I did it. I fasted from midnight last night until 11:30 this morning. I drank another vial of the vile glucose testing drink and they took my blood 4 times this morning. More importantly, I kept my cool, chilled with Jeff and read the latest issue of People Magazine. It wasn't so bad. My test results come back on Monday so I will be prepared for any outcome. I've gone totally zen and have decided that whatever will be will be. If I get put on some strict diet, then good. I have always liked a challenge. If I am fine, then even better, because I have a pretty abiding fondness for chocolate. The point is: the baby is doing great and I am feeling spry and springy.
The best part of our 3-hour doctor's visit was when they hooked me up to the fetal monitor so that we could test the heartbeat and check the baby's movements. I had mentioned that I was feeling afraid about my perception (and, that of course is the key) that the baby's kicks and wriggles were not as strong as they used to be. More specifically, she jabbed the shit out of me Tuesday morning at 5:30 a.m. and woke me up and that hasn't happened since. I got the usual ob-gyny BS speech about how "every baby is different" and "her movements may vary from day to day," but then they said they would put me on the fetal monitor for reassurance. Hello? Do my hysterical messages to the office NOT indicate I could use a dose of reassurance.
We started with the handheld doppler, which indicated that Pepps' ticker was working just find to maintain 150 beats per minute. Then, we went down the hall and they put two little saucers on my stomach and strapped me down. They also handed me a switch that I had to push each time I felt baby movement. The ideal is to get to 10 movements in at least 2 hours.
Well, I grabbed my little switch and Jeff and I watched those little saucers dance around on my belly for about 20 minutes. In that time, Ms. Pepps (a/k/a pre-natal Mary Lou Retton) moved approximatley 68 times. When the nurse practioner came in and saw the read-out that indicated that the baby was going NUTS, she actually bopped me on the head with her pen to express her disapproval about my worrying for nothing. Bop away, Bitch, it's my baby and if I need to see a print out, then that's my right as a terrified, attached, first-time mom. Jeff thought she was pretty shaming, but I don't care one bit. As long as they harness technology to give me whatever reassurance is medically available, then if it comes with a side of shame, I literally do not care one bit. I did think they were going to have to perform CPR on Jeff who was laughing so hard at me when he realized that the nurse would come in and see that Pepps had jumped almost 75 times.
In my defense, I had fasted and all Pepps had to snack on was freaking GLUCOSE drink so that might have played into the whole "dance around the womb" routine. That or she's paying very close attention when Mommy accidentally watches 4 hours of Dancing With the Stars in 2 days.
Who cares? My baby is alive and well and she's growing and kicking. Monday I'll have more information about my potential diabetes diagnosis, so until then, it's a cake walk. Perhaps literally.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Test Results Are In
Guess which honors student FAILED her glucose test? Is there a more shame-laden word in the English language than "FAIL"? If there is, I don't want to hear it associated with me when I get a call from my doctor's office.
The nurse called and sounded very sweet and apologetic. I should have known. Poor lady has to call and tell me that I failed my glucose test by 7 points. I swallowed by Big Red gum right then. While she put me on hold so I could talk to the lab to schedule my follow-up THREE HOUR test, I threw the whole pack of Big Red in the trash since I assume that gum with sugar in it is not helping the situation.
You know, the situation regarding my FAILURE of the glucose test.
It's been about 4 hours since I got the call. I haven't gotten obsessive about researching on the internet, though I made a tiny mention of the FAILURE on my Facebook status and have gotten tons of support from moms who know exactly what I am talking about. I have gotten obsessive about thinking what I did wrong and what I should have done differently or eaten differently or what exercise I should have been doing. It's been a fairly unpleasant four hours because thoughts about my body being wrong, or tainted, or poisonous in some way keep distracting me from today's primary purpose, which was NOT sitting around all day and thinking about myself and my body and its sugar content.
After I called Jeff in a panic, he did some research and discovered that there is a high percentage of false positives on the first test. (The one I just failed.) Intellectually, I know it's too soon to panic. I have no idea if I truly have gestational diabetes, and honestly, if I do, what that really means for me and Peppermint. I did find myself engaging in a mindless task at work and humming "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch," and I thought it was my subconscious self reminding me to keep my sense of humor. So far I have yet to hear a fatal diagnosis. The most I know right now is that I will park my sugar-coated ass in the the doctor's office on Friday morning from 8:30 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. (after fasting since midnight) and surrender to more tests and care from the doctor. The bright side is I can catch up on my reading or sleeping. Jeff has offered to come with me, bless his heart. If I was cranky after a one-hour tour of the glucose test, how am I going to be after fasting almost 12 hours? I should probably just call a marriage counselor right now. Alternatively, maybe the three-hour test will be long enough that I will pass through the ravenous-bitchy-I-will-maul-anyone-in-my-way stage to a more sublime and serene state-- something like Mother Theresa meets Snow White.
I keep thinking about my friend Jonathan who was diagnosed with cancer this past fall. He's been very open and honest about his feelings and been gracious when I ask him questions about his chemo and his energy levels and how he and his beloved wife are coping. Honestly, it's a little embarassing to out-dramatize a man with cancer-- a man who more than twice has described himself as "dying"-- when I have a potential positive reading on a test for gestational diabetes. I keep thinking about the movie "What's Eating Gilbert Grape," which I saw exactly once about 80 years ago. For some reason, I am telling myself that the mom character who dies in the movie died of diabetes. The only other image I have of her is that she was so obese that she had to be lifted out of the house to be buried.
My mind has yet to reach it's happy place about this.
The nurse called and sounded very sweet and apologetic. I should have known. Poor lady has to call and tell me that I failed my glucose test by 7 points. I swallowed by Big Red gum right then. While she put me on hold so I could talk to the lab to schedule my follow-up THREE HOUR test, I threw the whole pack of Big Red in the trash since I assume that gum with sugar in it is not helping the situation.
You know, the situation regarding my FAILURE of the glucose test.
It's been about 4 hours since I got the call. I haven't gotten obsessive about researching on the internet, though I made a tiny mention of the FAILURE on my Facebook status and have gotten tons of support from moms who know exactly what I am talking about. I have gotten obsessive about thinking what I did wrong and what I should have done differently or eaten differently or what exercise I should have been doing. It's been a fairly unpleasant four hours because thoughts about my body being wrong, or tainted, or poisonous in some way keep distracting me from today's primary purpose, which was NOT sitting around all day and thinking about myself and my body and its sugar content.
After I called Jeff in a panic, he did some research and discovered that there is a high percentage of false positives on the first test. (The one I just failed.) Intellectually, I know it's too soon to panic. I have no idea if I truly have gestational diabetes, and honestly, if I do, what that really means for me and Peppermint. I did find myself engaging in a mindless task at work and humming "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch," and I thought it was my subconscious self reminding me to keep my sense of humor. So far I have yet to hear a fatal diagnosis. The most I know right now is that I will park my sugar-coated ass in the the doctor's office on Friday morning from 8:30 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. (after fasting since midnight) and surrender to more tests and care from the doctor. The bright side is I can catch up on my reading or sleeping. Jeff has offered to come with me, bless his heart. If I was cranky after a one-hour tour of the glucose test, how am I going to be after fasting almost 12 hours? I should probably just call a marriage counselor right now. Alternatively, maybe the three-hour test will be long enough that I will pass through the ravenous-bitchy-I-will-maul-anyone-in-my-way stage to a more sublime and serene state-- something like Mother Theresa meets Snow White.
I keep thinking about my friend Jonathan who was diagnosed with cancer this past fall. He's been very open and honest about his feelings and been gracious when I ask him questions about his chemo and his energy levels and how he and his beloved wife are coping. Honestly, it's a little embarassing to out-dramatize a man with cancer-- a man who more than twice has described himself as "dying"-- when I have a potential positive reading on a test for gestational diabetes. I keep thinking about the movie "What's Eating Gilbert Grape," which I saw exactly once about 80 years ago. For some reason, I am telling myself that the mom character who dies in the movie died of diabetes. The only other image I have of her is that she was so obese that she had to be lifted out of the house to be buried.
My mind has yet to reach it's happy place about this.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
See it to believe it
Cankles. Yes, cankles. I am woman enough to admit that I am starting to get cankles. I am also woman enough to admit I really love them. The human body is fucking amazing.Pirates or Pregnant Woman On Glucose?
What's more lethal: A band of Somali pirates cruising international waters armed with loaded Uzi and motives loaded with greed OR administering to an almost-seven-months pregnant woman a turbo-sugared drink on an empty stomach and then taking her blood?
My husband knows the answer to that one. Parenting for him will be a breeze compared to trying to deal with an over-hungry, over-glucosed version of me. It wasn't pretty. I am not proud of how it all went down after the test, the results of which I get tomorrow. I almost fainted in the Treasure Island and I bet my husband wishes I would have so he could have a moment of peace which was only likely to come if I was rendered unconscious. What can I say? When I get over-hungry and overwhelmed and have thick syrup running through my veins after a mere 5 hours of sleep, I turn into a blathering, incoherent-yet-definitely-bitchy version of myself. Yes, worse than normal.
The test itself went fine. My blood pressure was fine, and we all studiously avoided the topic of my weight gain. (I assume it's perfect. ) I drank the drink and in the hour that we had to wait before they drew my blood, Jeff and I looked at the photo albums of all the babies born to the doctors in the practice. It's so much fun looking at the babies, and seeing the different names and birth announcements. Most of the pictures are of the doctors in the practice with the newborns they presumably just delivered. I got some good ideas for what to do with my hair during labor. I think you have to go with the cotton band that will keep the hair out of your face. I didn't see any baseball caps, which would be my first choice. Hell, if it's good enough for a marathon race, why not labor?
From now on, my doctor's appointments are every two weeks. It's hard to believe we are heading into the home stretch. Speaking of stretch, we learned a few more details about what will happen down town during labor. I am committing to a regime of weekly prenatal yoga so the stretching process will not require any medical incisions of any kind. But that will certainly be another post-- hopefully one without pictures.
My husband knows the answer to that one. Parenting for him will be a breeze compared to trying to deal with an over-hungry, over-glucosed version of me. It wasn't pretty. I am not proud of how it all went down after the test, the results of which I get tomorrow. I almost fainted in the Treasure Island and I bet my husband wishes I would have so he could have a moment of peace which was only likely to come if I was rendered unconscious. What can I say? When I get over-hungry and overwhelmed and have thick syrup running through my veins after a mere 5 hours of sleep, I turn into a blathering, incoherent-yet-definitely-bitchy version of myself. Yes, worse than normal.
The test itself went fine. My blood pressure was fine, and we all studiously avoided the topic of my weight gain. (I assume it's perfect. ) I drank the drink and in the hour that we had to wait before they drew my blood, Jeff and I looked at the photo albums of all the babies born to the doctors in the practice. It's so much fun looking at the babies, and seeing the different names and birth announcements. Most of the pictures are of the doctors in the practice with the newborns they presumably just delivered. I got some good ideas for what to do with my hair during labor. I think you have to go with the cotton band that will keep the hair out of your face. I didn't see any baseball caps, which would be my first choice. Hell, if it's good enough for a marathon race, why not labor?
From now on, my doctor's appointments are every two weeks. It's hard to believe we are heading into the home stretch. Speaking of stretch, we learned a few more details about what will happen down town during labor. I am committing to a regime of weekly prenatal yoga so the stretching process will not require any medical incisions of any kind. But that will certainly be another post-- hopefully one without pictures.
Making the Grade
It's April 14, 2009, and a certain red and white striped little baby girl is due in 3 months. Someone please administer first aid if I faint upon truly grasping what that means for my life. I can't believe that I am 27 weeks pregnant today. Ms. Pepps' kicks are getting stronger and stronger. This morning they woke me up at 5:30 ish, and it's a pretty majestic wake up call! I'll take that to my bunk ass old alarm clock any day of the week.
At 10:45 this morning I am headed to another milestone: the glucose test. I am told I will drink a sugary orange liquid and then sit in the doctor's office for 1 hour so they can test me for gestational diabetes. I have been thinking about gaming the test all weekend-- my master plan was to cut out all sugar or fruit the few days before the test. Unfortunately, we were in Colorado for a baby shower and visiting some of our nearest and dearest, and well, well someone offers you cake in honor of your first-born daughter, you just may tend to eat it. Actually, if you are me, you will eat a corner piece and refuse to share with your husband. But, hey, that's just me. And, I also had a piece of cake at lunch on Saturday. In other words, I am only about 72 hours away from a dual cake day so if I pass this test, it will be more miraculous than that A that I got at the University of Chicago in the Technologies of Gender seminar. We'll see.
As mentioned above, Jeff and I attended our first baby shower for Ms. Pepps this weekend, hosted by my lovely and generous college roommate, Alice B.L. The generosity and joy from the weekend is still making me sort of high. We got a close up look at her life with her two precious kids, Andrew (age 4) and Kate (age 2). Her kids are fantastically energetic and creative and happy, and it was hard not to notice that these qualities emerge as early as 6:30 a.m. on a weekend morning. I usually want to punch Oprah when she makes comments, in a manner that sounds vaguely condescending, that being a mom is the hardest job in the world, but after what we saw this weekend, I can definitely attest to my own belief that being a parent is certainly one of the most time consuming and all-encompassing jobs I can think of.
We also learned alot from our friends in Eagle, Colorado: Mimi and Chuck. They too were very generous about what their lives look like with their 2-year-old daughter Lily. Under a backdrop of gorgeous mountain views, Mimi and Chuck demonstrated their own discipline and commitment to parenting their daughter, designing their living space, their vocabulary and their schedules in order to create a warm and loving home for all three of them. It was incredible to behold the work they have put into creating the family life they want.
The bottom line: I am more terrified that ever. And, I think that's good. I would rather understand now that being a parent is a fairly full-time, and full beyond my current comprehension, than find out 2 months into parenting. I am intimidated and afraid about the relentlessness of it all. All weekend long I kept leaning over and telling Jeff that I was "for sure going to work after the baby is born," which was my cutsie way of saying, "I am terrified. There is so much we don't know. Some of this looks incredibly boring to me, so I am hoping to get a tiny break everday when I have to tend to another kind of work that doesn't involve sheparding someone through the world."
And, what do I know? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I know about as much as my daughter knows. We'll be running on instincts for a while, I suppose. We did break out a Dr. Sears book on the plane ride home, which was a very easy to read explanation of attachment parenting. There will be more to say on that, but it will have to be its own post. My relationship to how-to or self-help literature probably says more about me than anything else I have ever posted.
Stay tuned.
At 10:45 this morning I am headed to another milestone: the glucose test. I am told I will drink a sugary orange liquid and then sit in the doctor's office for 1 hour so they can test me for gestational diabetes. I have been thinking about gaming the test all weekend-- my master plan was to cut out all sugar or fruit the few days before the test. Unfortunately, we were in Colorado for a baby shower and visiting some of our nearest and dearest, and well, well someone offers you cake in honor of your first-born daughter, you just may tend to eat it. Actually, if you are me, you will eat a corner piece and refuse to share with your husband. But, hey, that's just me. And, I also had a piece of cake at lunch on Saturday. In other words, I am only about 72 hours away from a dual cake day so if I pass this test, it will be more miraculous than that A that I got at the University of Chicago in the Technologies of Gender seminar. We'll see.
As mentioned above, Jeff and I attended our first baby shower for Ms. Pepps this weekend, hosted by my lovely and generous college roommate, Alice B.L. The generosity and joy from the weekend is still making me sort of high. We got a close up look at her life with her two precious kids, Andrew (age 4) and Kate (age 2). Her kids are fantastically energetic and creative and happy, and it was hard not to notice that these qualities emerge as early as 6:30 a.m. on a weekend morning. I usually want to punch Oprah when she makes comments, in a manner that sounds vaguely condescending, that being a mom is the hardest job in the world, but after what we saw this weekend, I can definitely attest to my own belief that being a parent is certainly one of the most time consuming and all-encompassing jobs I can think of.
We also learned alot from our friends in Eagle, Colorado: Mimi and Chuck. They too were very generous about what their lives look like with their 2-year-old daughter Lily. Under a backdrop of gorgeous mountain views, Mimi and Chuck demonstrated their own discipline and commitment to parenting their daughter, designing their living space, their vocabulary and their schedules in order to create a warm and loving home for all three of them. It was incredible to behold the work they have put into creating the family life they want.
The bottom line: I am more terrified that ever. And, I think that's good. I would rather understand now that being a parent is a fairly full-time, and full beyond my current comprehension, than find out 2 months into parenting. I am intimidated and afraid about the relentlessness of it all. All weekend long I kept leaning over and telling Jeff that I was "for sure going to work after the baby is born," which was my cutsie way of saying, "I am terrified. There is so much we don't know. Some of this looks incredibly boring to me, so I am hoping to get a tiny break everday when I have to tend to another kind of work that doesn't involve sheparding someone through the world."
And, what do I know? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I know about as much as my daughter knows. We'll be running on instincts for a while, I suppose. We did break out a Dr. Sears book on the plane ride home, which was a very easy to read explanation of attachment parenting. There will be more to say on that, but it will have to be its own post. My relationship to how-to or self-help literature probably says more about me than anything else I have ever posted.
Stay tuned.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Sometimes I wonder what pieces of my current life will become parts of the future stories I tell Ms. Pepps about the months before she was born. Sometimes I imagine telling her how fun it is to go to work in a law firm during a Depression that has drastically affected the legal field. Other times, I imagine happier stories about how her dad and I spent a lot of time dreaming and thinking about what kind of parents we want to be and what kind of home we are hoping to provide for her. For example, last night Jeff and I had a discussion about what holidays we want to celebrate in our family.
I voted for Passover, because I love the "coming out of slavery" imagery and the tradition. I also voted for painting Easter eggs and hiding them, though leaving out some of the gore of of the crucifixion until Pepps is emotionally ready for that kind of story. I probably just like Easter because I like new clothes and pastel colors. Bunnies are not bad either. Having been raised Catholic, I do have an attachment to parts of Christmas-- the tree and ornaments, stockings, the cookies, the presents, and some of the music. Jeff likes Hannukah as well, and we both like Diwali. We should have our hands full with lots of holidays, though I am thinking those long summer months could use a spicy holiday pick-me-up. I am always super moody on Fourth of July so I don't care to hand my child a sparkler and some pork products and tell her to sing God Bless America, because that will only irritate me more. We may have our hands full in July anyway because it's likely to be Pepps' birthday, as well as yours truly.
It's pretty mind blowing right now to think that the next round of holidays is going to be Ellis-Tate party of 3. Sometimes it feels very far off and sometimes my heart stops when I realize I am less than 2 weeks away from my THIRD trimester. Holy Schmoly. I am getting very excited. I am hoping that the third trimester will bring on the era when my belly sticks out farther than my breasts. Because, so far, that's not the case. If you told me that I was carrying twin babies in my breasts, I would believe you 100%. I just read ahead in a pregnancy book about symptoms in weeks 28-31, and one of those symptoms is ENLARGED BREASTS. What? They are going to get even bigger? I was thinking maybe they are referring to Pepps' breasts, but I think she's got to work on baby fat, brain power and lungs. Seriously, where do you get a size GG bra? And what do you do with the breasts that belong in them?
I TiVo'ed the Oprah show that featured moms talking about the so-called "dirty little secrets" of motherhood. Some of it was hilarious-- like the woman who said she made three of her children lunches made solely out of snacks she had stashed in her car. I felt sad to hear some of it-- like the woman who said she secretly has a favorite child or the woman who said that she sometimes pretends to cry to get her children to behave. Overall, I felt a little afraid about a culture that frames the relationship between parent and child as a "war" or a "power struggle." Call me fussy, but I don't want to have a war against my 10 lb off spring. I am still looking for another model. Something that is less adversarial and more joyful. The challenge seems to be how can mothers and fathers stay involved with the child while taking care of themselves at the same time. And let me tell you, there didn't seem to be any lower-class or poor moms who had time to Skype in to the Oprah show to talk about having to feed children on food stamps or to shop at Aldi for eggs and milk. How lucky we are to have resources and time to spend devoted solely to raising our daughter. I don't forget that for one second. And while I have no idea how we will marshal those resources or spend that time, I know it's a blessing to have as many choices as we do. Now, I can get on with the business of creating a birthplan and making an mix on the iPod that I think will be conducive to peaceful labor.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
How To Piss Off A Pregnant Lady
Ok, it's got to be done. Once and for all, I am going to memorialize the interactions that have pissed me off thus far during my otherwise blissful 25-weeks of pregnancy. It's a guide on how to piss me off during the next 15 weeks. If you are so inclined, here are some very quick and easy tips to getting on my bad side.
1. Give me unsolicited advice. Honest to Moses, I can't believe how much unsolicited advice I have gotten. From clients, and bosses, and strangers, and friends. Even those friends who work 12 simple steps to stay on their own sides of the fence-- yes, even they have committed this grievous error. The majority of the unsolicited advice is related to what books to read, how to find a baby name, what products and/or activities to avoid, and how to deal with work/pregnancy balance. It's astonishing to me that virtual strangers offer me suggestions for baby names -- a guy at Improv voted for Sophie and a junior associate working for me on a project ironically also suggested Sophie. All I know is that I am not naming my daughter Sophie because some strangers opined that they like that name for a little girl and that I should consider it. Someone else told me not to name my daughter "Molly," because Molly means "bitter." Well, slap my ass and call me Molly because I am very bitter now! That one was especially galling because I really love the name Molly and now I can't get that little "nugget" of wisdom out of my head. I have gotten more than one voicemail about what books to buy and read. I have gotten more than 5 emails about being SURE I let my job know about my pregnancy-- early and often-- since, after all, we are in a repression and allegedly my pregnancy is a ticket to job security when lawyers are be ejected from law firms like yesterday's law bulletin.
The karmic balance for all of this is that I have actually solicited plenty of advice from friends, therapists, fellow moms-to-be, as well as actual moms and dads. In the context of my requests for advice, I am pleased to report having recieved plenty of loving suggestions and realistic feedback that has kept me from landing in jail upon getting the other (read unsolicited) advice.
This is your surefire way to piss off a pregnant lady, though, so if there is one in your vicinity who's kind of bugging you and you want to just get a little jab in, go up to her and tell her that she should not be doing whatever it is she is doing, but instead she should be mindful meditation and pre-natal yoga on a daily basis. Do it; I dare you.
2. Blame Hormones. This hasn't happened to me very often, but the two times that someone has blamed my moods or emotions on hormones really pissed me off. Most people who interact with me know that I have always been very emotional and tempestuous, even long before Ms. Peppermint settled into my uterus. I am still having a fight in my head with the person who blamed hormones when I was upset about a senior attorney cussing me out for "dropping the ball" on a case in which all balls were firmly, and I do mean FIRMLY, in my grasp. When someone at work acts like an asshole and I react, that isn't my hormones, that's my finely honed sense of justice and fairness rising up when I am unfairly accused by some irrational, alcoholic control freak of not tending to my work. Blaming a pregnant woman's feelings on hormones is a way to diminish her reality and dismiss her legitimate feelings of outrage and fury. Believe me, you really don't want to do that. Keep your misogynist and belitting diagnoses about "hormones" to yourself.
3. Tell me a Horror Story. Yep, go ahead. Tell me about your sister's friend who's baby never slept more than 6 minutes in a row for about 3 years. Tell me about your aunt's nipple infection right after her baby was born. If you are really good, tell me about your niece's episiotomy or her horrible experience at the hospital you know I am going to give birth in. Those are my favorites. People love it. Why someone thinks I want to hear about the tear in some unknown woman's private regions is so beyond my comprehension that I don't know how to answer when I hear it. Do you think that pregnant women don't have enough to concern themselves with-- what, with trying to avoid getting listeria from turkey or Fifth's disease or falling down the stairs-- we don't have enough to do? It's not enough that my body, right as you are telling me something horrible-- is constructing a human body about 2 feet below my eye balls? This pregnant lady doesn't want to hear about anything horrible. If I wanted more morbid stories crowding my brain space, I would watch those Labor and Delivery reality shows on cable. Or I would watch the news or read Above the Law.
Next time you are tempted to tell a woman who is swollen with child something negative, scary, or just plain gross, don't. Tell her another story. Tell her about a baby you know that slept through the night after 4 days, or about woman who pushed for 10 minutes, without medication, and out came a healthy baby. Just because a woman's belly is swollen with child does not mean she wants her head swollen with grotesque and scary stories.
4. Judge Me. This is a good one too. This is almost as good as getting an email about law firms laying off pregnant associates. When you see me eating something, ask me about whether I am "allowed" to eat that, but use that special tone of voice that will communicate that you've already made up your mind about it. Please judge the decisions I have made about getting pregnant, our nursery, our money management, working after the baby is born, traveling with the baby, not traveling with the baby, vaccinations, exercise (or lack thereof), the shoes I am wearing, my bowels, my breasts, my hair, my friends, my sleep, my extracurricular activites, etc.
The truth is that I do this too. I judge other people-- plenty of whom are mothers and plenty of my judgments are about mothering-- and I don't like to be on the receiving end of it. I am working on my own release from judgments, which only makes it harder to experience other people's outloud judgments about my decisions. Not a fan at all. That's why it's number 4 on my list.
So how do you get or stay on my good side?
I sure do like hearing affirmations that I will be a good mom. If you can't bring yourself to do that, then feel free to affirm that Jeff will be a great dad. I also like hearing about your life and sharing my thoughts, feelings, and fantasies about motherhood. I like hearing stories about babies you love and your experience of being mothered. I like hearing your experience without any pressure to do anything with that experience other than hear you and take it in. I like hearing about what you are reading-- as opposed to what I should read. I like invitations to spend time with you doing what you like to do and joining in wherever I can.
Mostly, I like explicit expressions of feelings. If you are feeling fear, I would like to think I am open to hearing that. Don't hand it to me sideways with a story about layoffs or breasts that have fallen off from aggressive suckling.
I also like funny stories and jokes, especially if they are at the expense of someone who has committed any of the sins I have enumerated in items 1-4 above!
1. Give me unsolicited advice. Honest to Moses, I can't believe how much unsolicited advice I have gotten. From clients, and bosses, and strangers, and friends. Even those friends who work 12 simple steps to stay on their own sides of the fence-- yes, even they have committed this grievous error. The majority of the unsolicited advice is related to what books to read, how to find a baby name, what products and/or activities to avoid, and how to deal with work/pregnancy balance. It's astonishing to me that virtual strangers offer me suggestions for baby names -- a guy at Improv voted for Sophie and a junior associate working for me on a project ironically also suggested Sophie. All I know is that I am not naming my daughter Sophie because some strangers opined that they like that name for a little girl and that I should consider it. Someone else told me not to name my daughter "Molly," because Molly means "bitter." Well, slap my ass and call me Molly because I am very bitter now! That one was especially galling because I really love the name Molly and now I can't get that little "nugget" of wisdom out of my head. I have gotten more than one voicemail about what books to buy and read. I have gotten more than 5 emails about being SURE I let my job know about my pregnancy-- early and often-- since, after all, we are in a repression and allegedly my pregnancy is a ticket to job security when lawyers are be ejected from law firms like yesterday's law bulletin.
The karmic balance for all of this is that I have actually solicited plenty of advice from friends, therapists, fellow moms-to-be, as well as actual moms and dads. In the context of my requests for advice, I am pleased to report having recieved plenty of loving suggestions and realistic feedback that has kept me from landing in jail upon getting the other (read unsolicited) advice.
This is your surefire way to piss off a pregnant lady, though, so if there is one in your vicinity who's kind of bugging you and you want to just get a little jab in, go up to her and tell her that she should not be doing whatever it is she is doing, but instead she should be mindful meditation and pre-natal yoga on a daily basis. Do it; I dare you.
2. Blame Hormones. This hasn't happened to me very often, but the two times that someone has blamed my moods or emotions on hormones really pissed me off. Most people who interact with me know that I have always been very emotional and tempestuous, even long before Ms. Peppermint settled into my uterus. I am still having a fight in my head with the person who blamed hormones when I was upset about a senior attorney cussing me out for "dropping the ball" on a case in which all balls were firmly, and I do mean FIRMLY, in my grasp. When someone at work acts like an asshole and I react, that isn't my hormones, that's my finely honed sense of justice and fairness rising up when I am unfairly accused by some irrational, alcoholic control freak of not tending to my work. Blaming a pregnant woman's feelings on hormones is a way to diminish her reality and dismiss her legitimate feelings of outrage and fury. Believe me, you really don't want to do that. Keep your misogynist and belitting diagnoses about "hormones" to yourself.
3. Tell me a Horror Story. Yep, go ahead. Tell me about your sister's friend who's baby never slept more than 6 minutes in a row for about 3 years. Tell me about your aunt's nipple infection right after her baby was born. If you are really good, tell me about your niece's episiotomy or her horrible experience at the hospital you know I am going to give birth in. Those are my favorites. People love it. Why someone thinks I want to hear about the tear in some unknown woman's private regions is so beyond my comprehension that I don't know how to answer when I hear it. Do you think that pregnant women don't have enough to concern themselves with-- what, with trying to avoid getting listeria from turkey or Fifth's disease or falling down the stairs-- we don't have enough to do? It's not enough that my body, right as you are telling me something horrible-- is constructing a human body about 2 feet below my eye balls? This pregnant lady doesn't want to hear about anything horrible. If I wanted more morbid stories crowding my brain space, I would watch those Labor and Delivery reality shows on cable. Or I would watch the news or read Above the Law.
Next time you are tempted to tell a woman who is swollen with child something negative, scary, or just plain gross, don't. Tell her another story. Tell her about a baby you know that slept through the night after 4 days, or about woman who pushed for 10 minutes, without medication, and out came a healthy baby. Just because a woman's belly is swollen with child does not mean she wants her head swollen with grotesque and scary stories.
4. Judge Me. This is a good one too. This is almost as good as getting an email about law firms laying off pregnant associates. When you see me eating something, ask me about whether I am "allowed" to eat that, but use that special tone of voice that will communicate that you've already made up your mind about it. Please judge the decisions I have made about getting pregnant, our nursery, our money management, working after the baby is born, traveling with the baby, not traveling with the baby, vaccinations, exercise (or lack thereof), the shoes I am wearing, my bowels, my breasts, my hair, my friends, my sleep, my extracurricular activites, etc.
The truth is that I do this too. I judge other people-- plenty of whom are mothers and plenty of my judgments are about mothering-- and I don't like to be on the receiving end of it. I am working on my own release from judgments, which only makes it harder to experience other people's outloud judgments about my decisions. Not a fan at all. That's why it's number 4 on my list.
So how do you get or stay on my good side?
I sure do like hearing affirmations that I will be a good mom. If you can't bring yourself to do that, then feel free to affirm that Jeff will be a great dad. I also like hearing about your life and sharing my thoughts, feelings, and fantasies about motherhood. I like hearing stories about babies you love and your experience of being mothered. I like hearing your experience without any pressure to do anything with that experience other than hear you and take it in. I like hearing about what you are reading-- as opposed to what I should read. I like invitations to spend time with you doing what you like to do and joining in wherever I can.
Mostly, I like explicit expressions of feelings. If you are feeling fear, I would like to think I am open to hearing that. Don't hand it to me sideways with a story about layoffs or breasts that have fallen off from aggressive suckling.
I also like funny stories and jokes, especially if they are at the expense of someone who has committed any of the sins I have enumerated in items 1-4 above!
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