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.
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