Pregnant Noise

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Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Calm

Many of you, if not all of you (I like that I know who you are), will know what I mean when I reference ‘the genetic stuff’. Hopefully all I have to worry about passing along to my son is a few missing teeth (I had braces, you can’t tell anymore, shhhh), teenage acne and frizzy hair (man, I was a lucky teenager huh?). That and a tendency to become quickly sensorarily (not a word) overloaded when faced with the need to use more than one sense at the same time (joke, obvs, mostly). Hopefully 'the genetic stuff' won't feature. 

We still don’t know why my two brothers died in infancy. Both had the same symptoms, both were boys and that’s pretty much all we have to go on. There have been many tests done on me and my mum and sister – trying to see if there’s a blip in our DNA that could indicate a faulty X chromosome somewhere. All tests have been negative, which is positive, except that it leaves us knowing a whole lot of nothing.

Early in the pregnancy, when tests were being done and Alan (not his real name) seemed less real, I worried more than I do now. I let my mind imagine all the things and I would make Jeremy tell me it was all going to be OK, even though his word doesn't mean a whole lot given he has as much control as I do over the whole thing. I’m not sure what stopped me worrying, but as Alan has grown more real and more kicky and as his birth has become more imminent, I've been able to put aside all the stuff I can’t control. Nothing so far has given us any actual reason to worry – no tests have indicated any problems and if something were to happen then we’re in a city with one of the world’s best children’s hospitals and medicine is 30 years older than it was for my brothers. 

But despite knowing all these things, I don’t think they’re why I’m not worrying. They’re probably why Jeremy’s not worrying, but rational thought isn't my strong suit. It's more that I have this feeling of being protected – not a feeling that we’re immune to bad stuff, but that I’m protected from the worry that my normal brain would be conjuring up in great detail. I think my mum’s prayer group might have something to do with it. And all the other people in our lives loving us and feeling excited for this future that’s about to arrive. I’m thankful for it, this feeling, wherever it’s coming from.

I also have heartburn this week. I had to Google what it was because I've never had it before. I don’t like it.

Hmmmmm

I always assumed that when I became a proper adult – y’know, with a house, car, pet, husband, child – I’d become a tidy person. I assumed not only that I would stop thinking it was acceptable to leave the day’s clothes on the floor, but that I’d also stop doing it. I assumed that my house would be clean all the time, not just when people were visiting, and that I would not leave dishes in the sink or allow clutter to mount and accumulate. I assumed I would water my plants and that they would not die.

And there have been incremental changes. If you compare now to 10 years ago, I’m definitely tidier. There was a time I stored my passport in my laundry basket (‘stored is a loose term, more like it fell in there and I knew it was there but didn’t remove it) and when dishes were only done when there literally were no dishes left to use and all the dirty dishes were balanced so precariously on top of each other they threatened to crash to the floor. These things don’t happen anymore. But my bedroom still looks like we’ve recently been burgled; post still piles up and anytime we travel the suitcases remains unpacked for a good 2 months or more. My plants just about survive, but I tend to bring them to the very edge of death on a regular basis.

But here I am – married with a house and a cat and a car (let’s not talk about the state of my car…) and about to bring a baby into the mix. Yet those magical shifts in personality and habit don’t seem to have happened. All those tidy houses I visited as a child, with made beds and folded clothes (that were then put in drawers and the drawers were then closed) and done dishes – how does that happen? I’m clinging to the hope that the magic is in the baby and that his presence will have some sort of transformative effect. Yet even as I type it, I know that that’s ludicrous.

And we’ve decided to do cloth diapers…

A few things

• I think we've made the decision to use cloth diapers (yes, I said diapers). I’m not sure at what point I’ll know we've made this decision – probably a few months in if I’m not laughing hysterically at the idea that I ever thought I could ever do such a thing. I have a feeling it might be a bit like the time I wore white trousers, only to realize within 20 minutes of leaving the house that I am not a person who can navigate the world wearing white trousers.

• I also think I’m going to try and go without an epidural. If you’re inclined to give me your opinion on this, don’t.  I’m not dead-set on the idea because I have absolutely no clue how painful it’s all going to be or what my pain-tolerance is actually like. I am horrified by the fact that America does not do 'gas and air'. The options are basically total sober agony or epidural. And yet for some reason I'm still leaning toward not getting one. Jeremy thinks I can do it. Jeremy's biggest concern about labor is boredom. Jeremy doesn't really get to have opinions on the matter. 

• We graduated our child-birth class this week. I have a feeling that any sense of preparedness the class offers is a placebo and given I know it’s a placebo, I’m not feeling especially prepared. I did however learn that I am incapable of imagining I am floating in the ocean. 

• I am quite literally counting the days of work left until I leave. There are 46 days left. That's too many days. 

Look at you!

The thing about being pregnant is that it’s so darn obvious. It feels like it should be a secret I can hold close and share only with those I trust most. And I guess, at first, it was like that. At first it was this precious thing I knew and kept from the world. But now, of course, it’s public information. Announced everywhere I go by my tummy.  I don’t like the word belly.

I can’t be put out or annoyed because it’s exactly what I do and have done to pregnant women. Because they’re carrying this miracle out in front of them and it bears exclamation – demands it – so that upon greeting it’s all anyone can see and comment on. Hands reach out and, although no one’s actually patted me yet without permission, they hover in deference, in recognition, in waiting perhaps for me to give permission (which I don’t).

I’ve done this too – my hands have hovered and I’ve exclaimed on bumps before saying hello to faces. Certainly I did it before and probably I’ll do it again. And I don’t resent people doing it to me as much as just feel quite bewildered by it because generally, in normal life, I like to choose when I step into the lime light. I tend to avoid talking about myself. I prefer to ask questions rather than answer them.

Probably the most gracious thing to do with the new attention is to smile, thank and bask. To indulge the questions, to elaborate. What I end up doing is blushing, squirming a little and deflecting or minimizing.

“Look at you!!!” is replied to be a sheepish “yup, he’s in there.” “Are you excited?” is followed by a nervous laugh and a hesitant “yes”. Not because I’m unsure about my excitement level but because it’s kind of a funny question. And because I’m not very good at demonstrating excitement. This bothers people, including my husband. I can’t help it.

I’m writing all this and I feel like an ungrateful brat because I know it’s all meant with the very best intentions and love. And I know I’ve done it and will do it again to other pregnant friends. And I don’t resent it. Really. And of course. OF COURSE. If it all stopped tomorrow and everyone stopped noticing and commenting and asking, I’d probably be equally bewildered as to why.

I’d probably be missing it.

***

Related funny story – a few months ago our very pregnant neighbor walked by with her dog. We waved and said hello. “Getting Bigger!” Jeremy called out. She laughed awkwardly and walked on murmuring something about having a few months to go. Jeremy called after her “I was talking about the dog”. I turned to him, confused…

 “Was that a joke?”

“What?”

“About the dog – or were you really commenting on the dog?”

“What do you mean? I was talking about the dog – he used to be tiny”

“I’m pretty sure the dog hasn’t changed size and I’m pretty certain she thought you were talking about her”

He hasn’t stopped squirming about this since.