Being Contrary Because I Can

During the 40-ish weeks in which a woman gestates a small California Raisin (the kind that sings Motown hits), she may encounter many contradictory observations from on-lookers.

"Oh, sooo big!" said the pastor's wife.
"Wow, you hide it so well!" said the new mother.

***

"Lie on your back," said the chiropractor.
"Don't lie on your back; lie on your left side," said the pregnancy manual.

***

"Go for the epidural!" said the new mother.
"Don't you want to spend the first moments of meeting your baby not drugged up?" said the other new mother.

***

The contradictions are symbolic, because pregnancy can be a completely contrary experience. Some days, I am painting the prospective play room, the one room in our home that is drenched dusk to dawn with sunlight. I move up and down the ladder steadily, spraying lucky green paint everywhere, sweatin' to the Oldies, wearing the biggest smile on my face because, for the love of my California Raisin, this kid's play room is going to rock. Other days I am a beached whale sitting on the futon, hoping that if I can send ESP messages to my husband about the frozen pizza I want to eat for dinner, I won't even have to use my mouth for the next 2 hours while I liquidate TiVo.

Some days, I'm contented to know that I am carrying a secret surprise so big, my uterus has ballooned from the size of a fist to the size of a cantaloupe. Other days, the hor-motional tides sweep me up in their wake and nothing can possibly bring me back to the shore of sanity other than the promise that, when I come ashore, I will be allowed to FREAK OUT for at least four continuous minutes.

And that's the intersection where the traffic jam occurs - where the contented pregnant woman in me meets the hor-motional pregnant woman. Neither one wants to yield to the other so they both aggressively veer into one another's lanes and my husband, the abiding passenger, suffers many false starts and whiplash.

The on-lookers will prattle on about their nightmare pregnancy or their happy pregnancy, and I will know that no pregnancy is always 9 months of night terrors or 9 months of beach. There are always glimmers of the contrary, and occasionally, as in my case, they last for at least four continuous minutes. Or maybe four months.

Four months down. Five months to go.

Hand-You-Downs

If I'm neurotic about my son/daughter inheriting my neuroses, will my son/daughter become a complete neurotic anyway?

Been thinking a lot about inheritances, legacies, genetics. Things passed on down the pipeline, things received that were never asked for in the first place.

There are so many traits about Lovey Loverpants that I hope will manifest themselves in our children. Intrepidness, humor, practicality. Ability to not become petrified at border crossings, when refrigerators break. Observational skills, desire to expand one's worldview. Lack of wrinkles and lack of American Skin Cancer Society Poster Child countenance. Also, general cuteness.

There are so many aspects of myself that I hope will not be passed down. Like my neurosis that people are going to find out that I do not make my bed everyday. Also, I stick my neck out when I'm not supposed to. I obsess. I think grammar gaffes should always be corrected. I'm oblique. I sometimes treat people like they are projects. I like Nick Lachey. As a singer. I am impatient. It takes me months to finish some books. I am not a team player.

It is more challenging to name the virtues that I want to share with the progeny. But I'm giving myself five minutes to come up with three:
1.) I hope my child will have a generous sense of humor and be quick to laugh.
2.) I hope my child will rarely be bored because he/she has a vast imagination and is undaunted to start projects that will bring him/her pleasure, or will bring pleasure to others.
3.) I hope my child will have faith, because at least the neuroses will be tempered by an opposing force.

Biggest High School Slut

Junior and senior year of high school, when I was going through my misanthropic, non-eating phase (still puzzles scientists how one can work 20 hours/week at Dairy Queen and still lose weight), Doctor Whatsherface gave me a prescription for birth control to "help keep me hormonally balanced." Invariably, when I went to pick up the scrip, two of my classmates, Angie and Shan, whose mouths never stopped, would be working the pharmacy counter at CVS. I knew they knew. They knew I knew they knew. I lived in fear that they would out me, Campus Ministry Girl, as the biggest slut in school.

Today, workplace is having a Blast from the Past Friday. Everyone has dressed as they did in high school. My cubemate is wearing an air-brushed T-shirt of Sebastian Bach from Skidrow. Bossman is dressed as Billy Idol. I am in full high school dress uniform, only I had to wear hub's white button-down shirt because mine doesn't fit me anymore.

Oh yes. That's right. I'm sixteen and pregnant. The prophecy has been fulfilled. If only Angie and Shan could see me now.