Merry New Year!

Well 2013 has been a helluva year. As I sit here, with wet hair, wearing Mr. Forty’s t-shirt and telling myself I should go get ready to go out and visit some friends at their annual NYE party, I look back over the year. I also remember we have no Bloody Mary Mix for the NYD party we are throwing tomorrow afternoon. Hell. Let’s focus on everything Mr. Forty and I managed to do this year: January – I got a huge promotion at work and began building a brand new department. Over the year I’ve hired some people who aren’t just my coworkers – they’re my friends.  Mr. Forty and I celebrated our one-year anniversary by having a lovely dinner in Atlanta. We looked real nice. February – Mr. Forty visited and began to meet folks around Tampa in order to make the transition to moving here. I began to clean out my closets and my dresser and try to make room in my tiny bungalow for another human and a cat. I tried on a wedding dress. It was the only one I tried on. I bought it. It was perfect. I wish I was wearing it right now. I travel to Colombia. I could tell you why, but then I’d have to kill you. March – I escorted Mr. Forty and his cat to Tampa, along with all of his stuff. His house in Atlanta remains for sale. It is very nice. Please let us know if you’re in the market, we would love to sell it to you. “We have a vacation home in Southeast Atlanta,” doesn’t work – even for liberals. April – Mr. Forty, myself, about 60 of our closest friends, and some family got together at a big old house on the water, roasted a pig (named Amy – don’t ask), said some really nice things to each other, and were declared married in the eyes of the great State of Florida. We get away for as long as my job will allow and sneak off to Key West. Mr. Forty loves it as much as I always have. This is a good thing. May – After less than 45 days of co-habitation, we asked a realtor to please look for something in our price range that was slightly larger than a shoe box. She sent us several listings the next day. We liked one house in particular. We went and saw it that day. We made an offer. We now live in it.  Mr. Forty informs me he is taking the Florida Bar. I inform Mr. Forty that I like to be a part of life decisions. He promises to remember that. We take a trip to NYC and Mr. Forty gets to spend real time in the City for the first time in his life. June – Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I get rid of furniture we don’t need. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I spend time with my friends at the pub. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I clean around him. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I go for long runs. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. July – My very sweet old terrier with one eye passes away in her sleep. We are very sad. Two weeks later, sad from being sad all the time, we take our other bat looking terrier to the Humane Society and she selects her new bestest friend...

Shit like this…

  Shit. Like. This. This is what Critter is up against. This is what I’m up against. This is what Mr. Forty is up against. This is what we have to fight against. This is what we have to undermine. This is what we have to stand up and say, “HELLO IS THIS THING ON? WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU THINKING AND WHY ARE YOU THINKING THIS?” Mr. Forty moved to my town thank-you-very-much, and I still have my last name, and I’m going to have an epidural if I want one goddamnit, and we’re having a baby because we talked it over and under and through more than you can possibly imagine (and we still do talk about it and we will for the rest of our lives). If you married a woman because you were doing them a favor – you’re a dick and she’s an idiot.  And FYI, the average retainer for a divorce attorney is about $7500, so have that ready in your back pocket because you’ll sure as shit need it.  Of course you probably spent most of your money on a designer wedding gown, a diamond as big as the Ritz, and two white doves that shit on your flower girl when they flew frantically away from you in the best metaphor of what you had just done to yourselves and each other. Yeah, I’m probably a bit more sensitive to this kind of societal dreck because I proudly call myself a feminist and I’m trying to come to terms with what that means when I’m also thinking about how I’m going to discretely pump breast milk at work when I go back.  (So far I think I’m just going to shut my door and hang a stuffed cow from the doorknob in a fucked up version of dorm etiquette).  I’m also more sensitive to this propaganda because the premise is totally up its own ass. And on top of it all, the image is so blatantly wrong I can’t even begin… Let’s take a moment and look at the picture. I’ll wait. … … … What do you see? Pregnant lady. More pregnant lady. Lady with a baby. Very good. Now what else do you see? Come on, use your critical eye. I’ll tell you what you see – You see a white pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde, thin pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde, thin pregnant lady with no stretch marks, mottled skin, cellulite.  You see a woman looking down, in servitude.   You see a construct. A perfected ideal of an imperfect biological process. Frankly, if you wanted to really make your point about how much women “sacrifice” for a man, you should have posted this picture: But don’t listen to me… it’s probably just...

Congratulations! Did you fart?

Mr. Forty posted a few days ago about the raft of shit I’ve been getting lately for being pregnant. At the time of his post I was filled with an overwhelming sense of “Hell yes!” and “That’s my huzband right there and I’m a lucky woman!”  I didn’t have anything really significant to add. I mentioned in my last post that I found myself at a business dinner with nothing more to contribute to the conversations than my pregnancy. Not that I didn’t try to talk about other things, it’s just those things morphed into “Well that will change,” or “You’ll feel differently in a few months,” or “Interesting strategic insight… so are you going to breastfeed?” This has been a pretty common theme in the 6 weeks since I’ve been out of the closet. It’s very strange. I don’t happen to be one of those women who subscribe to the societal belief that pregnancy is some form of magic. It’s biology. I had a lot of sex and it had the biological effect it was supposed to have in my lady parts. In fact, I always feel slightly uncomfortable when people say, “Congratulations!” As I often interpret this to mean, “Way to go on the fucking!” Depending on who is telling me congratulations, my perceived subtext can range from creepy to downright horrifying. Also, “Congratulations!” is a tough one from a societal point of view. I guess I am worthy of a “Congratulations!” because I (for a change) followed society’s rules: 1. I am married. Happily married in fact. (Although I’m sure from the outside there are those that worry that Mr. Forty and I didn’t wait very long – we were married in April of 2013). 2. I am older. This is a tough one from society’s standpoint – get knocked up too young, you’re an After School Special.  You’ll only get “Congratulations!” from other WIC and SNAP recipients and an MTV producer.  Get knocked up young, you’re wasting your college experience and earning potential. Get knocked up youngish, and people will assume you’re planning to have a whole gaggle of children (oh my poor friends who had one child at 30 and are berated for “not having more”).   Get knocked up old and there are a couple different kinds of “Congratulations!” in play – namely that you managed it in the first place and that you got their expectations for you in under the wire. 3. My career is happily in a place and I could be where I am for a very long time and be okay. I can afford this child. I’m more or less done climbing for now. I have the title I wanted, the salary I desired, the team I hoped to build, and the environment where I can make a difference. I’m good. The next level of promotion for me would be one I would have to think about long and hard. I’m not sure I want it right now. That’s a perfect time to have a baby from my point of view. Looking at all of that, I get a hearty “Congratulations!” from society. Which is totally unfair to all the other women who have children under different circumstances. But life isn’t fair. Teaching Critter that will be one of the hardest lessons I will have to manage. Unless of course he is a mutant and goes Republican or Libertarian on us and names his stuffed animal John Gault....

One more thing…

So I haven’t posted jack-my-mamma-crap on this blog. I’m a terrible baby house. I was all excited about having a place to share my thoughts through this experience and what I have found is that this experience has left me with monosyllabic responses to most things… “Ms. Forty, how are you feeling?” “Uh, good?” “Ms. Forty, have you picked out a name?” “Uh, we call it baby.” “Ms. Forty, you look tired.” “Uh, fuck you.” “Ms. Forty, you fell asleep on the couch again, would you like to go to our bed?” “Uh, bats are in the tub and I have no checks.” (It’s best not to wake me up and expect anything logical to ensue). Still with the tired, made more tired by a month that would make an Olympic athlete tired, I look back and realize I’ve been all over the place (literally). Critter flew more this month than I did in my first three years.  He even went to Panama this month – which I will get to in a moment and I’m sure this post will never be reposted by the Panamanian Tourism Authority, not that I really care. Work has been overwhelming. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I’m too exhausted most of the time to get excited about what I’m doing. Which is a shame, because on paper, my job has utterly kicked ass this month. I’ve traveled abroad, I’ve met interesting people, I’ve launched huge initiatives, I’ve taken naps under my desk… Everybody keeps telling me that I’ll get more energy now that I’m in my second trimester. I’m rocking week 16 and this avocado inside me is not producing any energy. I hate to say it, but I still would smack a bitch for a nap. Which makes me sound terribly redundant, which is probably why I’m not posting much. I mean for fuck’s sake, one can only read about tired pregnant lady for so long… So here are some things that have happened that have nothing to do with being tired: During my trip to Panama, the Mayor of our town came with us. He was pleased when I told him I was personally making more Democrats for our voter base. That was a nice moment. Several times I realized I was the only one who was aware what was going on at work this month and the fact that I was also making life officially made me a superhero. Panama is a country I never wish to visit again under any circumstances and maybe it’s because I was pregnant but seriously, I’m over that place. They do have a kick ass ceviche. I’m probably not supposed to eat ceviche, but you know what, I’m also probably not supposed to spend days dealing with uncooperative Panamanians who don’t do anything they say they’re going to do either. During dinner one night I realized my only status at the table was that I was pregnant. This was confusing and disheartening as I am used to contributing significant insight and observations in my industry. Now I have been reduced to, “When are you going to have another one?” That is a really horrible question on so many levels, I have no idea where to begin. But you entertain all sorts of horrible questions when you’re pregnant and you endure people (even people you like) touching you, so you know, you roll with it. Turns out, when you tell a table...

On the birth of a baby: the Christmas post...

First, the merriest of merry Christmases to all who celebrate! That Jesus, he was a groovy dude who preached love and peace. It’s a message we could use more of. I don’t have a whole lot to say tonight. A year from now, we’ll have our own baby bundle. I suppose he won’t be doing much at 6 months old. Drooling a bit. Pooping himself. Generally useless. So here’s my Christmas wish: let’s all try to make a world in which all our babies know peace and love. That’s it. It’s not an easy wish to squeeze down a chimney, but it’s an easy wish to squeeze out an open heart. And, to my unborn son, please, oh please, give me uninterrupted sleep for Christmas in...

I should know

I’ve been seeing something a lot recently. Ms will say something – for example, a sternly-worded rejection of an idiotic YouTube video that’s been going around involving white people rapping badly in pajamas (I won’t link to it, because … Jesus, no) – and someone will respond that she’s only saying that because she’s pregnant. It’s not always quite that direct, but the conclusion is inescapable. Let me see if I can pick through this. I’ve known my wife for 20+ years. I’ve heard her moods, seen her triggers, listened to what makes her angry, and the Ms I grew up with and married is the Ms who is nuzzled up to her pillows in the bedroom right now. Her essential character hasn’t changed, her reactions to things (largely) haven’t changed, her sense of humor is the same. Everything about her is the same as I’ve always known, with a very few exceptions. She has, on maybe two or three occasions in my presence, had an emotional reaction to a stimulus that I would not have otherwise expected (think tears when a feelgood news story comes on, or something along those lines). She has identified rapidly changing hormones as the cause, but I should really be clearer on the point: she hasn’t done anything out of character or weird, just not the response I was expecting. All well within Ms’ established range of responses to stimuli – enough so that it’s difficult for me to think of specific examples here, just remembering my own mild surprise. On another two or three occasions, Ms has spoken to me more sternly than I would have expected because I needed to be doing more. I’m perfectly ok with that. I mean, we’re doing this in sort of pro mode: we’re still learning our way around each other as cohabitators, and now Ms is going through substantial physical changes that leave her quick to tire, so I’m having to make my own adjustments. Sometimes I miss the mark. I feel bad about it, because I want to do everything I can to make this process as easy for Ms as possible without treating her like an invalid, but it’s nothing that’s caused me to feel wronged or unjustly accused or any nonsense like that. My pregnant wife needs me to do more sometimes, I’m trying, and sometimes I don’t do enough. Maybe Ms will chime in about this, but I don’t feel like it’s an epidemic of failure or anything, heh, but I do feel like it’s justified and gentle correction during a time when both of us are going through behavior adaptations. It’s also worth pointing out that, as with the first example, I can’t really think of a specific occurrence because nothing wedged in my memory out of either shock or anger. After considering it for maybe one one hundredth of a second, my reaction was “Oh, ok, right, of course.” My pregnant wife is essentially the same person my non-pregnant wife was. Full stop. There are differences, but they’re subtle. The best example is one I told her about this weekend. Ms goes to sleep earlier than I do (I mean, my current insomnia troubles notwithstanding, I’m a night owl by nature, and Ms is not). Before she became pregnant, she’d come home and gradually wind down, almost imperceptibly cleansing herself of the day’s stresses before falling asleep on the couch. Now she’s much more consistently awake until the light suddenly goes...

Buying clothes

Mr. Forty has covered much of the recent good news. He stays up later than me and posts things. Must be nice to be able to say up late. And post things. And have a penis. I digress. The ultrasound was all the cute you can hope for out of a baby shaped blob on a black and white monitor. It also gave me the confidence I needed to go shopping. I think I’ve been subconsciously a little resistant to buy clothes until I knew we were okay.  And the genetic tests came back (thanks Maternit 21) and we are having a healthy baby boy who (according the ultrasound) has really cute feet. Yay! Today Mr. Forty was a good sport and went to the pregnant lady store with me. Now let me explain how I shop… About once a year I call up my nice shopping lady at a department store that I like and I say, “Hi nice shopping lady, I need new clothes for work/play/clogging/etc.” Nice shopping lady sets up a time, I show up, she gives me a glass (or two) of wine, and I try on a room full of pre-selected clothes. I decide what I like, nice shopping lady gets them altered for me (as I am Hobbit sized), and I give her a lot of money. Over time I realize I actually spend less this way than I did with the more traditional buying method I had used previously. This usually involved going for margaritas with girlfriends and having them talk me into clothes that, upon more sober consideration, made me look like a cheap Russian whore. So now I usually get 6 or 8 “outfits” a year, and supplement with special occasion purchases. I have a weakness for silly shirts on the internet and I’m not above buying dresses on Mod Cloth. That’s shopping. That’s all I’ll do. Buying maternity clothes had me about as excited as the moment when I learned what meconium was. I hate shopping. Shopping for clothes that I’ll wear for 8 months (I’m figuring two months or so afterwards) tops – that just pisses me off. I have clothes from college that I still wear religiously. Maternity clothes are overpriced, they aren’t very well made, and they have very little “personality.” I dress kinda… quirky? Different? Not like everybody else. Maternity clothes have a terrible generic quality. And stripes? What the fuck is with all the stripes in maternity wear. Look, I have never worn stripes.  I wouldn’t have considered them before I looked like I slammed an entire keg of Natty Light and washed it down with a enchilada el grande. Why in sweet Virgin Mary’s good name would I throw stripes on my current shape? I don’t look awkward enough? Fuck you maternity designers. Fuck. You. I pondered going the consignment route, but again, I’m hobbit sized, and I don’t want to wait two weeks to get everything altered (to what size for that matter) and end up paying as much as I would for retail. I also have to stop wearing yoga pants to work, for real, I’m a professional woman, I run a very successful team, I need to not look like a slightly disheveled college student. My intern is out dressing me. I need clothes NOW. All this taken into consideration, the Mr. showed amazing support and went to the UNIVERSE OF MOTHERHOOD or whatever it’s called at the mall. He sat quietly...

Naming a Human

Though paraphrased and occasionally reordered and cut to remove the (believe it or not) extraneous bits, this is a more or less faithful representation of dinner conversation tonight: “Bartholomew?” “We can’t name him Bartholomew. Isaac?” “That’s the cat’s name.” “Oh.” “Augustus?” “I like Augustus.” “Octavian?” “Not really.” “Flavius?” “…” “I’m looking at a list of Roman emperors. Sirius?” “No, I already though through all the Harry Potter characters.” “Paul? No, St. Paul was an asshole. Um.” “Breadstick?” “Oooh, I like that. Six Pack?” “Is that hyphenated?” “I don’t know. Look, let’s just scrap the whole surname thing and —” “Madonna.” “No, it’–” “Bono.” “I–” “The baby formerly known as Critter.” “What about some good German names? Hans.” “Adolf.” “Stop that. *pause* Hirohito.” “Anakin.” “Obi Wa… Ben? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time … a long time.” “Benjamin?” “Wilson?” “I already did all the presidents.” “Carter?” “Ooh, I like Carter, actually.” “My Republican friends would shit their pants.” “Maybe we could try to inoculate the baby against being a conservative by naming him Reagan.” “No.” “Why are boy names so boring? What’s the most masculine flower you can think of?” “I dunno. Dogwood?” “A dogwood is a tree, not a flower.” “A dogwood is a tree and a flower.” “We can’t name the baby Dogwood.” “I think a Magnolia is a manly flower. Hearty leaves and petals. But you couldn’t name a boy Magnolia.” “I think we’re getting off track here.” “Getting?” “Spatula.” “Kumquat.” “Ruprecht.” “Kieran.” “No, everydamnbody is naming their kids with Irish names now.” “Who was the nicest Gospel writer?” “Luke.” “Anakin.” “We already said that.” “Kanye.” “Tupac.” “Biggie.” “YES.” Welcome to the world, Biggie Bird Shit. We love you very...