A Pregnant Pause

I can feel spring. She's so light and pretty. She's the color of hot pink. She's flooded the atmosphere. She's always my favorite. I feel light too. Like running. Like air.

It's the same spring. I slip back into my body. The darkness lifts. Why was I ever so silent, moods wrapped like nooses around the insides?

It's a different spring. I have you in my body. In my belly. In my torso.

They say you are three inches long now. They say you can suck your thumb. They say your eyes are becoming your eyes.

Sometimes, I wish I could feel you. You feel so abstract to me. I want to feel something profound. I want to know you.

At other times, I feel like I know everything about you already. And you're you. And I've known you for thousands of years. I've loved you for lifetimes. I've held you so many times. I can't wait to see you again.

I wish that I dreamt of you.

Instead, I dream of cigarettes. Not a week goes by in the astral plane that I don't scramble behind a tin building with my stolen booty and chain smoke. In these nightly flights, I'm even still pregnant. But I'm deviant. I relish each puff. I'm sorry for that, my dear. I may not have control over my mind, but as for my body, I remain smoke-free.

What are you doing today, my love? Do you sense my thoughts, my dreams for you? Does the tap of the keys soothe you?

I am almost fourteen weeks now. I miss wine. I miss an icy cold beer on a hot spring day. I miss long baths. I miss drowning my mornings with caffeine. I miss the me that is leaving. It's impossible to keep her. I think it's o.k. Of course it's o.k. It's more than o.k.

Sleep late, my love, we have a long journey. We're done with the first trimester now. We sigh in relief.

To whoever you might be, I pray that I can help you be Who You Are.

Oh for the Love of Health

I'm trying hard not to think about things like what silly people say about health care reform. That's about as deep as I can go there without screaming. Don't you know? What are they so afraid of?

Wait. I want to tear my face off. When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. Such as 1 + 1 = 2. (I have to start there with people.) I have to tell them that you shouldn't cross the street on a red light. Because it's as basic as that to me. What don't you get?

When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. In my (our) America. I want to lay down my guns when I see you screaming, "I don't want you to save me!" I want to stop fighting, because I think, in the long run, who gives a good goddamn? If you don't care about you, then why should I care about you?

When I see how many people aren't listening. When I see how many people are misinterpreting. When I see how many people are full of fear. When I see how many people are armed with propaganda and lies and untruths. When I see how many people are o.k. with that. Those closed fists. Those closed hearts. I think to myself: America is screwed. Oh my god, we are so screwed...

I don't want to fight for 1+1=2; it shouldn't be so hard. Sure, it passed. For that, I'm grateful. But what happens now? When 1+1=2 is open for debate?

I think then about my children. Where will we go? To protect. From you and you and you there too.

Oh America. You have it so good in so many ways. Why are you so dead-set on f**king it up?

An American Tale

I have lived in three places in my life:

1) Fargo, North Dakota (ages 0-18)
2) Phoenix, Arizona (ages 18-30)
and presently,
3) San Diego, California (almost one year)

Now that I live in San Diego, a third location, it's become harder to explain the past to strangers. In Phoenix it was simple. People would ask, "Where are you from?" And the easy answer would be, "Fargo, North Dakota." I grew up there. I moved from Fargo to Phoenix. Point A to Point B. All understood.

I even earned a little respect. In a weird way, Fargo seems exotic to most people in this part of the country. It's freezing and off-the-beaten path. Most people don't know anyone from North Dakota, so already, you earn some cred. In fact, most people don't know anyone whose even traveled there. The best you get is someone who might have traveled through there. So, people are mildly interested. They might even ask you questions.

Plus, thanks to the Coen brothers Oscar-winning movie "Fargo" circa late 1990's, the town name itself strikes a chord of positive nostalgia that most people easily convolute with their feelings towards me. I damn the day that "Fargo," the movie, fades from national consciousness.

But now that I've moved to San Diego, I've lost some of my geographical mojo. When people hear that you've just moved here, the typical question is, "Where from?" Well, I moved to San Diego from Phoenix.

This answer irritates San Diegans. Phoenicians are not a well-respected group of people here in SoCal. Due to their five-hour-drive proximity to each other, most Phoenicians have been vacationing in San Diego for decades. These "Zoni" tourists crowd their pretty beaches, hotels, and restaurants during the better parts of the year. Phoenicians, understandably fleeing the desert during the 110-degree-plus summer days, treat San Diego like their own personal day spa.

On the flip side, most San Diegans, have also traveled to Phoenix at one time or another during their lives due to something unforeseen, like a cousin's wedding or free tickets to a Coldplay concert. When they return, they don't have much nice to say, cept' Phoenix is flat and dry and hot and beige. They feel towards Phoenicians something like mild pity.

So when I tell them I moved here from Phoenix, they politely nod and mumble, "oh." But what they're really thinking is, "What a surprise. Of course you moved here from Phoenix. I sure wish you hadn't. Sigh. Are there more coming?"

Sensing their disdain, I attempt to thwart their perception by quickly adding: "But I grew up in North Dakota."

But this falls on deaf ears. People can only combine two cities at a time for you, not three. You're like a nomad to them--a rootless gypsy.

When your persona is made up of three parts (part plains, part desert, part coast), people don't have any idea who you are. And that makes them uncomfortable.

In San Diego, it's like my North Dakota roots have disappeared. I can't say I like that. I can still feel the bone chill of winter in my teeth. I can still feel the summer sting of a mosquito on my leg. I have a dry sense of humor that I guarantee you came from the bonfires of my youth.

I'm not from Phoenix. I lived there. For over a decade. And yes, it lives in me too. Those hot desert nights seduce me. That pastel sunset leaks into my dreams.

I empathize with those military kids, who when asked where they're from, they say, "I grew up in a military family. We lived all over." We kind of toss them aside, don't we? We consider them unknowable, rootless. We learn that we've learned nothing about them by asking the question.

But I imagine if we did get to know them, over beers and fries and backyard barbecues, these kids are conglomerates of where they've been. I imagine they have pieces of all over etched in their bones. I imagine they themselves feel parts of themselves in each place they've resided. Just like I do.

I realize that where I've been has something to do with who I am, but I haven't learned how to explain these nuances quickly. Perhaps, like the military kids, I'll one day give up trying to draw out the map for strangers. I left my heart here, here, and there too...

Oh never mind. I'm here now. I'm right here...

A Farewell to Boobs

I've taken to binding my breasts, much like the ancient Chinese practice of foot binding. The purpose of this exercise is to stop their out-of-control growth spurned by my current condition of pregnancy, or in other words 'growing a human being inside of my insides.'

Granted, other than the ambitious growth of my upper lady humps, I've been exceptionally lucky in the arduous task of human growing. In these past 11 weeks, nary a mouthful of vomit has projected itself. My moods are smooth as butter. And my belly only really shows when I eat too much pizza. However, do not envy me. I have not been spared.

Almost immediately after the two pink 'you're preggo' lines crawled into our lives, my boobs blew up. Like balloons. I said them, "Girls, stop it, you're getting ahead of yourselves...you have nine months. No need to rush." They were uninterested in my pleas.

This wouldn't be such a tragedy if I began with smaller breasts, say an A or a B cup. Sure, then I would welcome the increased blood flow to meh jugs. But I am a C cup. And not just any old C cup, a perfect C cup. I LOVE my boobs. I'm not joking. When Dave first saw them years ago, he gasped. If it sounds like I'm bragging, it's because I am. (I will share this: my ass is flat. Feel better?)

I didn't always have them. I earned them through prayer. You see, I was a late bloomer. In sixth grade and all the way through middle school, I was breastless. Skinny and big-toothed. The first time I wore a bra to school, Danny W. grabbed the thin rung of fabric under my shirt and snapped it hard against my back, "Why are YOU wearing a BRA?" Everyone laughed.

Or how bout' when I cried at a birthday party attended by atleast twenty of the coolest kids in 7th grade and Aaron S. taunted loudly, "Hey Darcy, did that board come with your shirt?!" Everyone laughed.

And so I turned my pain to God. I made deals like, "if you give me boobs, I'll be good forever." I was earnest and consistent in my prayers. By the end of ninth grade, God delivered. And they were glorious. Not too big, not too small, proportional, and well-shaped. Even Danny W., my former arch nemesis, eventually commented. He said, nodding in the direction of my chest, "Those sure turned out all right." Instead of punching him, I beamed.

So you can imagine my panic when my perfect C's ballooned into D's during the very early weeks of pregnancy. The fear only multiplied when fellow procreaters warned, "It only gets worse." I almost started crying when one of my best friends told me she got her breasts done after her two babies were born because they quote, "looked like cow udders."

I've even heard stories about out-of-control nipple growth. To calm myself down, I consulted my mother, who has a talent for diffusing my fears: "They go back to normal after pregnancy right mom?!" In this case, she merely shrugged (in other words, your boobs might never be the same hon).

So I've turned vigilante; I've started a war with my changing body, in the hopes that I'll stave off any significant change. I figure this too-small sports bra that I'm wearing as a binding mechanism will cut off the blood supply, and my body will just forget about them. Trick my body into circumventing normal pregnancy breast changes. Hey, it worked for the Chinese--just look at their tiny feet!

Let's face it though, my cleavage is borderline lewd. And worse yet, perhaps it's God's inevitable payback. I mean honestly,I haven't really held up my side of the bargain of the "being good forever" breast exchange. Woes me.

I'm gunna just hope and wish and pray that when it's all over, I get my boobs back. It must happen somewhere, to someone. Right?! (Please tell me if this has happened to you. I need real empirical data girls.)

The worst is when people say, trying to console, "But look what you're getting in exchange? A beautiful baby!"

I say, "Oh shove it! You ain't never seen meh boobs."

Martha, Martha, Martha

I've got domesticity on my mind. The days are just me. Long and lonely and beige. I tap my words into this computer all day, hearing them in my bones, but not aloud. I'm happy. But I'm so silent. Life has never been so still.

As the sun hurdles itself through the sky all day, the light changes. The colors in the living room dull in the evening, and Dave will be home soon. I get up to prepare dinner. It's my favorite part of the day.

Cooking calms me. It's me & me, nodding to music, moving through the yellow light in the kitchen. It's quaint and slow; the sound of chopping vegetables makes me feel purposeful, deliberate.

When Dave and I got married, I broke down near the end and did a wedding registry. I didn't think I wanted one. I thought we had everything we needed, having already lived together for four years. I also thought I was better than such frivolties. I was wrong. On all accounts.

You see, when one buys items for oneself with oneself's own money, certain things are compromised. For example, quality. Why would I buy a $20 cookie pan, when I can purchase one for $3? Also, convenience often trumps as well. Why would I trek to Williams-Sonoma when three Super Targets exist within three square miles of my abode?

Up until the wedding, I had been living in The Now. If I needed to make roasted vegetables, I'd pick up a $5 pan at the grocery store. Did my toaster break? Buy another one--heck they're only 10 bucks! The result? A kitchen full of cheap, mismatched shit.

The Macy's registry changed my life. (p.s. don't register at Target. You would buy yourself anything from Target. Nothing could stop you and you know it. Register a little bit out of your league. Make it special.). Did you know a more expensive pan actually helps cook the food more evenly? Or that a fancy 4-slot toaster makes cooking quicker AND more stylish?

I got china that I'll surely pass onto my children. I got embroidered table runners that will make me the coolest party host EVER. I got a thick cutting board made out of bamboo that I use everyday. And to quell any protests about the impersonality of registries, I do remember who gifted me what and thank them frequently.

But today, I want to tribute Martha Stewart. She's like a cooking inventor or something. Here's three super cool AND super cute tools I got and use frequently. You don't even realize how much you need them until you have them. Get them. Now. I don't work for macy's or anything, but I think these items are only available there. Imagine how cool you'll be...

1)Citrus Press - In her signature Martha blue, this sturdy little number is made of iron or something it's so hefty. Forget hand-squeezing those lemons, just cut em in half, pop it in, a voila--easy peesie.

2) Vegetable Steamer - As cute as it is functional, this old school steamer doesn't plug in. Fill the bottom of a pot with water, put your new steamer in there (it folds open like a flower and closed to fit almost any size), put your broccoli and carrots in there, cover for a bit and voila! Toss your clunky plug-in model in the trash.

3) Over-the-sink Colander - Stop precariously pouring hot water and macaroni into your old plastic colander. You're losing good macaroni! This wire mesh colander is adjusts to fit over your sink, so you can pour within worrying about whether your colander will tip. I even wash veggies in it.

Re: Liberation

Let's free the words now, so they can come crashing down into form. These binary codes are energy transfers--heart to heart.

I'm back. I left. I know. Oh You, so much has changed...

I'm pregnant. How much bigger news can I give you? My little future me, but not at all me, is alive in me. It's 10.5 weeks old. 10.5 weeks old! omg omg omg omg omg omg...it's kinda sorta all I think about. The head track sounds like this: "I'm pregnant, I'm pregnant, should I eat this? how bout this? wait, what feeling was that? am I showing yet? is everything ok in there? I hope so. I'm pregnant. Omg I'm pregnant. This is weird. Is this real? I'm going to have a baby? Wait, omg, I'm going to have a baby! I'm excited. I'm terrified. Omg omg I'm pregnant."

And then it just kind of repeats itself. All day long. I'm sure stronger/cooler women are not so obsessive, but whatev. I'm 30 years old. I'm not trying to impress my high school friends anymore (ok that's a prolly a lie).

We found the little buggar just days after my "woes-me no-pregnancy blog." I think it pays to cry. I stand by that blog, even though my mom (I love you mom) might whisper, "I told you so..."

I believe those frustrations are very common to those trying-to-conceive. I send baby dust and love, lots and lots of love, to everyone with family dreams they are trying to fulfill. Whether it takes 3 months or 3 years, it's hard and it's heavy and it breaks the heart--month after month after month.

I also quit my job! Retail was the pits for me, excepting the peeps I worked with. It didn't make much sense to be gone for as long as I was and bring in as little as I did. I thank the sweet heavens my husband agrees. So now I got this whole new journey in front of me. I plan to use this time wisely, before I meet the little dude. I've been writing all day almost every day. It's bliss.

I apologize this whole blog is so update-y. I promise to get back to better writing as I come here more often. After being away for awhile and then reading up on those blogs, I realize how much I miss it! How cathartic it is. Now I'm refreshed, I'm renewed, I'm ready for baby bloggin ;-)! (I think I'm kidding when I say that...)

Anyway, here's my first belly picture. You can see a bit of a bump there. I'm pretty sure my growing uterus' goal was to get me to forget about the ol' flat tum as quickly as possible. Congrats uterus. You win.

Is it considered lewd to post these? I think when you're pregnant you can get away with all sorts of quasi-porn.