Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Just a Day at the Beach

This Memorial Day was very low key for us. I spiced up our Friday night and Saturday morning by pulling the pregnancy card-- every non-pregnant spouse's nightmare. If you are the non-pregnant spouse, good luck trying to trump the pregnancy card.

Here's how it went down. I had already decided not to go to Florida for a wedding that Jeff and I were invited to, even though it was at the Ritz Carlton and I really wanted to be there. I opted not to go because travel at 32 weeks pregnant is difficult and Florida is hot and I am ornery. Jeff was fully supportive of me taking care of myself, and conversely, I was supportive of him going to celebrate his friend's marriage. However, I had a little Supportive Spouse relapse on Saturday morning as I was driving Jeff to the airport. It went something like this:

Me: You know, you get to fly off to Florida without a care in the world while I have to stay home, watch what I eat (no blue cheese, no raw eggs, no artificial sweeteners-- POOR ME), worry about the baby's kick counts, shovel 150 ounces of water down my throat, worry about someone breaking into the house and trying to kill me. You know, I am already a parent to our child and for you it's all still theoretical. So, while I am laying in bed busy NOT doing an annual bike ride on Lake Shore Drive, you will be having your third meal at the Ritz Carlton in Palm Beach. Really fair.

Jeff: <<<<>>>>>>

Luckily, I calmed down before he got out of the car and we had a proper goodbye. It's the first time I really recall feeling that the distribution of work (and worry) was disproportionate between me and Jeff. Now that my hips ache all the time as they split apart to make way for a baby to come through the natural chute and my ankles are seriously swollen and it's hard to get out of chairs, much less bed, it does seem a tiny bit unfair. Then again, when I lay in bed and feel Peppermint kicking for over an hour, I think that even if the pain or inconvenience was tripled, I would STILL never trade places with my non-pregnant spouse. Never. But, when I get tired and cranky I don't mind playing my pregnancy card just see how far it will get me. It doesn't seem to deter me that it doesn't actually get me where I want to go-- which is to greater peace of mind and connection with my husband, myself and my life. Oh, well, no one says you have to be perfect to be a parent.

We are almost at June, which is the month adjacent to JULY. I would be lying through my teeth if I didn't note here and now that I am really excited and really curious about what is about to happen in my life with this baby. I had another sublime dream last night that my daughter arrived 6 hours after my water broke, and I only had to push three times. I kept asking Jeff to have the nurses bring me my baby, and when I was laying in bed with her, it was the most perfect and happy connection I have ever dreamed about. The nurses put some patch on her eyes before giving her to me and I kept telling her that I loved her and that she was "my favorite baby." Just as my hips are spreading so is my capacity to connect to the joy of childbirth. With 7 weeks until the due date, we are undoubtedly in the home stretch now.

And as you can see from my blossoming physique, we are putting the STRETCH in home stretch.

And, here's my latest pet peeve related to pregnancy. I always hear the following statement as an affirmation of pregnant women: "Wow, you couldn't even tell from behind that she was pregnant." It really annoys me to hear that because that compliment is really a veiled way of saying, "Wow, she was decent enough to only gain weight in her stomach and stayed skinny enough that I would only have to see she was pregnant if I was seeing her profile or head on." What's so EFFING great about looking pregnant from only 2 directions? Moreover, what's so wrong with looking pregnant from every which-a-way? Why are the highest compliments for women the ones that praise women for staying small? What has staying small done for women these days? Excuse me, I am giving human life and producing a whole other person in my very body, a person who will have a social security card in about 2 months-- how about that as the highest affirmation ever? How about this one: "She's pregnant with every fiber of her being and she looks beautiful carrying human life?" Huh? How about that one?

Do you think that Sonia Sotomayor wants to be complimented by being told how small she is? The last thing I want the future Justice Sotomayor to be is small! I want her to be big and flap her wings and fry her fish and write brilliant opinions that honor the rule of law and challenge the conservative agenda that threatens our freedom and safety. And that what I want for myself and for the other future Supreme Court Justice, Peppermint Ellis!

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

PreNatal Challenges

Little did I know what a great thing it would be to have a husband who opted to take time off of work before our baby is born. This is especially great because it's a freaking full time job to figure out all these baby products. The strollers alone are enough to keep someone occupied for two 80-hour weeks. We did a little research, we asked some friends about their preferences, and then we struck out to Babies R Us to find the perfect stroller for us. But, when we got to Babies R Us, there were so many choices, not a salesperson in sight, just row after row of stroller and travel systems and car seats. When we were in New York, I saw that most of the parents had their little ones in MacLaren strollers. So, I wanted to try those first. Problem with those were that we could not figure out how to collapse them. Here's the thing, if my husband, who can build walk-in closets after watching a few YouTube videos, can't figure out a stroller, there is no way on the planet that I am doing to know how to do it. So, sorry MacLaren, you may have won the hearts of the Big Apple parents, but we gotta know how to get the damn thing in the car. (The stroller, not the baby.)

We also thought we'd get a Graco travel system. This just means you get a stroller and a car seat that all snaps together. I think Jeff said it best when he described them as big plastic monstrosities. They are huge and heavy and garish. And, while we could collapse them, even in the collapsed state, they were still too bulky. I am trying to picture myself in a parking lot somewhere trying to deal with the baby, the stroller, the car seat and an super stylish yet urban diaper bag. A stroller that weighs in over 35 lbs just isn't a good candidate. Now if the diaper bag was really cute and weighed 35lbs, let's be clear that I would consider it, but not the stroller. Too unweildy and unrealistic as a device you can carry on your shoulder. (See above.)

And then there were the status symbol strollers. Excuse me, but there are strollers that cost $650.00. That's more than Lance Armstrong's first Tour De France bike. What the hell happens in that stroller that makes it worth $650.00? This is the Bugaboo, which I was scared to touch, much less to try to break down so I could see how compact it is. And the Bob. I have heard that it's the greatest stroller ever, but the website seems to bill it as a jogging stroller (not something I intend to do often, or so often I want to pay $399.00 for it), and I just don't get it. Babies R Us didn't have any Bob's, which is probably good because I would probable just make fun of it and offend my friends who think it's the greatest thing since spray cheese.

In the end, we went with the recommendation of a colleague whose city life mirrors our own. I felt heartened that she and her husband couldn't figure out how to work the MacLaren strollers either. Our new City Mini stroller is en route to us as we speak-- we got it in red for the Peppermint, and also as a reaction against all those crazy garish Graco strollers with purple and pink bears all over them.

And, not 24 hours after our stroller expedition, Jeff and I went to birth classes at the hospital where we will deliver Miss Pepps. This was the 8-hour class. I don't know exactly what happened there, but when we got in the car to go home, I felt like someone had slipped some extra-potent ruffies into my drink. I went straight home and fell asleep on the couch. I believe that was a reaction to being totally and completely overwhelmed. I should have known I was in trouble when I wanted to faint at the sight of the epidural video. Listen, if you are nauseated and light-headed from a video where all that is shown is a needle going into a woman's back, then just buckle up for the C-section video where a live, messy, screaming baby is yanked out of a woman's stomach. Is it any wonder I have had birth dreams for the past three nights and then last night my mind said, enough of this, no more sleeping? Thus, I have been awake since 2:00 a.m. As fun as pacing the halls and listening to my husband snore peacefully dreaming of golf, gourmet food and time off of work, may seem, somewhere inside of me I decided it was better than dreams of giving birth to a five-year-old little girl with a pagegirl haircut and 31 toes. Been there; dreamed that.

We're 32 weeks and the anxiety is building. I may find that sleeping is a double-edged sword since there are dreams working out my deepest fears waiting to play out on the screen of my subconscious.

And, when I am not sleeping, the 120 to 150 ounces of water I am drinking every day catches up with me around 3:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m and 5:00 a.m. I'll be ready for those late night feedings because mama's been up peeing at those hours for months.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Model Parent

Here's another reason why I am fit to be a parent: I know when it's the right time to moon my husband during mid-day traffic on the NYC subway platform.

It's not about being perfect; it's about not getting caught.

Our Favorite Fetus


Is due 2 months from today! I am so excited to be only 2 months out. I talked to my sister yesterday (and by "talk" I mean "interrogated") about her labor and delivery in January 2008. Ever committed to business hours, her water broke at 9:00 a.m. and the baby was out and about by close of business (6:00 p.m.). On a Monday. She's always been the more efficient of the two of us! I told her my plan was to labor as far as I could and then get the epidural, which is exactly what she did. She said she didn't want to medicate before she had a good understanding of what exactly she was medicating. She made it pretty clear that once she found out, she was all for the epidural. This may sound crazy, but I am really hoping that my water breaks naturally. (In many situations, women's water has to be broken through a medical procedure.) I hope it breaks somehwere in my house so I can regularly see "THE SPOT" where labor with Pepps began. I just hope I recognize that my water has actually broken and not confuse it as some slightly more acute form of incontinence.


All in all, my sister's labor for her first child, her son Patrick, sounded very routine and healthy. Here's hoping that genetics play a large role in birthing experiences.
We are supposed to go to a wedding next weekend in Florida, and you know what, I am just not feeling it for the Sunshine State. Every experience is so heightened with emotions right now that I just can't say I am up for crossing the state line in an airplane again before July 14. You should have seen me during the turbulence on our flights to and from New York. Good Lord, I was writhing in emotional pain and begging Jeff never to make me get on an airplane again. You would have thought I was on the Spaceship Challenger and for the very life of me, I just could not calm down. The minute an airplane shakes I have always panicked, but now, it's almost like I have a psychotic break. I haven't come this far in my life to fall out of the sky with my baby and my husband. And, in those moments when the flight attendants are told to "take their jump seats" and everything is bumping all over the cabin, I honestly can only picture plummeting to my death. All the logic or aviation know-how or understanding of quantum physics cannot convince the panicked part of me that I will make it out alive. And, while I would love to strut my ample stuff all through the Ritz in Palm Beach-- and be there for one of Jeff's dear friend's weddings-- I just don't know if I can do it. I have told Jeff that he is certainly free to go without me, and I really, truly mean that. The entire trip is about 35 hours, and if it only didn't involve jet travel, I would be there in a heartbeat. I am pretty sure the the rules of polite society forbid me from asking the bride and groom to move their wedding to the Ritz in Chicago to accommodate my pregnancy panic attacks.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Denial

Well, whatever comfort I could take on the shores of Denial Island is slowly slipping away, and come 4:30 p.m. on Sunday, there will be nothing left save my footprints in the sand.

Yes, this Sunday will find Jeff and I in birthing class, which will no doubt make this whole "we're having a baby soon" routine very, very real. I am very excited about the classes, because I don't know what to expect. I have a secret wish to meet some really cool, like-minded couples who will become our lifelong friends, as well as to learn all the information I need for labor and for Peppermint's first year of life. Perhaps my expectations are a little bit too high. But in any case, we'll we cross over another rite of passage this weekend and we'll be one psychological step closer to being Peppermint's Parents.

And for anyone wondering about this baby's name, all I can say is that your guess is as good as mine. Jeff and I talk about it a great deal, but picking and sticking to a name has eluded us thus far. And while there are at least a solid 12 names on my list, I don't have that gut feeling that I have picked a name that fits the Peppermint. That is, I haven't found a name that conveys as much love and joy I have for the baby. It may be difficult to find a name that says all I want it to say: This Child is Beloved; this Child is my heart; this Child is a miracle. How can you roll all of that into a single word like "Lisa" or "Emily" or "Ava."

And, one last word on denial. I will overshare and say that I have been unwilling to buy maternity underwear. In part, I am in denial that my hips, and therefore everything below, has had to expand in order to prepare for Pepps' passage out of the womb. In part, I have always struggled to pay good money for stuff no one sees. So, I have a daily ritual of squeezing myself into my pre-pregnancy undergarments. Thanks to this candid shot of me in NYC, I can no longer deny that there are consquences associated with wearing underwear that is too damn small. Thanks to Jeff for this brilliant display of photojournalism.

Top of this weekend's to-do list: Get Christie maternity underwear. The people will thank me.



Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Bye, Bye Babymoon!


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.


Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Family Recipe

As I can see impending motherhood on the horizon, I am beginning to reach backwards into my own childhood and discern what to share with Peppermint when I meet her face to face. This weekend I delved into the murky waters of "Family Recipes," and the only one I have is for these delicious chocolate chip brownies that were the specialty of the house with my Grandmother O'Brien. As a kid, I thought these brownies were the single greatest food in the universe. Since our family was not really into passing down family recipes it never occurred to me that I could make them myself. I sort of operated under the assumption that they passed along with Grandmother. (*This is the Grandmother who refused to be called "Grandma" or "Gramms"; it had to be "Grandmother.") But, when I was in the throes of first trimester nausea, I developed one of my only genuine cravings for Grandmother O'Brien's brownies. I got the recipe from my younger sister and was delighted to see that it accommodated my relative lack of familiarity and skill in the kitchen. That is, these damn brownies have 3 ingredients:

1 box of Graham Crackers
1 bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips
2 cans of condensed milk

Mix it all together and bake for 23 minutes and you have yourself a little slice of my cajun ancestry. As simple as it is, I fucked it up the first time, because when my sister mentioned you should use a shallow pan, it turns out that was one of the most important parts of the recipe. My first attempt at this recipe ended up with a big mushy pile in a too-deep pyrex dish. Luckily, our dinner guests that night were gracious-- and witty-- and named the dessert for reasons that now escape me, Grandma's Ashes. I can't remember why, but it seemed to fit at the time, as an ironic nickname for the runniest dessert I have dipped my spoon (and fingers) into.

But this weekend, Grandmother's spirit guided my hands as I found the two shallowest pans in our house and made 2 batches of the golden brownie goodness. Do I think this is the greatest dessert ever? No, not by any measure. I still love it because it tastes like being 5-years old and beside myself with excitement that my grandparents were coming to visit us. I remember pulling a stool over to my Grandmother's counter to watch her make this dessert. Seems like it took forever at the time, so imagine how I would have felt if there were more than three freaking ingredients! I have memories of my tiny size 0 Grandmother licking the silver disk-shaped top of the can of condensed milk saying how much she loved it's milky sweetness. I still can't bring myself to lick any part of that condensed milk-- not until it's mixed heartily with the graham crackers and chocolate. It reminds me of a the long-gone days when a three-ingredient brownie seemed like the most delectable dish in the world. That was long before I learned about molten chocolate cakes and parsnip crepes.

Honestly, I have no idea if I will ever share this recipe with Peppermint. I have no idea how I would like to proceed with her and her relationship to sugar and desserts, or food in general for that matter. I mostly hope she has a more harmonious relationship to food (and pleasure with food) than I had when I was a kid. What I do want to share with Peppermint is the memories I have of being small and the thrill of doing things with adults that I loved. I hope her cache of "Family Recipes" is overflowing with memories of being included in meals and meal preparation with me, and Jeff, and all of our friends and family. I know that Jeff's mom is a fabulous cook and I have a great memory of baking oatmeal raisin cookies with her (Jeff's favorite) 5 days before our wedding-- we spent a considerable amount of time talking about Peppermint that afternoon and it seems fitting that she would join us one day (soon!) for a little baking and dreaming in the afternoon. I hope the sweetness in the relationship always outshines the sweetness in the dessert.




Tuesday, May 5, 2009

30 + 10 = 40


Holy SH*T, I am 30 weeks pregnant. It feels like a bigger milestone than turning 30 years old. We are 10 weeks away from the human gestation period of 40 weeks (which is actually 10 months, not the 9 months that you always hear about on TV and in popular culture). The weather is beautiful, work has slowed down, Jeff is at home putting together the crib....this is going to fly by! I am excited and terrified.


I am starting to get tired, but also not able to sleep. I wake myself up snoring and can't seem to breathe through my nose. I laugh at myself when I try to get out of bed becuase it's actually quite difficult and requires me to swing my legs over the side and hope the momentum is strong enough for the rest of my body. Whatever considerable lack of core strength I had before is somewhat compounded now that my core has gained about 20lbs, which includes a 3 lb baby!


We went to the doctor yesterday and had a splendid visit. When they weighed me (I don't look and I don't ask), the nurse told me, on an unsolicited basis, that I was "doing great with my weight" by the way. I took that as a confirmation that my body is doing what she needs to do and the less I fiddle with it or fret over it, the better off I will be. And so will Jeff and Peppermint. We get to have an ultrasound on Thursday to check the levels of amniotic fluids, which is exciting because we'll get to see her again on the screen and also get an indication of how big she is (and will be in 10 weeks or so). Call me crazy but I am most interested in how big her head is. Circumference matters.


So, 10 weeks away. I am hoping to make it all the way to 40 weeks or even go over. I know lots of moms who went early-- as much as 6 weeks early. I feel like I need as much time to nest, get to therapy, read the Classics, and master pre-natal yoga. That's going to take at least 10 weeks. I want to get the baby's scrap book in order, as well as our wedding book and the general pockets of chaos and junk I have around the house. I just ordered stationary with Peppermints on it to write thank you notes for any gifts. I never thought I would be the kind of mother who writes notes as if they were written by her own pre-literate child, but looks like I am. I may buy a big husky pencil and use my left hand so the whole charade is more believable.


This weekend is our Babymoon in Manhattan. I am very excited. The general game plan is to wander around the city being big huge pregnant tourists. I have been researching shows to see and other entertainment avenues. And I have also been thinking about what shoes are comfortable enough to walk in all day long that don't also anounce, "Here comes a Midwesterner!" Gotta get back on Zappos and run that down .... Especially since so many people are going ot mistake us for Heidi Klum and Seal, it will be nice to make a fast getaway from any annoying people who want to snap our picture.


Monday, May 4, 2009

Pregnancy Glamor

Ladies, for anyone out there whose pregnancy know-how is limited to the glossy pages of US Magazine -- the pictures of a flawless Gwen Stefani or the adorable Halle Berry and their picture-perfect bumps-- this one is for you.

Jeff got a new camera recently, one that is so fancy that the lenses weigh more than my head, the current smallest part of my body. He loves to take pictures. These photo sessions usually take place at night. Let me tell you something about how it feels at night when you are 7.5 months pregnant, have worked a full day after taking public transportation to and from the office, and after getting only about 5 hours of sleep (for the past week) because you got up to pee an average of 6 times in the middle of the night. Well, maybe I just said all you need to know. Night time is not my best time and you can see from above that by the time the sun goes down I don't even have the energy to fight or to cover my face like celebrities being stalked by Papparazzi. Alas, I clearly have no vanity either.

And, this is what it looks like. More specifically, this is what I look like. I come home and lay down on the bed and try to stay awake long enough to tell Jeff what I want for dinner. Lately, that answer has been Omega-3 enriched eggs, veggies, and some Bisquick biscuits. I mean if I am going to get out of my comfortable position on the bed and tear myself away from bonding with my daughter by staring at my stomach and counting her kicks, it has to be worth it. It has to be southern, and bready, and served with a generous dollop of butter. Luckily, just before the wave of third trimester exhaustion hit, I taught my California-born husband how to make a southern biscuit. The dough is not to be mashed and controlled into perfect circular disks, like, say, a non cancerous mole; it must be messy and asymmetrical and lumpy. That's the beauty of a biscuit.

So, yes, there is a lot about this pregnancy process that is not glamorous. It's like when you tell people that you are going on an international business trip, and people think that sounds very glamorous. Sure, it's glamorous enough to travel to Germany for work, but at the end of the day you are the one stuck in a second-rate German hotel that has no gym, no food that comes without gravy, and nothing on TV but the BCC and German porn. Not so glamorous in the living, though it may sound great in the telling. Pregnancy is a lot of things: it's exciting, humbling, terrifying, vivifying, and life-altering, but it's changed my relationship to vanity for the time being at least, and perhaps forever.

New Bling

Because my hands are swelling a bit from the pregnancy, I decided to take my wedding and engagement rings off so they don't have to be cut off in a few weeks when my finger turns purple. My husband was able to secure me a replacement ring so it's publicly clear I am married. I mean, what if I run into any super-religious people (or, let's be real, ex-boyfriends) and they just think I am an unwed mother? And, while there is nothing wrong in the world with being a mother without being a wife (or a woman without a wedding ring), I am more afraid of punching someone in the face who gives me a lecture or tells me how to live my life. My fuse is short and the days are long. I have to protect myself.

My "new" wedding band is a ring that Jeff's Grandma Ann gave him when he was in fourth grade. You can see that there is a script "E" on the face of the ring, which I just love. The gold band is very delicate, but has the advantage of not cutting off circulation to my fingertips, which seems like a good benefit to any jewelry. I think of it as good practice in trying on a new initial and a step towards taking Jeff's last name. In a burst of old-fashioned-ness I started thinking that I want to have the same last name as my child. And, I also want to keep my name. It's a bit of a bind and I am keeping an open mind. Maybe this weekend when we go on our babymoon to New York City, I will get some clarity when I stand on Ellis Island.