(In which I take my own individual experience and apply it as broadly as possible. Because what's the point of a blog that no one reads if not ad hoc argumentation?)
I'd like to call bullshit on some pregnancy myths.
1. Cravings. This has to be the most common question. People seem to want to hear all about the bizarre relationship to food I'm supposedly suddenly having. Except I'm not. Which seems very disappointing for them. As far as I can tell, humans are always in the mood for something or other -- burrito? apple? chocolate? coffee? -- but when they're pregnant they a) start paying a lot more attention, and b) become much more likely to follow that mood whither it leads. In other words, of course I want ice cream, and I'm pregnant so what the hell?
2. Nesting. The kid has closet space, a bassinet, and a changing area. Why? Because it's another person joining our household and she needs to have certain basic needs met; not because I'm riding some kind of hormonal interior decorating wave. I made closet space for R too, when he moved in. I made space for our cat. Now I make space for a baby. And because I enjoy reading design blogs on occasion, and didn't fancy staring at a scuffed white door whilst fussing with diapers, and we had some leftover paint that wasn't being used for anything, I painted the door the changing table sits in front of. Consider us nested.
RECIPE: Roasted Za'atar Chickpeas, because za'atar is delicious and roasting chickpeas is a whole new world of snack food.
Apr 25, 2017
Mar 9, 2017
Orwell
It's been hard to escape George Orwell over the past few months. Doublethink, 2+2=5, some pigs are more equal than others -- these things are fully in the open now, part of our everyday reality. So by all means, read the novels if you haven't (though how you got out of high school without doing so, I have no idea), but while you're at it consider taking a peek at his essays as well. I'm about 3/4 of the way through Facing Unpleasant Facts right now and let me tell you, it's great.
For one thing, he's very clear about exactly how to make a cup of tea. For another though, and more politically relevant, the essays are full of thoughts that, while ostensibly about the Spanish Civil War, or WWII, can easily be applied to 2017. A few samples:
One cannot see the modern world as it is unless one recognizes the overwhelming strength of patriotism, national loyalty. In certain circumstances it can break down, at certain levels of civilization it does not exist, but as a positive force there is nothing to set beside it. Christianity and international Socialism are as weak as straw in comparison with it. Hitler and Mussolini rose to power in their own countries very largely because they could grasp this fact and their opponents could not.
- England Your England
...It is just this common basis of agreement, with its implication that human beings are all one species of animal, that totalitarianism destroys. Nazi theory indeed specifically denies that such a thing as "the truth" exists. There is, for instance, no such thing as "science." There is only "German science," "Jewish science" etc. The implied objective of this line of thought is a nightmare world in which the Leader, or some ruling clique, controls not only the future but the past. If the Leader says of such and such an event, "It never happened" - well, it never happened. If he says that two and two are five - well, two and two are five. This prospect frightens me much more than bombs - and after our experiences of the last few years that is not a frivolous statement.
- Looking Back on the Spanish War
For one thing, he's very clear about exactly how to make a cup of tea. For another though, and more politically relevant, the essays are full of thoughts that, while ostensibly about the Spanish Civil War, or WWII, can easily be applied to 2017. A few samples:
One cannot see the modern world as it is unless one recognizes the overwhelming strength of patriotism, national loyalty. In certain circumstances it can break down, at certain levels of civilization it does not exist, but as a positive force there is nothing to set beside it. Christianity and international Socialism are as weak as straw in comparison with it. Hitler and Mussolini rose to power in their own countries very largely because they could grasp this fact and their opponents could not.
- England Your England
...It is just this common basis of agreement, with its implication that human beings are all one species of animal, that totalitarianism destroys. Nazi theory indeed specifically denies that such a thing as "the truth" exists. There is, for instance, no such thing as "science." There is only "German science," "Jewish science" etc. The implied objective of this line of thought is a nightmare world in which the Leader, or some ruling clique, controls not only the future but the past. If the Leader says of such and such an event, "It never happened" - well, it never happened. If he says that two and two are five - well, two and two are five. This prospect frightens me much more than bombs - and after our experiences of the last few years that is not a frivolous statement.
- Looking Back on the Spanish War
Feb 24, 2017
California
California is problematical. As an idea, a story -- California as it was, as it wants to be, as it pretends it is -- comes on strong. The shining city, the promised land, the golden state. Snow-capped mountains, towering trees, turquoise oceans, orange groves, vineyards, deserts; California has it all.
But then there are the freeways. Hollywood. More avocados and almonds and palm trees than one water table can sustainably support. The San Andreas Fault. Wildfires. California will die, one way or another, maybe sooner than other places, definitely sooner than we expect, but meanwhile it keeps on telling its story and people believe, because people are storytellers (Pan narrans), and inextricable from that is a belief in said stories.
Last week we rented a campervan (literally a minivan, with a mattress in the back instead of seats) and drove from San Francisco to Big Sur to Sequoia to Death Valley to Los Angeles. It was a great trip, the sun shone, it was high orange and low tourist season, and basically the whole thing was like an extended ride on Soarin' (version 1). It was a great trip also in the way that many great trips are: great as trips, but not at all the sort of thing you'd want to do indefinitely.
In other words, I don't want to move to California. (It's a common enough migration amongst New Yorkers that it feels important to declare, one way or the other.) Well, okay, maybe if someone hands me a vineyard. But otherwise it would have to be a city, and in CA that basically means SF or LA.
I'll pass.
LA is easy to hate. At the same time, if you shut off enough parts of your brain, easy to love. Beaches, perfect weather, delicious food, lemons and pink peppercorns growing all over the place, Art Deco architecture, and did I mention the weather? Find yourself a nice pocket of the city and make it yours and sure, I can see the appeal. Until of course you want to leave that pocket, or even walk from one side of it to another. Because this is Not Done. There is no walking. I could live in LA only if I could convince myself that being in a car, on a freeway, everyday, was a reasonable way to spend a life. So. What's the point of perfect weather if you're just going to spend it all in traffic? LA calls itself a city, but everything about its design defeats the entire purpose of city life.
Alright then, what about SF? Plenty of SoCal haters out there, but NoCal -- that's alright, right? That's where the smart people go?
Honestly, I'd rather live in LA. At least LA is honest about its schizophrenia.
When I was in college, I knew a guy who said he'd gone to San Francisco to die. This is late 90s-early 00s, so he'd moved from New England to work at some internet-related company. He had every intention of cashing in and then blowing his brains out. And obviously there's a lot that's wrong with this (and anyway neither event happened), but I don't think, about his central point, that he was wrong exactly. SF is a place to die.
Some of the city is beautiful. High in the hills, it smells better than any city has a right to -- the eucalyptus, the pines, the ocean. The views across the Bay, fog or no fog, are glorious. But there is a rottenness there too. The smell of urine. The homelessness. The bridge that is too much of an icon to put a goddam suicide fence on. SF pretends it's a hippy enclave, a paradise for free-thinking, boundary-pushing intelligent civilization... But seriously, who can afford that? The reality underneath is corrupt, haunted. It is not a good place to live.
Which is not to say that NY is perfect. No more is London. I don't have an answer, just shades of better and worse. Feel free to let me know if you think there's a solution. Requirements: surfing; no car; biking; good food; health insurance. Do you suppose there is such a place, Toto?
RECIPE: Irish Soda Bread, because that's the next holiday on the calendar.
But then there are the freeways. Hollywood. More avocados and almonds and palm trees than one water table can sustainably support. The San Andreas Fault. Wildfires. California will die, one way or another, maybe sooner than other places, definitely sooner than we expect, but meanwhile it keeps on telling its story and people believe, because people are storytellers (Pan narrans), and inextricable from that is a belief in said stories.
Last week we rented a campervan (literally a minivan, with a mattress in the back instead of seats) and drove from San Francisco to Big Sur to Sequoia to Death Valley to Los Angeles. It was a great trip, the sun shone, it was high orange and low tourist season, and basically the whole thing was like an extended ride on Soarin' (version 1). It was a great trip also in the way that many great trips are: great as trips, but not at all the sort of thing you'd want to do indefinitely.
In other words, I don't want to move to California. (It's a common enough migration amongst New Yorkers that it feels important to declare, one way or the other.) Well, okay, maybe if someone hands me a vineyard. But otherwise it would have to be a city, and in CA that basically means SF or LA.
I'll pass.
LA is easy to hate. At the same time, if you shut off enough parts of your brain, easy to love. Beaches, perfect weather, delicious food, lemons and pink peppercorns growing all over the place, Art Deco architecture, and did I mention the weather? Find yourself a nice pocket of the city and make it yours and sure, I can see the appeal. Until of course you want to leave that pocket, or even walk from one side of it to another. Because this is Not Done. There is no walking. I could live in LA only if I could convince myself that being in a car, on a freeway, everyday, was a reasonable way to spend a life. So. What's the point of perfect weather if you're just going to spend it all in traffic? LA calls itself a city, but everything about its design defeats the entire purpose of city life.
Alright then, what about SF? Plenty of SoCal haters out there, but NoCal -- that's alright, right? That's where the smart people go?
Honestly, I'd rather live in LA. At least LA is honest about its schizophrenia.
When I was in college, I knew a guy who said he'd gone to San Francisco to die. This is late 90s-early 00s, so he'd moved from New England to work at some internet-related company. He had every intention of cashing in and then blowing his brains out. And obviously there's a lot that's wrong with this (and anyway neither event happened), but I don't think, about his central point, that he was wrong exactly. SF is a place to die.
Some of the city is beautiful. High in the hills, it smells better than any city has a right to -- the eucalyptus, the pines, the ocean. The views across the Bay, fog or no fog, are glorious. But there is a rottenness there too. The smell of urine. The homelessness. The bridge that is too much of an icon to put a goddam suicide fence on. SF pretends it's a hippy enclave, a paradise for free-thinking, boundary-pushing intelligent civilization... But seriously, who can afford that? The reality underneath is corrupt, haunted. It is not a good place to live.
Which is not to say that NY is perfect. No more is London. I don't have an answer, just shades of better and worse. Feel free to let me know if you think there's a solution. Requirements: surfing; no car; biking; good food; health insurance. Do you suppose there is such a place, Toto?
RECIPE: Irish Soda Bread, because that's the next holiday on the calendar.
Feb 10, 2017
#$%^(&*
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| Clarion Alley, SF |
But I find it odd when the notion of childhood innocence is extended to the realm of language. Introduce a child to the vicinity of a conversation and suddenly the adults, with shrugs and guilty looks, will all self-consciously start using words like "fudge," "sugar," and "goldarnit."
Why?
As far as a kid is concerned, all words are equal. They're just sounds, noises to indicate objects or thoughts. None are better and worse than others except insofar as they help communicate what you're trying to communicate.
Only adults know that some words are 'bad.' And what does that even mean? Certainly not that they interfere with communication; nothing gets a point across more concisely than "asshole," and I've seen some very effective sentences using nothing but the word "fuck." What makes them 'bad' is that they are not acceptable in certain social arenas. You can use them with your friends, but maybe not your boss.
Doesn't it then follow that we should teach children when and how to use words, rather than trying to pretend some of them don't exist?
After all, it's not like they're not going to learn these things anyway. Kids are little savages, and they will pick this shit up like my all-black wardrobe picks up cat hair. They will experiment with their friends, and meanwhile, learn not to use these words around teachers and parents. Kids learn. It is pretty much the entire point of childhood. You can facilitate this or not but it happens, with or without you.
What is the point of trying to pretend it won't? Like if you don't say "Shit!" when you drop a knife on your foot, somehow this will save your child from... what?
Belief in Santa Claus and a just universe are worth preserving. Magic always is. The rest of this is nonsense.
Besides, kids create enough worries. Why would I add "uses a combination of letters to express self" to the list?
RECIPE: Chocolate Stout Cake, my go-to chocolate cake recipe when I'm after something with a few layers. Also means you can do a little of the ol' "one for me, one for the cake" business with the beer (for which I highly recommend Left Hand Milk Stout Nitro).
Feb 7, 2017
But really?
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| San Francisco |
Right?
I mean the guy can't be serious. He must know the New York Times isn't lying. He must know his inauguration was empty. He must know that probably a lot of those people who showed up to march against him did, in fact, vote against him as well. He must know there is opposition to the pipeline.
...He must know he's crafting an alternate narrative.
My rule on religion, of course, is that: If it makes you a better, happier person, go for it. Live and let live, as they say. But the minute your first hits my face or my door, we've got a problem.
Trump... is shitting on my stoop and slamming my head in the door. Line crossed. He's using an alternate narrative not to make himself a kinder person or experience some sort of fulfilment, but to control and destroy. So. Is he doing it consciously, or is it all just knee-jerk arrogant insanity? I almost hope it's the former, because that implies a consistent worldview and an... integrity of purpose. But I fear, more every day, that it is the latter.
Much of my justification for that comes from direct experience of the man through Twitter. He is not consciously building anything. He's raving.
I had been ignoring his Twitter as much as possible. There's still plenty that filters through, after all. But now I have a new rule: Glance at Trump's Twitter, respond to one thing, move on. Do not follow him, do not spend hours thinking about responses; just choose, reply, go about with my day being a better person and living a better life. And try not to use language incendiary enough to result in an FBI file.
RECIPE: Lemon Polenta Cake, though of course you could use any citrus.
Jan 25, 2017
"How are you!! I haven't asked in a little while so HOW ARE YOU?"
"Good. And it is fine that you haven't asked because everyone else has." All the time. A lot.
Like they just can't wait for me to burst into tears, or throw up, or complain about swollen feet, or grab them by the lapels and shake them until they bring me Levain Bakery cookies topped with kimchi.
Really, I'm good.
I threw up twice. Once because I didn't eat within fifteen minutes of waking up, in the first trimester; once because I don't know. I haven't had any cravings or mood swings or noticed my body doing anything but growing a bump around the midsection. (My doctor felt my calves yesterday and was like, "You're just bones, aren't you?" And my blood pressure continues to be borderline-dead.)
If I'm not good, I'll tell you. Or or I won't, because it's none of your business. So thanks for the concern but let's just go back to nodding in the hall as we pass, and maybe the occasional "S'up?" -- without the eyebrow wiggling and meaning to your inquiries about my wellbeing.
RECIPE: Cabbage & Feta Pie. I've always associated cabbage with Eastern Europe and a kind of grey desperation, but then my CSA gave us some and I made this pie and it was, as R would say, bloody fantastic.
"Good. And it is fine that you haven't asked because everyone else has." All the time. A lot.
Like they just can't wait for me to burst into tears, or throw up, or complain about swollen feet, or grab them by the lapels and shake them until they bring me Levain Bakery cookies topped with kimchi.
Really, I'm good.
I threw up twice. Once because I didn't eat within fifteen minutes of waking up, in the first trimester; once because I don't know. I haven't had any cravings or mood swings or noticed my body doing anything but growing a bump around the midsection. (My doctor felt my calves yesterday and was like, "You're just bones, aren't you?" And my blood pressure continues to be borderline-dead.)
If I'm not good, I'll tell you. Or or I won't, because it's none of your business. So thanks for the concern but let's just go back to nodding in the hall as we pass, and maybe the occasional "S'up?" -- without the eyebrow wiggling and meaning to your inquiries about my wellbeing.
RECIPE: Cabbage & Feta Pie. I've always associated cabbage with Eastern Europe and a kind of grey desperation, but then my CSA gave us some and I made this pie and it was, as R would say, bloody fantastic.
Jan 20, 2017
Not okay
I was reading about elephants recently. It's pretty much understood at this point that elephants are way, way smarter than we have historically given them credit for, and not just in a I-can-use-this-stick-to-get-termites kind of way -- emotionally smart, and complex. It sounds so fucking patronizing but this is where we are: only admitting other animals shouldn't be slaughtered for fun and profit when we can see them, dimly, as sort of humanish.
There's a story in this book about an elephant herd tramping its way across a forest. Suddenly they stop, circle round for a few minutes and stand in silence, then move on. Why? It's not immediately obvious. But then researchers who were tracking the herd the previous year remembered: that's the spot one elephant had given birth to a stillborn calf.
The amazing thing here isn't that the mother remembered. It's not that the herd stopped. It's that not a single member of the herd, during their two minutes of silence, was like, "Hey, come on, I'm thirsty, aren't you over it yet? let's go."
It isn't impressive that elephants can think and feel. It's sad that humans can't do better.
There's a story in this book about an elephant herd tramping its way across a forest. Suddenly they stop, circle round for a few minutes and stand in silence, then move on. Why? It's not immediately obvious. But then researchers who were tracking the herd the previous year remembered: that's the spot one elephant had given birth to a stillborn calf.
The amazing thing here isn't that the mother remembered. It's not that the herd stopped. It's that not a single member of the herd, during their two minutes of silence, was like, "Hey, come on, I'm thirsty, aren't you over it yet? let's go."
It isn't impressive that elephants can think and feel. It's sad that humans can't do better.
Jan 19, 2017
The PIC
A lot of the time, I forget I'm pregnant. Which seems like a pretty big thing to forget, but really how often do you pay attention to your body? It breathes and walks and, often, thinks just fine without you.
But then I go to put on a pair of jeans.
And then she kicks.
Forgetting is important though. There is just so much to be aware of, to worry over, that any escape is welcome. Don't eat deli meat, or tuna, undercooked eggs, shellfish, raw fish, unpasteurized cheese, too much of anything and not enough of everything else; don't drink alcohol or more than a cup-of-coffee's-worth of caffeine -- and remember to count tea and chocolate in that equation; exercise, but not so much you're out of breath; don't sleep on your back; avoid cat litter and smokers. Remember, remember. Pay attention. The world is trying to kill your baby. Don't relax your guard for a second.
Except you have to, because otherwise you turn into a crazy person. And I refuse to dry out my omelets.
The Pregnancy Industrial Complex is designed to freak you the fuck out and then, as the only possible defense, make you spend a lot of money. It is a constant battle to do neither.
Yes I have a registry. Because I needed a place to list the things I decided I probably should get after all. No, I am not having a shower. I didn't have a wedding either, and somehow we survived.
We are not taking any classes. I have a doctor, and the internet. I do not need to spend two hours every week for six weeks and $400 learning how to breathe.
The only Activity we've done so far, and that we're planning on doing, was the hospital orientation. It lasted for an hour or so, was free, and they handed out chocolate. We mostly learned about paperwork, and how if you are lucky enough to have more than two newly minted grandparents around, they cannot under any circumstances all be in the room with you at the same time. It was reasonably informative. It was also incredibly bizarre, in a sort of dystopian futuristic way; being funneled into this auditorium with a hundred or so other couples, each with one obviously pregnant female member, and suddenly it's like The Breeders' Facility and next they're going to shave our heads and issue us all grey jumpsuits... and thank god for the only lesbian couple there, who sat next to us.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn't go crazy with nesting. We live in a studio, after all. A large studio -- comparable to plenty of two-bedrooms I've seen -- but a studio nonetheless. The baby gets a corner, and she should count herself lucky she's not just in a drawer. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. If I wasn't being given a bassinet, she would be.) So rather than painting and buying furniture and testing rocking chairs, I'm making a single piece of decoration: a mobile. Paper cranes take time to fold, and you need a lot of them before it looks like you've got a lot. I reckon it'll keep me occupied and even-keeled til March at least, at which point I'll turn my focus to stocking the freezer (with something other than the current ice cream, bread, and variety of cookies and cakes, that is).
RECIPE: Carrot cake, because it's one of those things you should have a recipe for. I subbed in dates for raisins, and reduced the sugar and added lemon zest to the frosting. Raves.
But then I go to put on a pair of jeans.
And then she kicks.
Forgetting is important though. There is just so much to be aware of, to worry over, that any escape is welcome. Don't eat deli meat, or tuna, undercooked eggs, shellfish, raw fish, unpasteurized cheese, too much of anything and not enough of everything else; don't drink alcohol or more than a cup-of-coffee's-worth of caffeine -- and remember to count tea and chocolate in that equation; exercise, but not so much you're out of breath; don't sleep on your back; avoid cat litter and smokers. Remember, remember. Pay attention. The world is trying to kill your baby. Don't relax your guard for a second.
Except you have to, because otherwise you turn into a crazy person. And I refuse to dry out my omelets.
The Pregnancy Industrial Complex is designed to freak you the fuck out and then, as the only possible defense, make you spend a lot of money. It is a constant battle to do neither.
Yes I have a registry. Because I needed a place to list the things I decided I probably should get after all. No, I am not having a shower. I didn't have a wedding either, and somehow we survived.
We are not taking any classes. I have a doctor, and the internet. I do not need to spend two hours every week for six weeks and $400 learning how to breathe.
The only Activity we've done so far, and that we're planning on doing, was the hospital orientation. It lasted for an hour or so, was free, and they handed out chocolate. We mostly learned about paperwork, and how if you are lucky enough to have more than two newly minted grandparents around, they cannot under any circumstances all be in the room with you at the same time. It was reasonably informative. It was also incredibly bizarre, in a sort of dystopian futuristic way; being funneled into this auditorium with a hundred or so other couples, each with one obviously pregnant female member, and suddenly it's like The Breeders' Facility and next they're going to shave our heads and issue us all grey jumpsuits... and thank god for the only lesbian couple there, who sat next to us.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn't go crazy with nesting. We live in a studio, after all. A large studio -- comparable to plenty of two-bedrooms I've seen -- but a studio nonetheless. The baby gets a corner, and she should count herself lucky she's not just in a drawer. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. If I wasn't being given a bassinet, she would be.) So rather than painting and buying furniture and testing rocking chairs, I'm making a single piece of decoration: a mobile. Paper cranes take time to fold, and you need a lot of them before it looks like you've got a lot. I reckon it'll keep me occupied and even-keeled til March at least, at which point I'll turn my focus to stocking the freezer (with something other than the current ice cream, bread, and variety of cookies and cakes, that is).
RECIPE: Carrot cake, because it's one of those things you should have a recipe for. I subbed in dates for raisins, and reduced the sugar and added lemon zest to the frosting. Raves.
Jan 13, 2017
Testing, testing
I have two pregnancy apps. One compares the fetus to fruits and vegetables, the other to animals. They both throw in some other facts, like about how her skin is translucent, and she's producing some kind of tar-like substance, and now she can hear things, but the comparisons are the main event. Every week we try to guess what the next one is going to be, but it's hit and miss. There are too many animals in the world, and I am very certain that grapefruits are not bigger than coconuts.
As far as visualization goes, the ultrasounds are far preferable. Once she stops looking like a raccoon, anyway. It's a simple enough procedure: A woman -- always a woman, usually Eastern European/Russian -- smears some -- very warm; they keep it in a special heated container -- goop on your stomach and then jams a knobby wand against it, lower and harder than you think she should. Then you watch the screen while she measures things and occasionally calls out, "leg," "arm," or, I suppose in the case of a baby not mine, "penis." She did make an offhand comment last time though, about how the baby kept moving around and she was having to chase her to get a good picture. I felt obscurely proud. This was no selfie-generation baby. This was a baby on the move. She had things to do.
Sometimes they offer to change the picture from that black-and-white astronaut profile to a "3d view." On no account should you take them up on this. The 3-d view looks like melting candle baby.
There are less fun tests as well, most of which involve peeing in a cup. For the first few visits there's also a lot of blood-taking. Next up, as I understand it, is the glucose test, where I get to drink a massive amount of some foully sweet technicolor liquid... before peeing in a cup. My favorite was the blood test where they say very gently to you and your partner "Now, in addition to testing for several horrible genetic diseases, this test could also reveal, shall we say, unexpected facts about the baby's parentage." We'll chance it, thanks.
And at every visit, and in conversations with coworkers, and sometimes randomly on the train, someone's bound to ask, "You're taking the vitamins, right?" Like for fuck's sake, how did we survive as a species before we all took our goddamn vitamins? Isaac Newton's mother didn't take the vitamins! But of course, I'm taking the vitamins. And before you ask, they contain both folic acid and DHA, whatever that is.
RECIPE: Lasagna, but not the bechamel-ground-meat version. I make this several times a winter, but with a bag of frozen spinach mixed into the ricotta, hot Italian sausage, and no parmesan.
As far as visualization goes, the ultrasounds are far preferable. Once she stops looking like a raccoon, anyway. It's a simple enough procedure: A woman -- always a woman, usually Eastern European/Russian -- smears some -- very warm; they keep it in a special heated container -- goop on your stomach and then jams a knobby wand against it, lower and harder than you think she should. Then you watch the screen while she measures things and occasionally calls out, "leg," "arm," or, I suppose in the case of a baby not mine, "penis." She did make an offhand comment last time though, about how the baby kept moving around and she was having to chase her to get a good picture. I felt obscurely proud. This was no selfie-generation baby. This was a baby on the move. She had things to do.
Sometimes they offer to change the picture from that black-and-white astronaut profile to a "3d view." On no account should you take them up on this. The 3-d view looks like melting candle baby.
There are less fun tests as well, most of which involve peeing in a cup. For the first few visits there's also a lot of blood-taking. Next up, as I understand it, is the glucose test, where I get to drink a massive amount of some foully sweet technicolor liquid... before peeing in a cup. My favorite was the blood test where they say very gently to you and your partner "Now, in addition to testing for several horrible genetic diseases, this test could also reveal, shall we say, unexpected facts about the baby's parentage." We'll chance it, thanks.
And at every visit, and in conversations with coworkers, and sometimes randomly on the train, someone's bound to ask, "You're taking the vitamins, right?" Like for fuck's sake, how did we survive as a species before we all took our goddamn vitamins? Isaac Newton's mother didn't take the vitamins! But of course, I'm taking the vitamins. And before you ask, they contain both folic acid and DHA, whatever that is.
RECIPE: Lasagna, but not the bechamel-ground-meat version. I make this several times a winter, but with a bag of frozen spinach mixed into the ricotta, hot Italian sausage, and no parmesan.
Jan 11, 2017
Right, That
They say there's no such thing as being a little bit pregnant. I think They have never counted the days going by with no sign of their period, wondering at what point it becomes meaningful, or if maybe it means nothing at all. Do you test if you're a day late? Of course not; you get later every month. A week? Is a week enough? Those tests cost upwards of $10 and if you are, then you are, so maybe just a little longer...
And then yes, there are two lines. But one is very faint. Does it count? You tried to hold it steady under your urine but it wasn't the first urine of the day, after all -- which shouldn't matter but that's supposed to be the best, and for all of this you want only to do your best. Or was that the test that said to dip the stick in a cup? But they didn't provide a cup. There are two lines, but one is very faint, but still the internet says that any sign of a second line is enough, it's a yes. Still, you take another test. It's another $10 but what the hell, you'll skip bagels for a few weeks, you can afford it. Except this one has no lines at all. Isn't one supposed to be the control? That's the point, right, if there's no control then the whole thing failed? Maybe because the first time was the first urine of the day, now that you think about it, but this one's not.
Still your period doesn't come. And you don't really feel like coffee anymore.
Finally you go to your doctor, who sends you for an ultrasound because she's not an OB after all and if there's something going on, which she seems to assume there is, she wants nothing to do with you anymore. Then there's a blob. Definitely a baby blob. 8-something weeks. But can you be sure, really sure, they didn't just have that saved from the last patient? After all, you've never been pregnant, so how could you be pregnant now?
You find another doctor. You get another ultrasound. Twelve-something weeks now. So you can tell people? Maybe? Do they need to know? How do you even go about it? Is it too soon? When does it get to be too late? At some point they'll notice on their own, right? That's soon enough. You still don't feel pregnant enough.
You're a little bit pregnant; a little bit more at every doctor's appointment. You're pregnant when you hear the heartbeat. You're pregnant when it's not an it, but a she. You're pregnant after the first trimester. You're pregnant when you feel her moving. You're pregnant when you can't fit into any of your jeans anymore. You're pregnant when you're past 24 weeks -- call it 27 to be on the safe side. You're pregnant when you get a seat on the subway. You're pregnant when you have to find a pediatrician.
"I'm pregnant," you say, testing it out.
"Congrats?" They seem unsure. "Can I say that? You were trying, right?" Your parents don't say this, but almost everyone else does. Despite the fact that you're 36, have been married for 4 years, know perfectly well how to use birth control, and live in a city where you can take the subway to get an abortion any time up to 24 weeks. You try modulating your tone of voice. You try it over text. Still the same unsure reaction. Your husband suggests saying "We're having a baby!" instead. But that seems to be getting ahead of ourselves. You stick to the facts. You are a little bit pregnant, a little more than the day before.
RECIPE: Naan, because it isn't hard at all and you can slather it with ghee and garlic.
And then yes, there are two lines. But one is very faint. Does it count? You tried to hold it steady under your urine but it wasn't the first urine of the day, after all -- which shouldn't matter but that's supposed to be the best, and for all of this you want only to do your best. Or was that the test that said to dip the stick in a cup? But they didn't provide a cup. There are two lines, but one is very faint, but still the internet says that any sign of a second line is enough, it's a yes. Still, you take another test. It's another $10 but what the hell, you'll skip bagels for a few weeks, you can afford it. Except this one has no lines at all. Isn't one supposed to be the control? That's the point, right, if there's no control then the whole thing failed? Maybe because the first time was the first urine of the day, now that you think about it, but this one's not.
Still your period doesn't come. And you don't really feel like coffee anymore.
Finally you go to your doctor, who sends you for an ultrasound because she's not an OB after all and if there's something going on, which she seems to assume there is, she wants nothing to do with you anymore. Then there's a blob. Definitely a baby blob. 8-something weeks. But can you be sure, really sure, they didn't just have that saved from the last patient? After all, you've never been pregnant, so how could you be pregnant now?
You find another doctor. You get another ultrasound. Twelve-something weeks now. So you can tell people? Maybe? Do they need to know? How do you even go about it? Is it too soon? When does it get to be too late? At some point they'll notice on their own, right? That's soon enough. You still don't feel pregnant enough.
You're a little bit pregnant; a little bit more at every doctor's appointment. You're pregnant when you hear the heartbeat. You're pregnant when it's not an it, but a she. You're pregnant after the first trimester. You're pregnant when you feel her moving. You're pregnant when you can't fit into any of your jeans anymore. You're pregnant when you're past 24 weeks -- call it 27 to be on the safe side. You're pregnant when you get a seat on the subway. You're pregnant when you have to find a pediatrician.
"I'm pregnant," you say, testing it out.
"Congrats?" They seem unsure. "Can I say that? You were trying, right?" Your parents don't say this, but almost everyone else does. Despite the fact that you're 36, have been married for 4 years, know perfectly well how to use birth control, and live in a city where you can take the subway to get an abortion any time up to 24 weeks. You try modulating your tone of voice. You try it over text. Still the same unsure reaction. Your husband suggests saying "We're having a baby!" instead. But that seems to be getting ahead of ourselves. You stick to the facts. You are a little bit pregnant, a little more than the day before.
RECIPE: Naan, because it isn't hard at all and you can slather it with ghee and garlic.
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