26 Weeks + Stage Five Panic

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I’m not sure if there’s a term for what is currently happening in our apartment right now. It’s not technically ‘nesting’, as one would think, as much as ‘pure and total destruction’. I’ve discarded half my closet, but only managed to get the ‘giveaway’ box as close to the Salvation Army bin as my bedroom door. So that’s fun to trip over every day. Our front couch is in the back, we’re using E’s v-flats (definition: photo gear technical term for super tall foam boards) as fake walls to envision how the baby room would be built and every piece of furniture has been moved in order for me to get a feel for what it would look like elsewhere. And then, of course, only partially moved back. I basically can’t make a decision right now to save my life. So we’ve learned my feelings come out in the form of furniture rearrangement. Chalk it up to my stage five panic that set in after I went to my latest doctor appointment only to have her inform me that I’m on my final trimester. Huh, what? Yea, I said the same thing to her. Or at least my facial reaction did (disclaimer: I am 28 weeks in real time. I'm just lagging in keeping up the photos to correlate!) Thankfully, she’s my kind of lady. Took me a few visits to realize why I had a distinct feeling we understood each other. She’s slightly sassy, nonchalant and honest in a way some could find jarring, but I find refreshing. E was the one who acknowledged that she always complimented me on my fur, anything leather in my outfit or bold nail color. So pretty much the top three components to winning over my affection. Which makes her basically my OB soul mate and, therefore, the most qualified person to deliver this child.

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:: Confessions on Pregnancy ::

- You don’t know what an OB is either? I just learned this week when making a follow up appointment with the zesty new front desk receptionist! Let me enlighten you too. “Are you making an OB or GYN appointment, dear?”. Blank stare from me. “I don’t know what that means? Are those like those texting codes teenagers talk in these days?”. Blank stare back from receptionist. “Are you pregnant or not pregnant?”. “Oh” I stare down at my obvious belly near her eye level and then glance back at the receptionist. “By golly, I think I’m pregnant.” There was obvious judgement all over her face....it wouldn’t be far off to assume she burned my records.

- Perk of pregnancy; random strangers feel completely comfortable talking to you and sharing their wisdom on a whim. Take the dweller outside the corner bodega on Washington last week. After noticing I was pregnant and fighting a slight cough, he informs me to be sure to really take care of my health. I smiled and said I appreciated his concern. He continues to inform me that his lady was sitting on the park bench down the street one summer day and had a sneezing fit so bad it made her water break. Now they call their child ‘Sneezy’. The end. 

- What is a pregnant woman’s natural musk, you ask? Well, I’d have to say cocoa butter with a dash of Bio Oil. That’s right. I could spray perfume on myself with the intensity of an Abercrombie store, and it still wouldn’t hide the always present cocoa butter aroma that seeps out of every part of my skin. The best offense is a good defense, my friends. My fear of stretch marks is a close second to my fear of an outie belly button.

Today I Will Be Present

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E shared this post written by Eliot Rausch last night over dinner. The words are simple, the concept even simpler, yet there I was.... feeling ever so guilty and ready to declare war on the speed our lives are moving. We always vow to do this more, don't we? It's like a New Year's resolution.  

Nothing like the impending countdown of bringing your first child into the world to make you start evaluating how you spend your time, how you're going to spend your time and where on earth has the time gone. Could swear I just got my braces off, passed my driving test and graduated from college. Most days I'm not convinced I'm old enough to be a 'mom'. Remember when thinking someone who was twenty-seven was so old? My college aged babysitters used to be so old to me. Now, I will be viewed as so old to an army of punk teenagers as I push a stroller through Brooklyn. 

A baby forces you to evaluate a lot of things. What... that world isn't going to be just all about you anymore? I know, hard one to swallow. Especially here in New York, our time is already so contested and fought for on all fronts and from all angles. Our implied busyness is a drug and we've lost the ability to just stand in line for an elevator without having to check our phones. I'm guilty of it. You're guilty of it. But habits are a funny thing like that. How do you make them stop? 

I remember when email became important and text messages were such an innovative step up from the voice mail, but when did they start to become the rulers of our attention? How about when we're at dinner and get a text message, we feel the need to respond so the person on the other end doesn't think we're rude for our lack of immediate response, but we're neglecting the other fully present person across the table from us. It's a text message, not an SOS. Our attention has just been divided. That's not multi-tasking.... that's just a bad habit we've all seemed to acquire. At large dinner parties I used to make guests drop off their phones in a basket to be left under a bench until they were on their way out the door. I have since ceased doing that as it started to make people have weird twitches. 

Maybe I'm secretly looking forward to this baby ruling our lives. So finally something with a bigger purpose than our own can be the focus of our days. That we don't have any other choice or desire but to be fully present. So yes, when you need an immediate response, you can call me as my hands will be full with a small human and piles of wet wipes. My hope is that this new chapter will be the catalyst for our habits to be reshaped, because honestly, I'm not sure we'd be able to do it on our own. 

How do you balance, break habits, fight to stay present?