I know and I’m sorry. I’m way behind on an update. Trust
I’ve gotten significantly larger (see below), Josie’s received many more wonderful gifts (also see below),
and Jonathan is getting increasingly more squashed by bows, glitter, and pink
ruffles in our apartment. He should probably get used to that.
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| Mother's Day weekend, 2015 |
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| Uncles Russ and Santi are already spoiling Josie |
Today’s blog is dedicated to the very bizarre experiences
I’ve had in and around New York City. Being pregnant has opened this
interpersonal portal that makes life entertaining but also pretty awkward. The
attention I receive ranges from belly glances and smiles to short
congratulatory conversations to an unsolicited lecture on “how to make a boy” –
and everything in between.
I remember seeing pregnant women in the world and looking at
them with wonder: how do you do it, especially in the City? You have this
enormous belly in addition to your daily luggage and I can’t even lug myself
around! (Note: most city women can give Mary Poppins a run for her money. She
stashes lamps in her purse? We have 7 kinds of technology. Spoons full of
sugar? Try three changes of shoes and a mini grooming kit. Plus additional
accessories to take an outfit day to night. And makeshift weapons to ward off
online suitors in case they turn out to be more Ted Kaczynski than John Krasinski.
It is mostly assumed hugely pregnant women do not have active dating profiles
so switch out snacks for switch blades. I’m getting off topic.)
I don’t know that I’ve ever congratulated a stranger on her
pregnancy but it’s been sweet when people have wished me well. They’re probably
doing so subconsciously to apologize for the repeated bathroom trips, sleepless
nights, heartburn, pee-sneezes (which one would think wouldn’t happen with
toilet time every 7 minutes but alas), and unwelcomed bodily changes. Let’s
face it: pregnancy juliennes one’s dignity and I haven’t even gotten to the
“good” part yet. I’ve accepted that these things are out of my control and, as
my very dear friend Ariana tells me almost weekly, I am a vessel. I AM A
VESSEL. Poop on the delivery table, be damned. I told Jonathan he has two
months to embarrass himself in front of me if he wants a place in that delivery
room so he better bring it. I’m taking suggestions. J
Among the strangest things I’ve experienced are being
shame-seated on a subway and being told a version of the birds and the bees
that would make Jenna Jameson blush. The thing is: I know how babies are made.
I’ve known for a long time. There’s even evidence of this now. I didn’t know,
however, it was possible to plan your child’s gender. Spoiler alert: it’s kind
of not. That conversation made me wonder how science factors into the
advice-giver’s daily life. I do want Josie to read this blog one day so I might
hold off on relaying the explicit instructions I received on boy making.
Suffice it to say it was gnarly. Give me a cocktail or two post-partum and I
might dish.
The forced seating was especially odd. I’m used to people
touching my belly – it’s weird but it doesn’t really feel like it’s a part of
me. I feel like folks are rubbing a front pack chock full of camping supplies
for a week I am wearing instead. I’m used to the inevitable “How far along are
you? Do you know what you’re having? What’s her name?” followed by ooohs and
aaahhhs. Making me sit down is new. This is how it happened.
It was maybe 9:00 pm on a Wednesday and I was coming home
from a work dinner. I had been sitting all day and I actually didn’t mind
standing on the train that night. Right away a woman acknowledged my bump and
asked if I’d like to sit down…
Me: I’m okay, thanks though.
Her: Are you sure? I’m really good at getting people up.
Me: Haha, yeah. I’m sure.
Her to guy #1 (pointing at me): She is pregnant! She needs
to sit. We will get everyone up.
Her to the train (shouted with the urgency of my water
breaking): PEOPLE! THERE IS A PREGNANT WOMAN ON THIS TRAIN. GET UP RIGHT NOW.
HOW CAN YOU JUST SIT THERE???
Me (trying to remember the spell for invisibility).
Guy #2 (jumps up, stutter-steps awkwardly through the crowd
on a moving train, gestures for me to sit).
Other passengers stare at me, as if it’s my fault.
I sit down begrudgingly and pull out my crumpled New Yorker.
The ring leader wears a self-congratulatory smirk.
And so it goes.
Two more months.
