What does one do when stuck in an interminable week, waiting, waiting, waiting for baby? I’d like to say take up Taekwondo or that cool Krav Maga thing that looks like it could really help you kick some ass. In my mind, my answer would be that I now knit, I’ve learned calligraphy, and that I spent Tuesday making creme brulee from scratch for the homeless. I had a spa day…I read everything I’ve never read, but always wanted to…I organized my closet…and I took long walks on the beach with my husband.
None of these are true.
When one is treading water, counting minutes (while pretending not to), and stuck in limbo (truly the first circle of hell) while simultaneously the size of a (choose one)
- weather balloon
- giant octopus
- gorilla-like Godzilla
it’s difficult to motivate. It’s hard to kick ass Krav Maga style when someone has to help you tie your shoes because you can’t reach your feet anymore. Reading? Maybe if I didn’t have a toddler to waddle after all day. And forget heading to the spa – I’d never be able to get up on the table.
When you’re waiting for baby (next week will be 42 weeks of being pregnant – 42 weeks!!!) and you’re not Gisele Bundchen, being pregnant is not glamorous. I want a mulligan.
I want a do-over.
I want one week of knitting socks while practicing Taekwondo as I organize my closet after a walk on the beach with my husband and a morning of baking creme brulee.
There is a tiny person living inside my head. I think she’s set up residence somewhere in my cerebrum. She’s found a nice smushy place to put her feet up, drive my car, and make me eat bread. I’ll tell you something else, she’s nuts.
All the time I have to hush her and the crazy things she wants me to do. “Open your window and throw a donut at that car!” she calls out as I hurdle 75mph down the 405. (with no donuts in the car I might add) “Run as fast as you can and ram that guy’s cart with your cart, demolition derby style.” she urges while I’m shopping at the snooty Whole Foods in Beverly Hills. “Sara!” she practically screams. “Sam is totally asleep. You could shave his head, post pictures of him on the internet, and be on a plane to China before he even wakes up!” If it’s not one thing, it’s another. She’s like my own personal devil always coaxing me to do something wild and irresponsible. And the worst part is, she’s very convincing.
I picture her as a strange amalgamation of Lucille Ball and Diane Keaton. She is quirky and neurotic and obsessed with death. I can’t tell you the number of times she’s tried to convince me to kill someone for no reason. Or ram someone. (she’s big into ramming) Or stick out my tongue and make that pbsthhh noise in a situation when I’m supposed to be mature and silent.
All I know is, I think she’s winning. I’ve got a donut toss set up in the backyard and I’m getting pretty good at it.
I cannot see my toes,
I cannot see my knees.
I can’t stop eating chocolate,
I can’t stop eating cheese.
I wobble through my hood,
racing with the ants.
My stomach leads the way,
high above my pants.
Strangers stop to tell me,
how remarkable I am.
My sheer, impressive size
is like the Hoover Dam.
I try to be okay with
this boy who wants to stay,
deep inside my stomach
until next New Year’s Day.
So what if I can’t wear
a normal pair of shoes?
Or if I’d trade my husband
for a tiny sip of booze?
Elastic is my friend,
and lycra is the key,
to living with a baby
the size of Tennessee.
Someday I’ll be the old me,
slim and trim and fun.
In the meantime I’ll keep waddling
’til this oven’s bun is done.
Yesterday was my “Due Date” for baby and the day came…and went. No baby. This due date business is for the birds. My kid is in there to stay – he’s going to be like 45 years old by the time he finds the time to come on out. I’ll be taking college classes for him, going on dates, maybe even getting married again before he decides he’s ready to leave my belly.
Meanwhile, people are stopping me left and right in the street to remark/ take pictures of/ discuss the size of my stomach. I have been asked if I am having twins (no), triplets (again, no), or have recently competed in a German beer chugging contest that lasted 3 years and went terribly awry. To these people I smile and pose and tell them I’m having quadruplets, I have been in Germany drinking beer non-stop as a secret experiment regarding matters of national security, and that I’m actually a walking monument thus explaining why birds keep landing on me.
In the meantime, I’m beginning to wonder if I am indeed pregnant or if this is some sick joke to deprive me of ever fitting in skinny jeans again. I’ll let you know, but as matters stand…no baby, no baby, no baby.
A week ago my husband, who is addicted to the NY Times, read me an article about a book called Fifty Shades of Grey. Today when I opened the internet the title jumped out at me. In other words, the buzz has officially hit.
Fifty Shades of Grey is being touted as an erotica book for housewives meets a porno-version of Twilight. While I’m interested in seeing what all the hullabaloo is about, I’ll don’t understand why this is so scintillating. Women’s fiction, and erotica in particular, has been around since sex has been around. What makes this book even more illustrious is the basic theory of supply and demand; there is little supply and a lot of demand.
I’m looking forward to getting my hands on Fifty Shades of Grey to see if the story lives up to the hype. When I do, I’ll you know.
With a new one coming home any day now, I’ve begun searching for a special “baby” for our first. I googled ‘good dolls to bring home with baby from the hospital’ and came up with Bitty Baby and American Girl. Since I live in close proximity to an American Girl store, which is often frequented by the like of Suri Cruise and her ilk, I quickly put the kabash on American Girl. (I’m a reverse snob)
Googling madly, I came across Corolle dolls. A French brand (made in China) these dolls have the eyes that open and close, great reviews on Amazon, and the smallish size I was looking for. Best yet, they had a little boy! Another brand I stumbled upon was Gotz, but their dolls were a bit too fancy for our needs. Ditto with Madame Alexander.
Psyched that my search was done, I went back to Corolle to read the reviews once more thoroughly, when what to my wondering eyes should appear…a warning about plastic and PVC chemicals of which we want to stay clear. Oh crap.
Three hours later, my head bulging with information about chlorine, bromine, arsenic, and a bunch of other chemicals I can’t even pronounce, I had no doll and a splitting headache. HealthyStuff.org which tests not only toys, but adult items as well, pronounced my Corolle find ‘Medium’ for safety due to a high amount of chlorine in the head. SafeBaby.com told me I was stuck with a cloth doll if I wanted safe. And TheDailyGreen.com nailed the coffin closed when they blurted that even Melissa & Doug toys are guilty of using lead paint. Melissa?! Doug?! My child chews on your toys!
Needless to say, I have no doll with open and closing eyes to bring home from the hospital. I went instead with 10 books that new baby can wrap up and give to old baby each morning for a few days. But secretly, I still want Corolle’s Mon Premier Calin doll with the PVC head.
(and btw, American Girl’s Bitty Baby had chlorine and bromine found in it)
A few weeks ago my husband and I went to see Ovo down at the Santa Monica Pier. I had seen Cirque du Soleil’s homage to the Beatles in Las Vegas a few years back and loved it. It was like climbing inside of a yellow submarine on drugs (me and the submarine) and was completely fantastical. It not only told the story of the music, but also embraced the magic of the Beatles ingenuity. Ovo on the other hand, fell short of the $100 ticket price.
The premise is interesting enough; a group of bugs has an egg dropped into their lives and you don’t know what they’re going to do with it. But the story never really takes off, never goes anywhere, and never finishes. As my husband said, “It just never felt big enough.” In short, the costumes are great, the acrobatics are fun…and that’s about all I can say in a positive light. The whole “bring in the clowns” aspect was a bit circussy for me. I didn’t need to see the bugs interacting with the audience and making them do stupid things. I didn’t need to watch a clearly far-fetched romance between a full-figured lady bug and a sex-starved dork bug. And I really didn’t need to see the bugs dancing around a la Chicago musical.
The killer for me was that we never found out what was in the egg. Was it a baby dinosaur? A thousand snakes? A chicken even? The egg just kind of was there and there and there and then it was gone. No explanation.
So save your money and go see another show…unless of course, you’re a big fan of the clown and high-wire circus. In which I’d say Ovo is right up your bearded lady.