternity/paternity leaves for a good 16 weeks. (We may skip the Sex Museum with Pepps for many, many years.) That's certainly something to celebrate in my book. My favorite tourist stop was an unexpected detour through the Chicago Public Library where we toured an exhibit featuring artistic collaboration and resistance in France during World War II. Having studied French resistance during WWII during college, I was excited to re-remember the cast of characters who set up and ran Vichy France. And, I learned that Marshal Petain was 84 when he ran occupied France. Please exuse me if I prefer to retire and relax at the tender age of 84, instead of collaborating with the Axis powers and enacting fascist and anti-semitic laws.
In a small burst of consumerism, which has been largely curtailed due to the onset of the recent recession, I had to buy 2 new pairs of shoes. Turns out that thing about pregnant women's feet growing is TRUE. I would have thought my feet would get wider because they have to carry extra weight, but longer? Seriously, I now wear a size 9, and my prized sizes 8's have been shoved to the back of the closet. Jeff insisted I get new shoes for our walking weekend, and when I wear my roomy new size 9's I feel like I am wearing a clown shoe. I hope my feet go back to their size 8-- statistics I have seen indicate that only half of the women whose feet expand return to their pre-pregnancy size. Looks like my maternity leave will force me to do lots of show shopping. How tragic for me.
At the urging of my friend Joyce and Jeff's friend Jason-- our two most esteemed foodie friends--we made reservations at perfect little restaurant in Greenwich village on Friday night. Should I mention that the reservation was for 4:30 p.m., just so you will know how cool we are, even though we're about to be parents? (With a 4:30 p.m. dinner reservation, we may just have skipped parents and gone straight to grandparents!) But, it was brilliant to walk into a very calm and mostly-empty Lupa and dine on the most exquisite, yet nonpretentious, meal of all my living days. I can't do it justice, but suffice it to say that the beets tasted like little morsels sent straight from the Baby Jesus, and the homemade pasta was fresh and perfect enough to bring me to my knees-- luckily the pork shoulder was tender enough to bring me back to my feet. (Have you ever seen a pregnant lady on her knees? No? Well, there's a good reason for that. It's impossible to get back up!) How good was this pasta? It was so good that we ordered another serving for dessert. Let me just say that that's one special pasta that will distract me from gelato for an entire evening. It was perfect. As Jason lamented when we gave him the full report once we were back in Chicago, "it's going to ruin regular old Italian food for the rest of your life." It's true. The memory of that meal will not soon fade, nor will the absolute thrill of seeing Mario Batalli himself strolling in his bright orange Crocs several hours later. We've got pictures. We'll post them soon!
Speaking of celebrity sightings, I saw two others. I saw Angnes Deyn and her long, lanky, bruised up legs strolling briskly down Broadway right before our meal at Lupa. And, if that wasn't enough, we saw Justin Long-- former beau of Drew Barrymore and the Apple Computer guy-- getting yogurt at the Tasty Delights on Bleecker street. I couldn't believe my luck. I tried to look cool and New Yorky in my new size 9 asics, but that's not a look I can really pull off, so I was content to gape and use my best stage whisper to explain to Jeff who I was seeing and why it justifies my daily perusal of trash websites like Perez Hilton. He remains unconvinced. Frankly, so do I.
As soon as we get more space on our hard drive at home, I can post pictures of all of our New York adventures. If you're lucky I will post some profiles of my 31 week glory bump. It's very hard to miss these day! I actually think when this pregnancy has come to it's sublime conclusion, I will miss the waddling and the presence of another human being in my belly. Only 9 more weeks of one of the most astonishing and freakish phenomenons I have ever experienced.
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