We’d heard lovely stories about how people learned the news of the sex of their expected new addition. Hilarious wagers, Ribbons in boxes, and even the passing of the information from Ultrasound technician to baker – The parents only discovering the gender when the knife emerged from the middle of a frosted cake; pink for a girl or blue for a boy.
The morning of our scan, S and I realised we didn’t have any particularly creative ideas planned, but also didn’t just want to have a finger pointed to a screen. Looking around in last-minute desperation I came across some small pastel-coloured wooden rabbits that mum had brought over from England to Easter-up my house. I grabbed a pink and a blue one along with a couple of envelopes. I wrote “Your baby!” on one and “Spare Bunny” on the other and we headed out the door.
When we first found out I was pregnant, my instant feeling was that I was carrying a girl. I don’t know why or how, but that was my gut. As the weeks progressed I convinced myself more and more in the other direction. Everyone around me was having a boy, the apparently infallible Chinese calendar thing online said ‘boy’ for every possible conception date in the 2 week window, I had a very ‘easy’ first trimester in terms of nausea – and all my friends who’d had girls were sick as dogs.
When I’d checked out the Chinese Calendar, my heart had involuntarily sunk every time it said ‘boy’. That was the first time I realised I had a preference.
I knew I’d be happy with a son – boys are awesome - but this is probably going to be my only pregnancy (don’t think we can fathom FOUR kids when we have the Steps with us) and I knew, deep down, really REALLY wanted a daughter.
90% of this is because of the great relationship I have with my mum. “A son is a son till he gets married. A daughter is a daughter for life”, she has told me in the past, and I feel its truth every time my mind reaches in her direction.
I can do without ribbons and curling irons, tween bullying and teenage tantrums, but the friendship and trust that I hope can be built over time… that is what I hope for.
That and some REALLY cute dresses.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Feeling The Movement
The first time I felt the baby move I was in bed. It was late, S was already sleeping I was just settling down.
Blip. Like a gas bubble deep in my abdomen. A butterfly flapping its wings. A sparkle. An echo. So gentle, but so definite. There you are. Hello.
I didn’t feel it again for weeks. Life on a tour bus leaves little room for stillness, as most every sleeping moment is accompanied by engine vibrations and bumpy roads. I, of course, turned this into gentle worry. I should be feeling movement. Something’s wrong.
Blip Bloop. There you were again.
From those early echoes, through the first time S laid his hands on my belly and felt something more definite, laying on the couch during The Daily Show and watching occasional flutters by my tummy button, to now… I know that lump by my (wonderfully still ‘inny’) belly button is your bum. I know that it’s your head that squeezes my bladder the minute I shift positions. I know when there’s a big thump up by my diaphragm, you’re kicking.
As I write you’re making yourself known. Arms and knees I think. The occasional foot making the fabric of my shirt twitch up by my ribs. I know it’s getting tight in there… there’ll be plenty of time for stretching in a few weeks.
I already know I’m going to miss this intimately alien connection. It is, without a doubt, the most magical thing about pregnancy, and I am so very glad I got to experience it.
Blip. Like a gas bubble deep in my abdomen. A butterfly flapping its wings. A sparkle. An echo. So gentle, but so definite. There you are. Hello.
I didn’t feel it again for weeks. Life on a tour bus leaves little room for stillness, as most every sleeping moment is accompanied by engine vibrations and bumpy roads. I, of course, turned this into gentle worry. I should be feeling movement. Something’s wrong.
Blip Bloop. There you were again.
From those early echoes, through the first time S laid his hands on my belly and felt something more definite, laying on the couch during The Daily Show and watching occasional flutters by my tummy button, to now… I know that lump by my (wonderfully still ‘inny’) belly button is your bum. I know that it’s your head that squeezes my bladder the minute I shift positions. I know when there’s a big thump up by my diaphragm, you’re kicking.
As I write you’re making yourself known. Arms and knees I think. The occasional foot making the fabric of my shirt twitch up by my ribs. I know it’s getting tight in there… there’ll be plenty of time for stretching in a few weeks.
I already know I’m going to miss this intimately alien connection. It is, without a doubt, the most magical thing about pregnancy, and I am so very glad I got to experience it.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
In The Beginning...
We were in a bathroom in Omaha, Nebraska when we found out. To be more specific we were in the disabled stall of the women's bathroom on the balcony level of the Omaha Civic Hall.
Of course it started before that. It was the third cycle since I came off the pill, and the first month I’d really ‘charted’ (taking temperature on waking to try and figure out when ovulation happens), so I knew that I was possibly a few days late.
I say possibly because when one is trying to conceive there’s the realisation that the very early signs of pregnancy are actually exactly the same as those of PMS: Cramping, sore boobs, nausea, tiredness, tearfulness etc etc. The month previous I’d been semi-convinced that I’d fallen pregnant in record time, only to be disappointed by the familiar dark patch writ large in my underwear. It might have well formed letters; “Not This Time”.
4 weeks later the symptoms are all back, and I’m convincing myself that I’m not pregnant, if only to dampen the heartache of the period I’m so sure is coming.
The day before testing, Saturday, I sent a picture of my temp chart to my charting-friend and touchstone. “Get to Walgreens NOW” was her reply. I told her I’d wait till we got home on Monday. “You have patience that is beyond me.”
The following morning I was walking into the Civic Hall and realised that my boobs felt… different. Sure, they were tender and achy, but there was something different about them. Without touching them they felt harder, like bullets sticking out from my chest. I mentioned this to my beloved, who was off to Walgreens before I could say “maybe we should think about…”
And so it came to pass. He and I in a large stall in a quiet public restroom. I peed on the stick then made him hold it behind his back while I zipped up. I at least wanted to be out of the stall when we looked.
Standing in front of the sinks I admitted that I wasn’t sure which result I wanted. I was suddenly terrified. There would be no going back. Were we ready? He held me, and we prayed. Your will be done.
And there it was. The Word, confirming your existence.
And the word was good.
Of course it started before that. It was the third cycle since I came off the pill, and the first month I’d really ‘charted’ (taking temperature on waking to try and figure out when ovulation happens), so I knew that I was possibly a few days late.
I say possibly because when one is trying to conceive there’s the realisation that the very early signs of pregnancy are actually exactly the same as those of PMS: Cramping, sore boobs, nausea, tiredness, tearfulness etc etc. The month previous I’d been semi-convinced that I’d fallen pregnant in record time, only to be disappointed by the familiar dark patch writ large in my underwear. It might have well formed letters; “Not This Time”.
4 weeks later the symptoms are all back, and I’m convincing myself that I’m not pregnant, if only to dampen the heartache of the period I’m so sure is coming.
The day before testing, Saturday, I sent a picture of my temp chart to my charting-friend and touchstone. “Get to Walgreens NOW” was her reply. I told her I’d wait till we got home on Monday. “You have patience that is beyond me.”
The following morning I was walking into the Civic Hall and realised that my boobs felt… different. Sure, they were tender and achy, but there was something different about them. Without touching them they felt harder, like bullets sticking out from my chest. I mentioned this to my beloved, who was off to Walgreens before I could say “maybe we should think about…”
And so it came to pass. He and I in a large stall in a quiet public restroom. I peed on the stick then made him hold it behind his back while I zipped up. I at least wanted to be out of the stall when we looked.
Standing in front of the sinks I admitted that I wasn’t sure which result I wanted. I was suddenly terrified. There would be no going back. Were we ready? He held me, and we prayed. Your will be done.
And there it was. The Word, confirming your existence.
And the word was good.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Loving My Belly
It's New Music Tuesday in this Bug's life.
Once a month I get paid a small amount to listen to a lot of recent music and translate my feelings into as few words as possible. PJ Harvey, Radiohead, Adele... not a bad start to an afternoon.
Today also marks the first day I've worn my new Belly Band; A foot-wide lycra tube that I would quite probably have worn as a mini-skirt as a teenager, but now covers the gaping button of my jeans, keeps me from buying maternity trousers, and provides a suprising amount of comfort up to my ribs.
The band has made me realise 2 things. 1) I understand for the first time why high-waisted trousers are so comfortable and 2) for the first time I actually like my belly.
As a child I never had an issue with weight, but still I always had a belly. Beach shots are of the blonde, grinning girl, squinting into the sun in a multi-coloured one piece - all skinny legs and round tummy; usually holding up something I'd found, like some sea-weed or a dead crab. As an adult I've been able to either hold my tummy in or dress it down, but it's always been there... not so much sexy hour-glass but homely cottage-loaf.*
Now, for the first time, I can look at my round and growing belly with affection instead of wistful embarrassment or even shame. There's no thoughts of "time to cut our bread again" or "I really should go to the gym", just affectionate strokes and wonder at the magic that's knitting together this perfect human I'm honoured to carry for a few more months.
Once a month I get paid a small amount to listen to a lot of recent music and translate my feelings into as few words as possible. PJ Harvey, Radiohead, Adele... not a bad start to an afternoon.
Today also marks the first day I've worn my new Belly Band; A foot-wide lycra tube that I would quite probably have worn as a mini-skirt as a teenager, but now covers the gaping button of my jeans, keeps me from buying maternity trousers, and provides a suprising amount of comfort up to my ribs.
The band has made me realise 2 things. 1) I understand for the first time why high-waisted trousers are so comfortable and 2) for the first time I actually like my belly.
As a child I never had an issue with weight, but still I always had a belly. Beach shots are of the blonde, grinning girl, squinting into the sun in a multi-coloured one piece - all skinny legs and round tummy; usually holding up something I'd found, like some sea-weed or a dead crab. As an adult I've been able to either hold my tummy in or dress it down, but it's always been there... not so much sexy hour-glass but homely cottage-loaf.*
Now, for the first time, I can look at my round and growing belly with affection instead of wistful embarrassment or even shame. There's no thoughts of "time to cut our bread again" or "I really should go to the gym", just affectionate strokes and wonder at the magic that's knitting together this perfect human I'm honoured to carry for a few more months.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Growing on the inside
As of today, I'm 13 weeks pregnant.
What's growing on the inside already has functioning limbs, teeth sitting ready in gums, and fully formed eyes; sealed tightly behind perfect lids. Mind blowing.
This next season of liminality, living in the shifting change of now-but-not-yet, has so far brought little of the romantic, brooding introspection I'd imagined. Maybe that's a gift of a first pregnancy when one isn't already a part-time parent. Maybe it's just in the movies.
I'm dreaming more. A smattering of terrifyingly real nightmares amongst the gloriously bizarre; eating a restaurant owned by Jack White, before walking home and realising I'd accidentally left without paying... and I'm only wearing one shoe.
My belly remains the same shape it always has. People have started to wonder aloud if I'm showing, but I think that's only the same me that 10 years ago prompted a sweet man to give up his seat on a boiling hot Tube for entirely mistaken reasons. I took the seat then as I take the pats now; with a smile on the outside and a mixture of embarrassment, seething resentment, and genuine amusement within.
What's growing on the inside already has functioning limbs, teeth sitting ready in gums, and fully formed eyes; sealed tightly behind perfect lids. Mind blowing.
This next season of liminality, living in the shifting change of now-but-not-yet, has so far brought little of the romantic, brooding introspection I'd imagined. Maybe that's a gift of a first pregnancy when one isn't already a part-time parent. Maybe it's just in the movies.
I'm dreaming more. A smattering of terrifyingly real nightmares amongst the gloriously bizarre; eating a restaurant owned by Jack White, before walking home and realising I'd accidentally left without paying... and I'm only wearing one shoe.
My belly remains the same shape it always has. People have started to wonder aloud if I'm showing, but I think that's only the same me that 10 years ago prompted a sweet man to give up his seat on a boiling hot Tube for entirely mistaken reasons. I took the seat then as I take the pats now; with a smile on the outside and a mixture of embarrassment, seething resentment, and genuine amusement within.
Fresh Breeze
She'd come home
Giddy with occasion
And open every window
To the frigid night sky
"Letting the New Year in"
Her flurry of movement
All petticoats and perm
Wafting the zest and strength
Held within her tiny frame
Like the very breath of spring
As I work the blade into the painted seals
Of windows she'd never see
It's that spirit I'm clawing to invite
Longing to throw open every window
And let her in
Giddy with occasion
And open every window
To the frigid night sky
"Letting the New Year in"
Her flurry of movement
All petticoats and perm
Wafting the zest and strength
Held within her tiny frame
Like the very breath of spring
As I work the blade into the painted seals
Of windows she'd never see
It's that spirit I'm clawing to invite
Longing to throw open every window
And let her in
Friday, September 10, 2010
The Siesta
A short story in response to the painting The Siesta by Paul Gaugin.
The heat of the day brought is onto the porch and out of the sun. Keeping their proper distance, the men sat in the grass, smoking in the shade of the bunkhouse and winning nickles and buttons from each other in mindless wagers.
It took a long time to get comfortable with the proximity of my new 'sisters', A near lifetime together had brought with it a physical familiarity between them that was alien to me.
Alice would always be on the edge, one leg dangling down to swish the long grass that evaded the mower's reach. She'd sing softly to herself or, when asked, would share one of the stories her momma had taught her in the days before she died.
Constance seemed allergic to rest. Always anxious of the list of chores left to accomplish before lamp-lighting, she would ever have something with her to do - ironing, darning, trimming the lamps. Her industry made me nervous, but if I ever offered to assist, or tried to bring a chore of my own onto the porch, Natty would scold me.
"Child - you just let that be now." She would say, taking my basket out of my hand, "Never mind her fuss. You sit beside me here and take your rest.".
It was Natty who took siesta the most seriously. Sprawled out on a pillow she would talk and dream, even daring to gossip until Constance started tutting when, with a small giggle, would roll onto her back and ask Alice to sing.
The heat of the day brought is onto the porch and out of the sun. Keeping their proper distance, the men sat in the grass, smoking in the shade of the bunkhouse and winning nickles and buttons from each other in mindless wagers.
It took a long time to get comfortable with the proximity of my new 'sisters', A near lifetime together had brought with it a physical familiarity between them that was alien to me.
Alice would always be on the edge, one leg dangling down to swish the long grass that evaded the mower's reach. She'd sing softly to herself or, when asked, would share one of the stories her momma had taught her in the days before she died.
Constance seemed allergic to rest. Always anxious of the list of chores left to accomplish before lamp-lighting, she would ever have something with her to do - ironing, darning, trimming the lamps. Her industry made me nervous, but if I ever offered to assist, or tried to bring a chore of my own onto the porch, Natty would scold me.
"Child - you just let that be now." She would say, taking my basket out of my hand, "Never mind her fuss. You sit beside me here and take your rest.".
It was Natty who took siesta the most seriously. Sprawled out on a pillow she would talk and dream, even daring to gossip until Constance started tutting when, with a small giggle, would roll onto her back and ask Alice to sing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
