Tell Me About It
It’s funny that Mr. Forty posted what he did. I drifted off to sleep last night having similar thoughts, but in a markedly different way. Which is the way things often are between the Mr. and me. We have very similar feelings on things, but usually get there via profoundly different roads. I lay in bed last night, too goddamn tired to actually let this series of thoughts keep me awake, but significant enough that I told myself I would address my concerns in the morning. (That’s the kind of bargaining I have to do with myself in order to maintain sanity. I assure myself that my concerns are valid, but that I need to bring them up for consideration at a more appropriate time. Fortunately, I am very obedient to this voice, most of the time). I was thinking about it this morning as I dragged ass out of bed and forced myself to wash (and blow dry) my hair. I was thinking about it as I drove into work this morning. I was thinking about it as I made direct eye contact with my boss and tried to tease out what part of his brain thinks it is okay to stare at me blankly when I say, “It was in the one email I sent you – the one with the subject line, PLEASE READ THIS EMAIL.” (My boss, god bless him, does not read emails. It’s past being quirky and has now crossed into infuriating). What was I thinking? Oh, about how ultimately, I am much better suited to this new life than the Mr. It’s not his fault or anything, it’s just, well, it’s different for me. Let me preface by saying there are a lot of people in this world who wander (and are not lost). These are the folks who go from job to job, or perhaps inversely, stay at the same job, in the same role, for decades. They aren’t particularly passionate about something and that either causes them a great deal of stress as they look for their “calling,” or they simply accept the fact that life is pretty good and Hey! It’s free scoop day at Baskin-Robbins! I am not one of those people. From the time I could have rational thought and have experiences that I would come to remember – I have wanted to be on a stage. I was the kid who truly shined in the school play, I was the child who wanted to act out stories, put together costumes out of mom’s old clothes, and attempt foreign dialects at a precocious age (my Irish dialect was perfected at age 7 after watching Darby O’Gill and the Little People over and over and over again). By 8 I convinced my parents this was all I would ever be good at. And looking at their checkbooks and seeing what it cost to watch me fail at ballet, piano, art, soccer, swimming, tennis and gymnastics, they sighed and agreed. By 9 I had my Screen Actors Guild card. By 14 I had several television credits to my name. By 20 I was, for all practical purposes, a commercial success. It was all I wanted to do. Granted I was fortunate that I was a really bright kid and I also really enjoyed learning, so my grades were good and there was no way I wasn’t going to college. Of course once I got there, I was cast in...
168 Hours in a Week
There are points in one’s life when one becomes the stereotype, despite one’s best efforts not to. Ok, it’s not that I’ve tried not to be a stereotype. It’s just that I’ve never cared much about what I should (or, if you prefer more clarity on the tone behind that word, “should”) be doing with my life, so I’ve bumbled into anything stereotypical about my life in a manner that surprises me every time. I mean, not some of the details. I’m a lawyer, for goodness sake. Much of my waking life involves lurching from one stereotype to another in that regard. But the broad brush strokes of my life, the existential moments, have not followed from the typical life path of a person my age. Perhaps some, even many, are shared with my generational compatriots, but I’ve seen people worried and anxious about things I can barely comprehend, from what fashion is “in” (what does that even mean? can someone please explain to me who gets to decide this and why anyone pays attention to them?) to whether young Rutabaga Rose is overscheduled enough. I don’t even really mean to discount the inevitable crises of adulthood (though, come on, just give up on the whole “what’s fashionable” thing, for your own sanity and ours). It’s just that I haven’t lived the same life. Maybe that’s obvious. Maybe some people who know me would find that comment laughable, because I am pretty darn conventional in many respects. So what does this have to do with impending parenthood? Good question. I feel like Ms and I could reasonably be seen to be, finally, running headlong into the delayed onset adulthood that so characterizes our generation. Before I go any further, I want to clarify one point Ms and I have both alluded to in connection with this blog. There are things about our experience that will be entirely unique because we are individuals whose interactions will produce unique outcomes. On the other hand, there are things about our experience that will be – to any of you who have gone through this – amusingly mundane. So when I write here, I am, generally, not seeing myself as experiencing anything outside the norm but am using this site as a vehicle to communicate our experiences to (a) people who haven’t been through a pregnancy, (b) people who find our writing amusing or insightful (gosh, that’s so sweet of you! thank you!!), and (c) serial killers who make skin suits from their victims. In other words, this blog is never a plea for sympathy. Also, I’m going to talk quite a lot about me. That’s not me being preoccupied with me. It’s me trying to provide an honest and complete snapshot of what this process is like for me. Having gone through all that, what’s bothering me tonight – and “bothering” is an inadequate word if I’m honest – is that … how are two professional, involved, ambitious, engaged, curious people supposed to do everything? I expect Ms will have quite a bit more to say on this point and, indeed, far more serious concerns about it than I will. But tonight we were talking about the things we have to do in the next few months, the things we’ve committed to doing in the next few months, and the things we want to do in the next few months. There simply isn’t time. Or energy. I am working one draining job and teetering between having a very...
The Hidden Truth
I ditched work today. I woke up, felt like Courtney Love, rolled over, prayed not to barf, and hit snooze. When I finally felt human enough to sit up, I did what any overachieving woman who, up until about 22 months ago (and more recently 8 weeks ago), only has her work: I checked my email on my phone. All of my meetings had been cancelled during the night. It was like the Preggers Fairy came and made all the bad things go away. I took it as a sign from the Universe to take a day off. I haven’t taken a day off yet. In the last 8 weeks (which is so weird because I’ve only been renting space for 6 weeks, but don’t get me started on that) I have gone to Vegas and worked non-stop for 6 days, worked my normal works weeks (which averages about 45-50 hours), taught a graduate class at the University of South Florida, and did laundry. I haven’t had a whole lot of down time. So today I slept. I ate some yogurt. I cleaned the house with non-toxic cleansers. I spent quality time with the animals. I tried to figure out, once and for all what a “belly band” is and why the internets says I have to have one! I also stared at myself in the mirror a lot. A lot. It turns out my body is like CRAZY EXCITED to be pregnant. Just shouting it from the rooftops excited – because I’m showing. No two ways around it, I’m… round. It’s more than just my boobs (which are the fluffiest sweater bunnies you have ever seen), my tummy is totally gonna get in on this sweet pregnant action. Not gonna miss a minute. It’s like my abdomen is all, “Hell yes girl, let’s get it out there!” Which of course puts me in a terrible quandary and alludes to Mr. Forty’s last post. I have to hide this pregnancy for a few more weeks, at least. Why? Because society says you should keep this to yourself in the case of, Universe forbid, something bad happening, we need to keep that grief to ourselves. Which really is just bullshit. Oh, and if you want another layer of stressful bullshit – do NOT check the internets for advice or thoughts on when it is a good time to break the news at your workplace. I don’t know where some of these women work, or if the situations I read about were/are the aftermath of downsizing in the economic downturn but sweet merciful Mary some of the stories left me wondering if I should just play it cool, wear lots of baggy sweatshirts (executive sweatshirts) and then just give birth during my allotted two weeks vacation. Just horror stories of all make and manner. I’m not sure how my work will react. I have a pseudo-government job, so I know that I will be treated fairly and by-the-book. I know that I can (and will) take full advantage of the FMLA, and wonder why it’s still the shortest leave in all developed nations (thanks old white guys in DC!). I know my boss is confident in my work and certainly wants to keep me around. I know that my leadership style with my team is *almost* annoyingly “family first” – to the degree that I am the boss that walks around at 5 or 5:30 asking “Is that really important? Go home to your kids.” So between...
Information density
Ms. “I only seem to crave really healthy food” Forty was all about the Hooters tonight. Ok, fine, we had crab legs. But we also had fried shrimp. And ranch dip. Being a supportive husband, I joined right in. So far life is mostly normal on my side of the unbridgeable biological divide. Or, perhaps, not yet the new normal. The most disruptive thing I’ve been involved with so far was a dog having a (first-time) seizure, and that’s really not related to Ms’ pregnancy. I mean, I guess not. What do I know? We didn’t cover all this in school. We had, briefly, the “will you still love me when I’m fat?” conversation the other day. Of course I will, I replied. You’re not fat, you’re just … occupied. Of course, me being both male and me, all sorts of things went through my brain that I KNEW I COULD NOT POSSIBLY SAY AND STILL LIVE. Like, “Just like an engorged tick!” Or, “Just like a well-fed python!” Ms and I have a good relationship built in part on taking each other seriously by never taking each other terribly seriously. That mentality was stitched throughout our wedding, for goodness sake. Like an engorged tick. But there are things that just aren’t said. I suppose you could make the argument that I shouldn’t be confessing them now, but I am doing a public service here. Of course I don’t think my wife looks like an engorged tick. I mean, she still looks like Ms right now, with the slightest of convex belly curves to indicate that biology is afoot. But even when she’s about ready to launch the new Critter into the world (“SQUEEEEZE!” *pop!* “WHEEEEEEEEE!”), she won’t be fat. I don’t get that attitude. “I’m so fat!” No, you’re not! You’re GROWING A PERSON IN THERE. I had a brief lapse of judgment tonight when I said, “You know, maybe you just have gas” as Ms admired herself in the mirror. To her credit, she first said “You just don’t say things like that to a pregnant woman!”, paused, and then said, “Because they might fart on you!” Apparently, this week the Critter loses its tail. That makes me sad. I mean, I probably shouldn’t wish for a tail for our child, but I want this kid to have a career it can fall back on, and, really, if you have a tail, you’ll never fall far. At least if it’s a prehensile tail. Swish swish. We seem to have settled on Critter being a girl. I’d say we have a 50/50 chance, but even biological sex isn’t binary, so we could end up with all sorts of mixes and matches. Statistically speaking we have a pretty good chance of having a standard boy or a standard girl, so, for simplicity, we’ll stick with those categories until we have contrary data. Cis-privilege in a nutshell, that. Anyway, we think the currently-tailed-and-webby-pawed creature will be a girl. I don’t know why we think that, but our conversations have just steered that direction. Fast forwarding 6 years and imagining our little dirt-covered, stubborn tomboy of a girl makes me happy. Of course, I won’t be sad or anything if we end up with a boy. We’ll just have to get Ms to teach him how to throw a football, since I don’t have the first clue about that sport. If this post seems a bit disjointed, that’s kind of where I am right...