"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.