Oops!

I just did it again. Too cute.

Seal BROKEN

Ok, well I did it. I bought my daughter a real, live bona fide, I-know-my-baby's-gender dress. LOOK how cute. I am so excited. I love all baby clothes-- actually, I love all clothes-- so I know that now that I broke the seal and bought the Pepps an outfit that the Baby Gap and Hannah Anderssen will be send me presents all the time. And, all I have to do is pick out the cute clothes, give a few credit card digits, and voila!

Little Miss Sunshine

I have fallen hopelessly in love this face. That's my daughter's face. Just saying that I get choked up with awe and gratitude. She's 10 ounces, which is hard to believe because she's sporting a very fine spine and that gorgeous profile. I can't look at it without spontaneously bursting into prayer of thanksgiving. When I was in Omaha on business, the days were quite long, and somewhere around 10:00 p.m., I realized that I missed seeing a picture of Pepperminta. Jeff was kind enough to email me a copy of her profile so I could see her and quell the longing til I could get back to my hotel and stare at the pictures again.

This gender information is sinking in a little more day by day. The biggest change I can see in myself since we found out about the Pepperminta is that I am suddenly in love with all of the mothers that I see. There is a new space inside of me that is full of reverence and respect for mothers, especially mothers of little girls. And, this morning on the train I had an experience that showed that I, too, am ready to having more mothering in my life. (Is now an appropriate time to mention I will be seeing a new FEMALE therapist tomorrow who has had two children of her own?)

So, I get on the train platform this morning excited to have a few minutes to read the new David Sedaris book before the week takes on a life of its own and I have to limit my reading to legal documents and personal emails. When the train finally comes, I am pretty much frozen solid from the 20 degree windchill that cut through me as I stood on the elevated platform. When I got into a train car, however, it was packed full of people and hot. Really hot. I tried to concentrate on Mr. Sedaris' funny antidotes, and the last thing I remember reading before becoming convinced I was going to faint was something about how he and his partner bonded over a mutual fear of group sex and abandonment. Even that little discussion was not going to keep me conscious during this ride.

I didn't know what to do. I was standing and holding a pole, and I certainly don't look pregnant, so I can't really fault any morning commuters for not examining my pale visage and giving me their seats. I took off my coat. I took off my gloves. I was still spinning and things were getting blurry at the edges. I was four stops away from my desintation-- which, since you asked, was also a therapist's office. You can never have too much therapy-- that's CLEARLY my motto. Anyway, I decided I need to take action if I didn't want to end up on a CTA stretcher headed to the nearest emergency room. I crouched down to a squat and put my head between my legs. And, then, thank goodness, this elderly woman who was dressed head to toe in black schmata, with big reading glasses and salt and pepper hair pulled loosely in a bun, looked up from her Bible reading and asked me if I wanted her seat. Since I was practically laying on the floor of the el train, I decided to take her up on it. I was so grateful that she observed me and offered me her seat. I felt better once I sat down. A few minutes later the guy in the adjacent seat got off the train and the Bible lady sat down next to me. She asked me if I needed medical care. I wanted to say, "you have no idea," but instead said, "I am pregnant and if I get too hot and thirsty this is what happens. I am almost at my stop. Thank you."

She had a thick accent, which I tell myself was Polish. She was reading the second chapter of Leviticus in what looked like an old King James Bible. I got off before she did, but not before thanking her for her kindness and consideration. But for her, I would be on the el floor riding up and down Chicago's northwest side trying to catch my breath.

I tell myself she's a mother. Actually, I have a vivid imagination, so I tell myself she is the mother of 7 children, from back in the day before you could harness medical technology to have a litter of children. I tell myself she used to have to ride the train through Siberia (is that in Poland? Near Poland?) with her children to get some hearty brown bread to make it through the winter. I tell myself her husband died in the war and she never remarried. Instead, she found Jesus and the Bible and rides around helping young women who haven't quite learned to speak up for themselves when they are about to faint on public transportation.

She's amazing. I want to be a woman like that. Lifting up other women, paying attention, offering up my seat where possible. I would rather read David Sedaris than the Bible, but they both have multiple references to sodomy so it's more similar than you would think.

It's this exact experience that makes me feel happy about bringing a baby into this world, this city, this train line. A baby girl no less. I would like to teach her to gravitate towards people who will help her and share the ride with her, making it more comfortable and pleasant along the way.

Midwives

People, we have hit the 20-week mark and that means that if Ms. P comes on schedule, we are half way done. Incredible. There are lots of halves to celebrate:

1. Half way to meeting our daughter
2. I only sleep about HALF the night
3. My breasts are only HALF way to the floor now
4. Half of my maternity clothes aren't fitting (It's the breasts again)
5. Half of my brain works half of the day

I am indebted to the lovely ladies who came to my house on Sunday afternoon to do a vision for me: we created a vision about the rest of my pregnancy, my early motherhood, my marriage (oh, yea, I am married), and my career. I got lots of good ideas and will soon be researching doulas and options for getting support when Pepps lands.

Half way. Incredible. Half way there and already double the joy in my life.

Thank God We Don't Live in China

...Because we are having a BABY GIRL!!! We are over the moon. We are shocked and thrilled and during the ultrasound I keept looking for the penis that I was so sure was there. The ultrasound technician was laughing at us and then she showed us our Peppermint's girl parts.

WE LOVE HER!!

The U.S.S. Pepperminta is riding the high seas of my placenta!!! I love her. This is one hell of a journey. I can't wait to shop. Actually, it has to wait because I have a business trip to Omaha until Saturday. I am going to get Pepperminta some cornhusker onesies!!

Faith and Technology

So we got a new camera, and I am slowly getting used to that constant clicking sound which is my husband learning all the ins and outs of our new SLR by taking pictures of me in every conceivable mood, and believe me, that's a LOT of pictures. Pictured above is me making my Sad Face, after growing weary of smiling for the camera for two days straight. I actually really was sad as I had just gotten off the phone with a loved one who mentioned a conversation she had about me during her book club. When the book club member asked my Loved One ("LO") if LO thought I would have a family, LO said, "well, we think so. She is having a baby in July, but she can't take care of a purse, so we aren't sure how this is going to go."



When I heard this, I naturally thought I misheard my interlocutor. A purse? I can't take care of a purse? That's news to me. I never heard my Furla complaining, or the Burberry I bought after I got my first Adult paycheck. I was hurt, but I didn't say anything during the conversation. But, boy, when I got off the phone, Jeff got such an earful about how hurt I was that LO would have the opinion about me that (1) I can't take care of a purse and (2) therefore I can't take care of a baby. And you know what, does it really matter what anyone thinks about my mothering? The answer is no, because it only upset me so much because I have my own quiet, deep down doubts. It's hard not to notice how fragile babies are. I mean, they weigh about 7 lbs out of the chute, and they can't defend themselves or carry mace or say when they are being held too tight or not enough. Just because they are mostly made of cartilage doesn't mean it's ok that I have no idea what I am doing. My point is that babies are small and I am clumsy.

I won't be coy. I am scared. I scared more than any other adventure in my life. Dating until the age of 33 had it's total suckage value, but it wasn't like this. I always knew that the world was full of men, and I had a back up plan to go to a small, third-world country to offer myself up for an arranged marriage if I simply had to get married. I can't think of what this equates to. Being broken up with is horrific, and usually permanent (if you are lucky), but it's adult. It's two people who have volition and teeth and can support themselves separately or apart. Not so with our little fetal friends. It's just not so.

Blog readers, I am a nervous wreck. I have sobbed three times today, and it ain't over yet. The occasion for this drenching of my face with my own salty tears is that tomorrow we go in for our ultrasound. It's the "big ultra-sound" also known as the "20-week" ultra sound that, somewhat confusingly, takes place anywhere from 18-22 weeks into pregnancy. Thinking about it for more than 3 seconds reduces me to more sobbing. In part, it's very scary to be so in love and to not be sure if everything is ok. Tomorrow will be a chance to see Peppermint and ensure that our little one is growing and getting everything necessary to join us in the outside world soon enough. I feel so out of control. There is no way for me to really impact this process: whatever is happening genetically, is happening. Same with Pepps' gentitals and organs and all of it. I can't buy my baby's good health. I can't buy my own peace of mind about it. I know we had good reason to eschew genetic testing, but the ramification of that is that I have no idea. I just have no idea.

Billions of healthy babies are born every year to moms less educated, careful, and healthy than I. I know. I know. But I also know that I suck at statistics. The night before the Bar Exam I thought about the statistics over and over again. I was sure that 90% passage rate for my law school wasn't good enough. I would somehow go from valedictorian of my law school class to bar exam flunkie. And, because my brain has no medium speed, I went straight to losing my job, losing all my friends, my hair (don't ask, it's just so catastrophic inside my brain), and my ability to proceed through life as a literate adult. And, this is about 80 billion times worse.

So, I am here to say that I am a putative mom who is terrified beyond speech right now and it's really hard to get me to a place that is beyond speech. I would trade anything in the world for this to come out ok. And, the really annoying part is that I build up these doctor's appointments, work myself into a total apopletic seizure the night before, and forget there is another reason to worry coming. It doesn't here with this 20-week ultrasound. Hell no. There's kindergarten and then driving and dating and getting (and keeping) a job. Then there's worrying about my offsprings' ultrasounds.

Hey, look at me getting all optimistic about my kids' futures! Go me.

On a slightly less neurotic note, we will find out Pepps' gender tomorrow as long as Pepps opens the legs for a shot at the goods. I begged my husband to dream a little bit about names for both genders because after tomorrow, we 50% of our options are narrowed. The dreams get more focused and more real, but we also have to say goodbye to the opposite gender. Today, and for 16 more hours, the world is open to every conceivable possibility. Little boy. Little girl. Tomorrow, the game changes-- definitely for the better, but a change nonetheless. And I really struggle with change.

This is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life without exception. Without even a close second. My mom friends tell me to hang in there because there is so much joy coming. I hope to bequeath to my kids a capacity for joy that reaches even 10% of my capacity for worry. That would be such a lovely legacy.

Here's to technology and faith and clarity and gender and terror and dizzying love and the power of commitment to my Peppermint no matter what happens.

Hairbrained Schemes

This is a big week for us. Only 3 more days until our big ultrasound, which will give us lots of information about Peppermint, including whether Pepps is blue and white striped or pink and white striped. Honestly, I am a nervous wreck. I really just want to have a healthy baby-- I want the untarnished pleasure of seeing Peppermint dance around the screen with all his or her baby parts in place.

Latest developments include being asked my a virtual stranger if I am pregnant. I was stunned. I felt like saying, "How could you tell? Is it my lustrous hair or my radiant glow?" I am pretty sure it had something to do with my belly and my new style of wearing a super long maternity shirt and a matching long sweater. My new outfits scream MATERNITY, so it's not hard to pick up on it. Shopping for maternity clothes is like trying to shop in an alternate universe. Even at a place I have been shopping for decades, like the Gap. First of all, you have to go to a "flagship" store to find maternity clothes. Then, the maternity section is on the basement floor, back in a corner based the baby and toddler clothes. It's disorienting to shop in a section next to onsies that won't even fit on my feet. The clothes that they market to women are feminine, but somewhat infantile and frilly. There are lots of bows and sashes and feminine prints. I don't know what to make of it, exactly. It's not like I want to run around looking like some hot sex pot, but the bows...the soft feminine colors... the sheer dearth of choices. It's just disorienting, that's all I am saying.

Then, there is boutique shopping. That's just a whole other world itself. I saw a tank top at a boutique that said, "Due in July," and it was totally precious and cute and totally $68.00. I applaud my own restraint and decided I would buy some Hanes men's wifebeaters and get out the be-dazzler to make my own damn shirt. I'll use the money I save to get a prenatal massage.

Speaking of style, I am having a strong and possibly self-destructive urge to get a new hairstyle. I am not talking "take a few inches off the bottom to clean it up," I am taking new color, new length, new shape, new me. I suddenly am thinking that now is the perfect time to get a little pixie cut, which makes perfect sense: as my body expands, why not make my head look even more like a pea sitting on top of a rugged mountain. Last night I saw that Katie Couric has chopped her hair off, and I assume her higher ratings can be attributed to her new do. But, then again, remember what happened to Felicity when Kerri Russell cut her hair? There was a backlash that culminated in the show's cancellation. Before I swore off pregnancy books, I read that this desire to have a drastic hair transformation is actually common. From what I recall, the author of the book BEGGED women not to do anything drastic to their hair. I hate that my obsessions are so unoriginal. I may do it though. The good news is that Jeff just got a new camera-- a big fancy kind with a lens that weighs about 75 pounds-- so if I do something stupid we can document it thoroughly to remind me next time to stick with what I got.