Tag Archives: Pregnancy

The End Is Near

I’m at 38 weeks.  So as the big day nears, there is nothing more frightening than finding out about your friends who were due around the same time as you having their babies ahead of schedule. Now there is no one left but me. It’s like everyone’s got picked off like flies and right now I’m the last one standing. To demonstrate what I’ve been feeling for the last month or more, I created this quick and crudely drawn 23 second piece on the subject. Enjoy, and just in case…Happy Thanksgiving!

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I’m Tired And My Socks Are Too Loose

My Baby Shower this last Saturday made me pregnant. Of course before, I was pregnant, but now I’m like pregnant pregnant. Like need a chair and gallons of water pregnant. I’m tired, my ankles are swollen, my stomach gets in the way of sitting down and I can barely reach the stick shift or brake release on my truck. I can’t even stop complaining! It’s making me crazy, but even with  threatening to punch myself, I still can’t keep my mouth from whining.

Before the Baby Shower I was feeling pretty good. A little sleepy but able to function 100%. I even prepared myself for my BS by staying up until 2am the night before so I could do it again for the party. Well it worked. I was able to stay up until 1:30am for my BS and got home with a backache and two stumps for legs. It didn’t register at the time, but I had spent the entire evening standing up. Why? Because I didn’t feel pregnant. Even when I got home and saw the state of my legs, I figured I’d just put on some sexy compression socks  and sleep off those Jabba the Hut bulges riding over my bloated feet. But no. The morning after was like that first hangover that takes more than a day to shake off. For the first time in my pregnancy it took two days for the swelling in my legs to subside and for me to recover from the pregnant woman’s equivalent of an all-nighter. It was time to admit it to myself: I’m pregnant.

Okay, so now what? Nothing. Sorry, but I just can’t write a thoughtful blog this week. Now that I’m pregnant I stopped working. Today’s my first day off and I just want to watch some bad romantic comedies, read A DANCE WITH DRAGONS because I can, and do some pre-natal yoga. I may even watch another episode of REVENGE on Netflix. Yes, I may be smart, but when I’m tired I enjoy the easy and dumb. And now that I am finally feeling pregnant, I just don’t care how lame I am. Go ahead, Me. Punch me and get it over with. I’m just too pregnant to care.

*Will be back next week rested and ready to mock. 

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I’m Sexy Damn It!

I miss trying to be sexy; those hours of putting on loads of makeup and uncomfortably tight clothes just to try to look as hot as I wish I was. There’s no point in trying anymore. It would just be wasted on my body for the next six weeks because I am just so damn cute right now. Absolutely adorable. With my large round pregnant belly on my short frame, I am just a precious little kangaroo roaming the planet. And if I have to hear another person tell me just how cute I am, I am going to slap them right in the face. Don’t get me wrong, getting the “Oh You’re So Adorable” face is a million times better than the dreaded “OMG You’re Deformed” look I get from a stranger or two daily, but still, neither of them are what I want to be seen as. After all, I’m a woman and Latina—I can’t be cute, I have to be sexy.

It baffles me how a woman can be Latina and pregnant at the same time. You’d think God would know better. Sure everyone thinks the genes from my part of the world are built for maximum baby production, but socially we are the least programmed for it. From a young age we learn that we must develop into bare all clothing to look good at all times. Even if you’re a hipster that works ugly clothes that only a pretty girl can wear, if you’re Latina, you’ll be the one hipster who can’t help but show off her hot legs and butt. That’s because for us there is no excuse to not be sexy in some way at all times. And don’t think having babies or being old is considered a ticket out; unless you’re laying in that inevitable sexless coffin down the road, if you’re Latina, you must always find a way to make sure some form of hot damn is emanating from you. I’m not a stereotypical Latina and even I feel the pressure to work it. That’s because somewhere deep down we believe that if you are not showing off some skin or skin-tight clothing at some point in the day, then you have failed as a woman.

But what can I do? I can’t even wear the right shoes now! Sexy shoes are high, high heels, hands down. Guess what heels do to pregnant women? Give them swollen feet and ankles. Not sexy. But what other option is there? Wear comfortable sensible shoes? I am conditioned to make men want to salivate not to want hot cocoa before taking me home to meet his mom and dad. And Latina lesbians, you’re not off the hook either. You know if you’re on the femme side, then you still have to use straight men’s taste as your bench mark. This sexy ideal best suited for a fit slim body will not quit!

Oh but enjoy your pregnant body. It’s so sweet to see you with your little round belly!  Truebut it doesn’t make me fuckable. And face it, that’s what we’re talking about here. Thank God my pregnant shape hasn’t stopped my husband’s desire to jump me, but out in the world you can’t help but value yourself just a bit by how desirable you are to the masses. And right now—only one company will hire me. This kind of insecurity is what you’d expect to find in a college student not a married woman in her 30’s. But guess what? I’m a human being—I will always want to know I am attractive to people in some way or other. Wait, no…take that back. I want to know that I am seen as sexy to people, not in a cute sexy kangaroo way, but in a plain old down and dirty sexy way.

So is there anything a Latina can do to survive pregnancy? Well lucky for us there is one styling solution the majority of us can work, and that is to play the ethnic card. Elegance and femininity after all are better expressed in the fashions of other cultures than in the States. Pregnancy and American sporty do not fly, but pregnancy and old world elegance can tip the scales in your favor. It’s the earth mother look that best suits soft round shapes. Those bohemian layered flowy clothes say, “I got pregnant because I am such a strong virile woman that a man and I fucked the hell out of each other and I am proud to display the results of all of that hot sex… that I am still getting…that I know you want…because you want me to have your baby too…because I still look that damn hot in spite of the most adorable cutesy wootsy widdle round belly a precious little kangaroo could ever have!”

I can’t wait to have my body back.

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Gift Registry Hell And Babymoon Existentialism

View on our babymoon – Point Lobos State Reserve in Big Sur, CA

This week my husband and I are on our babymoon. Some people say babymoons are the last hurrah before your baby arrives outside your belly, but since it’s impossible to hurrah with a child inside your stomach who doesn’t like to drink, I see it more as a vacation from putting together a baby registry.

If you’ve never done one or started one, a baby registry is the one gate of hell every woman must pass through to earn her child. No one warned me, so let me warn you: if you are pregnant, no matter at what stage in the game, start your registry NOW! You would think it would be easy to pick out cute things, but no, it’s not easy because it’s not just about the cute stuff—you have to think about how many diapers and for what stage, what kind of diapering you’ll want to do (disposables or cloth), what size bottles and how many, do you want to risk an all-in-one convertible car seat or change them three times. I held off for as long as I could to dive into this mess so I could try and enjoy the different stages of my pregnancy before making our new way of life a reality we were still not required to live. Thing is, once you start picking out things, you learn it’s impossible.

It took me two months to figure out and compile mine. I spent hours every day trying to make sense of this world I had never thought about before. What kind of person am I and what kind of parent will I be? Will I want to travel the world with my baby? Do I want my child to be babied or strictly raised with little extras provided? What kind of career do I need to set myself into motion for and how will that affect what I need for the baby? I spoke to four different women, perused over three different registries, read recommendations written by five different mothers, devoured the Oprah hailed book BABY BARGAINS, and, if you’re like me and have poor girl neurosis that makes you think everyone else is just as hard up on cash as you are, spent twice as much time as other mothers-to-be making sure I had a range of reasonably priced items so, as if I have the power to do so, don’t let the world throw itself into greater debt.

And then just as I finished, it was time for our vacation and what turned out to be the drug-like experience of a babymoon.

To get high without getting high takes a lot of noodle dancing or somehow throwing yourself off-kilter by exposing yourself to a dizzying number of unknowns. Not that this was planned—the best trips rarely are—but we ended up throwing ourselves into this otherworldly spiral by spending our first morning of vacation in LA by getting our things together for the trip in an unusually relaxed state, followed by a drive down to Joshua Tree where we stayed somewhere we had never been to to attend a wedding outdoors somewhere in the desert with a jaw-dropping star-filled sky, a moving heartfelt ceremony, beautiful friends and more dancing than my back could handle. Eight hours later and no time to get acquainted with our surroundings, we drove north eight hours up to Monterey and went from dry brown landscapes with stickly shrubs to green-filled roadways atop mountains covered in healthy redwoods and cypress trees. That sequence of events in only 24 hours could not have been more disorienting.

After the long drive we passed out for a bit in our hotel room and when I awoke, I had no idea where we were or who I was. I tried focusing and reminding myself of our travel plans but could not resolve the feeling of being misplaced to save my life. Without anything to ground me, nothing seemed real. It was as if I was in the middle of a real-life version of THE MATRIX and at any second I could wake up with my brain attached to some world-imagining machine. My only recourse was to ride what was a feeling of weightlessness and near non-existence.

Hoping some movement and change of scenery would help, I accompanied my husband to a nearby British Pub and kept staring at him like some psychopath in desperate need of clinging onto some semblance of sanity. And then I remembered… I’m pregnant. To think about being pregnant with no relation to who you are or where you are is, as hippies like to say, a trip. I was sure the cognizance of my pregnancy would bring me back to earth, but it didn’t. I was surprised to find that something so settled in my body could still be a part of my feeling so out of my body. Pregnancy it turns out is not the grounding experience so many people make it out to be; it too can float right along with you wherever you go. All of those decisions on who you are and what you hope to be with your new family are made from habits accumulated over time. It’s those habits that get you stuck and make you feel a false sense of being grounded, not babies, because babies are not a habit they’re just babies.

As a result, I was able to experience pregnancy in relation to me and my husband solely for what it was—time for a human to develop inside of me and time for us to grow with it. It was kind of cool to realize that no matter what our circumstances and way of life, there will always be one constant—the three of us exist. No matter the rocker, the carrier, no matter if I go back to school, if I’m rich or poor, we have this baby and the meaning behind it? Nothing. It just is. It is just growing. A little Zen I guess and not all that snuggly fun, but there was something so freeing about it all. We’re in this together and being a part of it means just being with it and each other. Suddenly the registry, who we are and all my worries about our future went out the window and our babymoon, as a time for one last relaxing hurrah, was free to start in earnest.

P.S. – Start your registry NOW!

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I Don’t Want To Be A Mini Van

Getting emotional is definitely a side effect of pregnancy. Then again it’s a side effect of being a woman. At least now with a baby in me, my hormonal imbalances make sense. Before when I was PMSing my desire to cry would pop up at unreasonable places like the grocery store in the cereal aisle while looking up at a box of Rice Krispies. But now I get emotional for real problems like a cafe running out of soy the one day I want a soy chai, or I’m running late to a meeting and no gas pumps at the gas station seem to be working when I need gas, or I read up that Saudia Arabia removes women from advertising because it turns out they’re not a country they’re a large hardcore woman-hating gay club. This is why when I get emotional these days, I know I can’t brush it off as merely a chemical imbalance. So the other morning when hanging out with my husband making breakfast and truly appreciating how lucky I am to have the man and the life I have, hormonal induced emotion hit me…I won’t be having this much longer. The reason: soon we’ll be in charge of another person rather than doing whatever we feel like doing together. “Oh sh**,” I thought, “I’ve so enjoyed enjoying my husband for almost twelve years now…I think I’ve sabotaged a good thing!” The water works were instant and non-stop. Only a year ago I couldn’t think of life without trying to have a baby. I never came up with a conclusive reason as to why I needed one, all I knew was that it was something I wanted and was ready to have at this point in my life. Now two and a half months before the due date it hits me…WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?! Why did I do this to myself and my husband?! My marriage suddenly turned into a person with little time to live, and I became the mourner experiencing anticipatory grief while sobbing into my husband’s arms before sobbing into our Texas shaped homemade waffles.

So what is it about this upcoming change in my life that I’m so afraid of? The part where I turn into parent. Not a mother, there is a difference. Mothers and fathers I think can be incredibly sexy and alive, but parents, well… it’s like becoming a walking mini van. Everything becomes sensible and focused on the child. Even the way parents dress says, “I need clothes that are comfortable to deal with my kid not to turn-on my partner.” No wonder mini vans don’t hook up with other mini vans; mini vans have a kid to bus around, chores to take care of, they’re a mini van for crying out loud–they don’t have time for anything but what’s practical and efficient.

It’s clear that with new responsibilities and work it can be hard to keep the flame that made you want a baby with your partner alive, but why is that the case? Is there a good reason why we let children smother that spark? I still don’t know because I haven’t shot out my kid yet and taken to wearing capris, but I wonder if it isn’t just an American stereotype of “Family” we let ourselves fall into without question. Changing who you are to fit the norm of a parent doesn’t make you any better suited to be one, and just because you become more focused on your kid than yourself doesn’t make you a better parent it just leads you to a greater chance of unhappiness and divorce. No wonder Americans have so few babies, we make it look life-sucking, unsexy and HORRIBLE! I don’t want that. I love the life I’ve got and want the baby to reap the joy from what my husband and I have, not kill it. So please America, let’s come up with a cooler way to raise kids and change the standards of what it means and looks like to have them so I can finish my breakfast without crying before November.

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