Pregnant Noise

Do this. Do that. Don't do this or that or any of that. Go here. Get this. Read that. Try this and not that. When are you due? How are you feeling? Are you excited? Is Jeremy excited? Is your mom, dad, sister's neighbor's dog excited? Is the nursery ready? How are you sleeping? How are you? No but how are you feeling? Be sure to go here and look at this. And definitely get this but not that. If I give you one piece of advice... If you do nothing else... Just remember that... When are you due? Are you excited? How are you feeling, really? Is he kicking? Do you know the gender? Have you picked out a name?

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. 

Naming

For the longest of long times, I have wanted to name my future son Max. It’s a good name. A fun name. You can pretty easily imagine the mischievous and disarming grin of a Max.

Jeremy does not like the name Max.

I tried, campaigned, cajoled and hoped but to no avail. When is it ever to an avail? Jeremy does not, will not, cannot possibly like the name Max.

Compromise is the most annoying thing about marriage. Sometimes I really miss unilateral decision making.

“OK”, I said to Jeremy, “what names do you like?”

“Trucker.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Trucker!”

“Trucker?”

“Trucker!!”

“That’s not a name.” “Sure it is. Trucker!”

Pretty much every objection or question was answered by a jubilant “Trucker!” As if it were not only a name but the solution to all things.

We are not naming our son Trucker.

I haven’t yet been able to figure out if Jeremy is taking the piss or not. I mean, he can’t actually think that’s an acceptable name – can he? Surely this is all just a big hoax to wind me up and make me question his sanity. I think I’m doomed to never be sure.

I also suspect  that somehow, no matter what actual name our son is given, he’ll somehow wind up being known as Trucker.

Remember Tronald? 

Musings

The problem with me and pregnancy is that the majority of the 'symptoms' are just me in my normal life. In normal life I'm often tired, over-emotional and need to pee a lot. In pregnancy I am these things too. Possibly to a greater degree but it's hard to be sure and consequently I've had a hard time garnering the sympathy I feel owed (from jeremy) because I am growing a human. To be fair, if I wasn't me, I'd be suspicious too. 

So far what I've missed most is wine. Beautiful delicious red wine. This was not helped by our recent trip to the wineries of the Loire valley where I watched Jeremy taste a lot of beautiful delicious red wine. It's also not helped by a cruel forgetfulness that lets me think I can have a glass and then remember that no, actually, I can't. I've also missed pate and I'm not quite sure why because I pretty much never eat pate. I haven't missed sushi as I decided that was a dumb rule (after consulting multiple websites and ignoring the american ones). 

What I'm finding hardest is waiting. It's a pretty necessary component of pregnancy but I am SO IMPATIENT. Partly / mostly because I just want to know that everything's OK and to get on with the business of worrying about my child rather than worrying about the pregnancy. And also because that's just how I am - patience is not my virtue and I find myself staring at the calendar trying to will the weeks away faster. 

What I'm loving most is feeling him move. I wake up in the morning and just lie there in the semi wakefulness with my cat on my feet and feel the baby kick. So much of pregnancy is so public, so open to comment, I really value these moments where it's just me and him (and the cat).