Special Relativity

a few minutes back… Ms: I’m already making plans for Critter’s … oh, I guess third Christmas. Because she’ll be old enough to understand some things but not really know what’s going on. Mr: Oh? Ms: Yeah, like put Elf on a Shelf around the house in awful positions. Mr: Like butt fuckin’ Mensch on a Bench! Ms: Exactly! Or sitting in the corner of the litter box with little peppermints scattered around! A few minutes before that… Ms: Yeah nobody’s not going to know I’m pregnant wearing this! Mr: Just tell them you have adult onset spina bifida. Ms: What? No! analysis and conclusion We are horrible people who will destroy our child, but I am apparently that much more horrible. *kermit...

Hold On and Let Go

When I was growing up, I frequently heard my mother says, “I forgave __________ during my first pregnancy,” “ I got over _____________ during my second pregnancy.” The people in question were often those that had done her wrong in the past (Edie Morrison for stealing Mom’s boyfriend, Bruce Rodgers, her senior year of high school, etc.). Over the years, I have assumed that pregnancy must be a time of great perspective and reflection. I saw gestation as a time when the enormity of the biology at hand causes other things to be trivial and meaningless. Thus, I have been going through this First Trimester and seeing if there are things I need to “forgive” or “let go.”  I would think that I would have a few more things to “release” compared to my mother. After all, she was married at 23, had me at 27 and followed up with my brother when she was 32. When I was 23, I was a bartender at Hooters in Santa Monica. When I was 27, I was newly married and performing nightly at The Second City. When I was 32, I was divorced, living in Tampa, going through a health crisis, and dating an actor. So you know, there should be all sorts of baggage in that time.  Lots of stuff I need to let go, and move on from, and realize that my life is taking on greater importance. Yet there really isn’t.  There were a lot of things that I held on to for a very long time. Not making it as an actor in LA was tough, but I got over it. The crappy way my ex-husband decided to turn-tail and haul-ass was the topic of a couple of years of therapy, but I now regard him with the same distain as stepping in dog shit – a disgusting inconvenience that was ultimately scraped off all at once leaving some annoying bits in the tread. I don’t really have anything I need to get rid of or let go of or any of that stuff. In fact, if I had to take a serious look at my life and try to pinpoint when I unloaded a lot of excess baggage, it was probably right before I started dating Mr. Forty. Huh. My therapist would be so proud. Perhaps in my state of “I’m really good with myself and my relationships and my past,” I got a little overzealous with goodwill towards others. Case in point – One of my exes. With the exception of the poo on my shoe that some might call my previous marriage, I have a pretty good relationship with guys I’ve dated.  The relationship before Mr. Forty didn’t end well, but some people have to have a scorched earth policy to keep their street cred of being tortured and miserable – so I respect that and keep my distance. Most of my other exes are absolute peaches and I’d set them up with anybody. In fact, one of my exes was one of the first to know about Critter.  I’m dying to tell another, because I know he’ll be thrilled (and make an excellent uncle – which was always the extent of his parenting aspirations).  And then there’s my Beautiful Disaster. The Beautiful Disaster and I had a few really good years together – really good.  We even attempting living together, which lasted exactly the course of the lease.  I adore this man. He...

Crickets

What a weird few days. We seem to be in a sort of holding pattern right now. By which I mean Ms seems to be feeling not so well and so so tired most of the time, but there’s nothing really new to report. As far as I know anyway. Ms looks about like she looked last week, at least to my eye. It’s like there was an initial foomp in her body and right now it’s waiting for Critter to catch up. We’re not entirely sure what week we’re in, because, er, symptoms don’t seem to be lining up with what the sonogram tech told us. That means we’re not sure if we’re at the stage of a grape or a strawberry yet, or whatever the hell the fruit chart says. No more visits to the doctor until December. No great realizations about what it means to be parents. A couple more people know now (hi!) but the numbers are still low because of that idiotic first trimester convention. Pretty sure Critter doesn’t have a tail any more. I’m still rooting for a tail. A real one though, not some nub. Ok, I’m not really rooting for a tail. According to reports from Ms, even the Doozers seemed to lay low for much of this week. Did we ever explain the Doozers? Pregnancy cramps? Construction site? Doozers from Fraggle Rock building mysterious structures all down in there? This is how Ms and I talk. Anyway, it’s like we started this to chronicle all the interesting, challenging, funny, dreadful, or wonderful things that happen in a pregnancy and just a couple weeks in we get a week in which Ms is scraping the bottom of the energy barrel and I’m sick. Nothing communicable, don’t worry. So, we press on, I suppose. Next week we’ll probably have uterine barrel roles or something like...

Come on… really?

I stayed home from work. Again. This is only the second time so I’m very careful to not complain too much. I know of women who spent most of the first trimester laying on the bathroom floor. I just feel like I have a low-grade flu. I’m tired, I’m achy, I only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I want to cry. All. The. Time. Everything makes me cry. I cried over cottage cheese in the dairy aisle today. I don’t know why. I felt that somehow cottage cheese had been given an unfair shake in this world. I got a mani/pedi – just to get out of the house – and the ladies seemed so nice the way they were cutting my cuticles that it made me cry. I mean they don’t have to paint my toenails, but they do… god that’s fucking nice. And sad.  And nice. I got Mr. Forty a cranberry limeade from Sonic (because he likes the ice) and his love of ice… made me cry. I’m opting not to pet any of the animals so that I don’t cry. As if on cue, one of the animals just walked by the couch and farted. I’m crying again, but it’s for a slightly different reason....

Hey! You in there!

Ms and I were lounging around tonight, she playing Candy Crush, me using her as an increasingly comfortable pillow, when she asked me if it was about time for me to start reading to the Critter. Naturally, I turned, tapped on her belly, and said “Hey, you in there!” I think my next move was to put my face on her belly and start reciting strange versions of nursery rhymes. I can only imagine what it would sound like, if only our Critter had ears. We’re still at the translucent-with-flippers stage. If only instead of dust to dust, the arc of our lives were flippers to flippers. How wonderful would it be to hit a ripe old age, leap into the sea, and paddle off into the night. I suppose you’d end up eaten by a dolphin, but at least you’d have some variety. It would, incidentally, also make explaining death to a child a somewhat less fraught process. I only mention this because this is exactly the kind of thing I am built to say to our offspring. Just bizarre, outlandish nonsense. “Where did Fluffy McFluffington go daddy?” “Well, when kitties get to a certain age, they grow flippers and return to the sea!” And this is the point where I really come to terms with the fact that I might fuck up another human being. Holy crap! I’ve written software for a living! I know how easy it is to stick an infinite loop in there with even the most careful effort! Exclamation point! Thank goodness human beings aren’t computer programs. But still. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not lacking confidence. I think I’m a well-adjusted, sane, responsible human being who will do my best to provide enriching activities for the Critter while simultaneously building an environment in which the Critter can explore its (still “it” for the moment) own little destinies. And, really, even if I weren’t, humans have a remarkable ability to outgrow indoctrination. Go back not terribly far in my family, and we had people who thought it was perfectly normal to own other human beings. And then the next generation didn’t. And then the next generation was a quiet revolutionary in the fight for racial integration. Try as you might to screw up a kid, the kid often ends up having the last laugh. So, back to mumbling into my wife’s belly. It’s hard not to do something like that and think along the lines of “oh god what do we really know about human fetal development? could the sound waves have jarred loose some critical connection in the Critter’s brain? are we going to end up with a conservative?!” My brain has gotten really weird since P Day. (Hee hee, “P Day.” Pee. Stick. I am slain.) Could this be why my dad was so … odd? Did finding out he was going to have to teach a mammal more than “sit” and “stay” – trigonometry for goodness sake! – push him into some anti-Zen state of mindlessness? Do all parents-to-be think they’re going to be edgy and show Critters the world-as-it-is only to find themselves worrying about all the profanity in the hip hop music in their music libraries? I have an odd paradox in my head. I want to be honest with this kid. Whisper truths that the child may not understand immediately but will grasp earlier because of the foundation. On the other hand, I’m as certain as I sit here...

Second Opinion

We were bound to have a little glitch. While Mr. Forty is quick to point out that humans have managed to give birth for a millennia (some, he claims, while being chased by cheetahs), we seem to be a bit stumped when it comes to finding the right fit for our obstetrics. I predicted this early on.  I chose a group that is associated with a hospital that I fundraise for and support and love dearly. It is the “hospital of last resort” in our area, taking on the “indigent cases” (which until Jan. 1 could also define any poor bastard that doesn’t have a couple million dollars cash on reserve to pay for their health care and found themselves in an unexpected health crisis with no insurance).  This hospital also ranks in the top 5 for transplants in the country and has some of the finest doctors anywhere in the world. I like this hospital very much. It’s full of good decent people and they’ve cut me open and sewn me up better than before on a few occasions. That said, the women’s group associated with it is… well… efficient.  Too efficient. Mr. Forty mentioned that we got to see Critter on Friday. We hadn’t planned on it, but my APRN thought it might be nice since I’m “older.” I guess being older comes with some perks. Waiting for the ultrasound was an interesting and unintended political moment. There we sat next to the ultrasound machine – the monitor and the corded device with three potential “attachments.” One attachment looked very much like the handheld roller that goes over the cold belly jelly and produces images (when it comes to looking for the space alien in your belly – that device comes out in the 12th week).  Another attachment didn’t really ring any bells and I really didn’t think about it because the third attachment was A HUGE GODDAMN DILDO. I pointed at it and said, “That is a transvaginal ultrasound.” Mr. Forty’s eyes got very large and his face took on that shape that men get when they realize that they are staring at something shaped similar to their “special purpose” but much, much larger. Suddenly we found ourselves in the quintessential Carol Hanisch moment where the personal is political. Mr. Forty and I are good liberals and we strongly support the right to choose. Interestingly I have a much more conservative view for myself and fortunately my obsessive behavior towards birth control ensured that I never had to make that choice – but that’s the beauty of choice… you can choose. I watched as he found himself face-to-face, or rather face-to-9” of thick rubbery cock.  I saw him doing the “math” in his head. “So, that’s… what…” “Yup darlin’ that’s why when we have to have the procedure without our consent, ‘rape’ isn’t an exaggeration.” It was almost exactly at that moment that our tech came in and while we made small talk, she began to tear the top off of a small packet of lube. “Oh no,” I groaned. Because they don’t lube up your belly. To be fair, this wasn’t my first transvaginal ultrasound, it wasn’t even my second.  It was my third. I had one back in the early 00’s. I believe to this day it was because my doctor had just gotten this fancy new toy and wanted to try it out for any reason possible.  Later, I described it as being “gang banged by...