Dear Cletus,
So I'm at the gym tonight, trying to burn off enough calories to keep me from feeling guilty when I eat 12 molasses cookies before bed (a trend that has become disturbingly regular this week). I'm on the elliptical machine, and gradually I notice that a guy working out near me has been looking my way ever so often. As I keep pedaling away, I become ever more aware of this guy's periodic fits of staring. I get a little self-conscious, followed by a little proud. I have this thought: "Yes! Almost five months pregnant but still getting checked out!" Followed by this thought: "Weird guy, to be checking out a pregnant chick." Followed by this thought: "Pervert." Followed by this thought: "How dare you, sir. I am with child. My body is a vessel, not something to be objectified by your lascivious glances."
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, breathing raggedly as the elliptical picks up the pace. My mouth is hanging open and clearly between my teeth I can see a big hunk of broccoli, left over from my pre-gym snack, snagged right between my two front teeth.
So: To the health-conscious gentleman who frequents the Planet Fitness on Woodmore Oaks and Sunrise Blvd: All is forgiven.
But on to other things.
One thing I've noticed about being pregnant, Cletus, is that there is a pregnancy club. It's like a country club or having a credit card membership, complete with levels of hierarchy. Regular club members include anyone who has ever known anyone who is pregnant. Silver Club members are women who have been pregnant in the past and share stories (which all seem to involve excessive gas, horrific C-Sections, and epidurals gone terribly wrong). Gold Club members are women who are pregnant right now, just like me. These are the members to watch out for, because they tend to come in two types, in my experience: the first type is normal women who just happen to be pregnant, and the second type is women who were once normal, but upon having become pregnant have now turned into giant walking uteruses.
Type 2 Gold Club members are an interesting breed (hah! pregnancy pun). They are super neurotic. Depending on what mood I'm in and how judgy I'm feeling, I find them difficult to relate to. They all seem to be obsessed with eating exclusively organic foods and researching doulas and water births because they just watched The Business of Being Born. They are already buying appliances to make home-made baby food with produce bought entirely from the local farmer's market, and plan to give their children all-natural wooden toys to play with, to limit their babies' exposure to the potential chemicals found in plastic toys that are made in China.
I have a grudging admiration for Type 2 Gold Club members, because of their dedication to being healthy for their baby, during and after pregnancy. But I know myself too well to think I would ever try to emulate them because I'd fail miserably. I can see myself trying to make my own baby food from scratch. I'd give it a half-hearted attempt and then feed my 8-month old mac-n-cheese with cut-up hotdogs, full of nitrates. But please don't judge me too harshly Type 2s; in thirty years your kids will probably all be Rhodes scholars while my baby will be busy finding new paint fumes to sniff. Have fun huffing, Cletus.
I tend to relate more to the Type 1 Gold Club members - those women whose attitudes seems to be: "Who me? I'm just a normal gal, carrying on a normal life and working my normal job, all except for this huge basketball hidden under my shirt." They're excited and concerned with baby and pregnancy stuff, but they aren't obsessed. And Cletus, before you point it out, yes, I am aware that I'm disparaging people who obsess over pregnancy in a blog that is completely devoted to chronicling my own kid's gestation. Self-awareness! Now I have it.
Love,
Your soon-to-be-mom
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Please Don't Become A Stripper
Dear Cletus,
I REALLY don't want to stop calling you that. But more on that later.
Okay, okay, I know, I haven't blogged recently about my maternity experiences. But that's mainly because I haven't had any. You, Cletus, are a frustratingly boring kid so far. I have had no nausea, bloating, heartburn, insomnia, cravings, or raging hormones during the past 17 weeks of this crazy experiment we call pregnancy. Before I start getting crap for complaining about a child-bearing experience that some expecting mothers would kill for - in between stints leaning over the toilet to puke their guts out - let me say this: while it's been nice not to feel like my body isn't turning against me, it definitely messes with my mind not to have ANY physical symptoms. The worst part is not being able to drink my wine (and Mommy loves her wine). It's basically being the boring person at the party without any payback. Now I know how designated drivers feel.
So anyways, Cletus, you're really boring. I can only hope you will be this low-maintenance once you are actually out of me.
That being said, the holidays were still fun. I've already talked about how Thanksgiving was a smorgasbord of gluttony; ditto for Christmas. New Year's was actually pretty low-key; since neither one of us was drinking, your dad and I just stayed in, drank cocoa in bed, and watched episodes of Homeland on the DVR until our neighbors celebrated 2012 by firing off a bunch of guns and freaking out our dog Molly.
So you didn't miss much.
Although, something exciting has happened in relation to you: a week after New Year's, we found out your gender. I was convinced you were a boy, so of course you proved to be a girl. It's things like this that convince me that you're my kid (well, aside from the fact that you're growing inside of me) - the delight in proving people wrong. And yes, I'm holding your gender against you, at least for the purposes of this blog.
Actually, I'm pretty excited that you're a girl. Except for this: when I thought you were a boy, my worries were limited to you someday knocking a 16-year-old chick up. Now, I have to worry about you actually being that chick. Someone's getting homeschooled...
Here's the thing, Cletus: I was reading this article recently that said that it was important to have a stable and healthy household when you are raising kids. Just when I was about to put down the magazine and flag it has having the biggest "no shit" moment ever, it went on to elaborate further. It said dysfunction is never good for kids, and they will act it out in different ways. In general, boys tend to "act out" more - they do the rebel-without-a-cause stuff, like get drunk at 16 and get into trouble with the law. Girls, on the other hand (according to said article), internalize their emotional problems which then eat away at them and manifest in such ugly symptoms as cutting, anorexia, bulimia, and stripping. (okay, I added that last one, but it really seemed to be the next logical step)
In other words, if I am not a fully-functional parent, there is a good chance that you will turn into a dysfunctionally anorexic, cutting, potentially-stripping woman when you grow up. According to this magazine. Talk about pressure to be a good parent.
So in addition to worrying about a healthy pregnancy, I now also worry about being an adequate mom once you're actually here. You have to know me to understand my worries - see, I tend to push myself to the limit and demand perfection of myself, which is great normally, because everyone just says, "Oh, Type A" and gives me kudos because they don't see the neurotic workings of my inner mind. But I don't want to project those qualities when dealing with a three-year-old. A three-year-old just wants me to love the glue-stick-and-macaroni art project she made for me. She doesn't want me to be a neurotic, crazy Tiger Mother that screams at her for choosing the wrong brand of glue stick ("Why did you choose Elmer's when Scholastic is clearly superior" is just the sort of thing that could come out of my mouth if I'm not careful).
I'm going to try my hardest not to mess you up. I swear. Although the next last paragraph of this blog might seem to contradict that statement.
So even with this new-found anxiety, I love that you are a girl. I love imagining dresses and ribbons. I also love the idea of teaching you how to be distinctively un-girly by having an unhealthy knowledge of the trivia from the Star Wars and Back To The Future movies (greatest movies ever made). I also love the name we have picked out for you: Rebecca. I hope you like it, because, although it's one of the most important things about you, you sadly don't get a say in choosing it. I hope you find a way to make it work for you.
While I love Rebecca, I miss Cletus. Cletus the Fetus was catchy and it made me laugh. I might still call you Cletus on this blog, I love it so much. And then, while I was mourning the loss of your moniker today, it occurred to me: why not take these two names that I love so much, and combine them? It's the best of both worlds!
Congratulations on being a girl, Rebeetus. Please don't become a stripper.
Love,
Your soon-to-be mom
I REALLY don't want to stop calling you that. But more on that later.
Okay, okay, I know, I haven't blogged recently about my maternity experiences. But that's mainly because I haven't had any. You, Cletus, are a frustratingly boring kid so far. I have had no nausea, bloating, heartburn, insomnia, cravings, or raging hormones during the past 17 weeks of this crazy experiment we call pregnancy. Before I start getting crap for complaining about a child-bearing experience that some expecting mothers would kill for - in between stints leaning over the toilet to puke their guts out - let me say this: while it's been nice not to feel like my body isn't turning against me, it definitely messes with my mind not to have ANY physical symptoms. The worst part is not being able to drink my wine (and Mommy loves her wine). It's basically being the boring person at the party without any payback. Now I know how designated drivers feel.
So anyways, Cletus, you're really boring. I can only hope you will be this low-maintenance once you are actually out of me.
That being said, the holidays were still fun. I've already talked about how Thanksgiving was a smorgasbord of gluttony; ditto for Christmas. New Year's was actually pretty low-key; since neither one of us was drinking, your dad and I just stayed in, drank cocoa in bed, and watched episodes of Homeland on the DVR until our neighbors celebrated 2012 by firing off a bunch of guns and freaking out our dog Molly.
So you didn't miss much.
Although, something exciting has happened in relation to you: a week after New Year's, we found out your gender. I was convinced you were a boy, so of course you proved to be a girl. It's things like this that convince me that you're my kid (well, aside from the fact that you're growing inside of me) - the delight in proving people wrong. And yes, I'm holding your gender against you, at least for the purposes of this blog.
Actually, I'm pretty excited that you're a girl. Except for this: when I thought you were a boy, my worries were limited to you someday knocking a 16-year-old chick up. Now, I have to worry about you actually being that chick. Someone's getting homeschooled...
Here's the thing, Cletus: I was reading this article recently that said that it was important to have a stable and healthy household when you are raising kids. Just when I was about to put down the magazine and flag it has having the biggest "no shit" moment ever, it went on to elaborate further. It said dysfunction is never good for kids, and they will act it out in different ways. In general, boys tend to "act out" more - they do the rebel-without-a-cause stuff, like get drunk at 16 and get into trouble with the law. Girls, on the other hand (according to said article), internalize their emotional problems which then eat away at them and manifest in such ugly symptoms as cutting, anorexia, bulimia, and stripping. (okay, I added that last one, but it really seemed to be the next logical step)
In other words, if I am not a fully-functional parent, there is a good chance that you will turn into a dysfunctionally anorexic, cutting, potentially-stripping woman when you grow up. According to this magazine. Talk about pressure to be a good parent.
So in addition to worrying about a healthy pregnancy, I now also worry about being an adequate mom once you're actually here. You have to know me to understand my worries - see, I tend to push myself to the limit and demand perfection of myself, which is great normally, because everyone just says, "Oh, Type A" and gives me kudos because they don't see the neurotic workings of my inner mind. But I don't want to project those qualities when dealing with a three-year-old. A three-year-old just wants me to love the glue-stick-and-macaroni art project she made for me. She doesn't want me to be a neurotic, crazy Tiger Mother that screams at her for choosing the wrong brand of glue stick ("Why did you choose Elmer's when Scholastic is clearly superior" is just the sort of thing that could come out of my mouth if I'm not careful).
I'm going to try my hardest not to mess you up. I swear. Although the next last paragraph of this blog might seem to contradict that statement.
So even with this new-found anxiety, I love that you are a girl. I love imagining dresses and ribbons. I also love the idea of teaching you how to be distinctively un-girly by having an unhealthy knowledge of the trivia from the Star Wars and Back To The Future movies (greatest movies ever made). I also love the name we have picked out for you: Rebecca. I hope you like it, because, although it's one of the most important things about you, you sadly don't get a say in choosing it. I hope you find a way to make it work for you.
While I love Rebecca, I miss Cletus. Cletus the Fetus was catchy and it made me laugh. I might still call you Cletus on this blog, I love it so much. And then, while I was mourning the loss of your moniker today, it occurred to me: why not take these two names that I love so much, and combine them? It's the best of both worlds!
Congratulations on being a girl, Rebeetus. Please don't become a stripper.
Love,
Your soon-to-be mom
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