Mary Makes Babies

30 Days With a Grateful Heart: She Who Doesn't Bend, Breaks

Day 09/30: Adaptation 

It's amazing what a woman can get used to. With a pinch of surrender, and a hefty dose of acceptance, I find myself to be an exceptionally adaptable person, and for that I am thankful. It's an especially nice blessing to have right now, considering that my body is on a wild ride with only the mysteries of hormones and DNA behind the wheel.

When it comes to adaptability, I don't have much to prove to myself. I am pretty confident in this particular talent. After all, I lived in a warehouse on the outskirts of Beijing once upon a time. I spent months pushing through zombie-like crowds, eating donkey meat sandwiches, and navigating squatty potties. One day I was a vagabond, and the next a kindergarten teacher. I learned to speak without the luxury of common language, and how to close my eyes and swallow without wondering too much what type of meat might be topping my noodles. 

Strangely enough, adapting back to the USA was a lot more shocking. I remember going to Taco Bell and thinking about how I really would eat off of the floor there. I spent my first night back in North America drinking water straight from the tap, bathing in a tub full of clean water, and nibbling on fresh lettuce and toasted bread. It wasn't as easy to sink back into luxury as it had been to reconcile myself to the unknown.

Through the many changes in my life I've tried to hold tight to a taoist ideal that the best thing to do was pick a good wave and right it wherever it may lead. As for where that's landed me, I can't complain. For better or worse, I was meant to be me, and I was meant to be here.

I'm finding myself again in an unknown place, this time it's not a different country, but a different body that I inhabit. With my growing belly I can't move quite the way I used to. Much that should seem familiar feels different, like laying on my side to take a nap, or bending over to tie my shoes. The most alarming change is to do with my senses. I've always had a strong nose, but now my sense of taste and smell has turned from super-power to kryptonite.

Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING tastes funny, and for the most part funny = horrendous. I am quickly reverting to my six year old self, a creature who refused to eat pretty much anything. When my sisters chowed down on green salad, I would only eat sliced cucumbers (peeled and sliced) or carrot sticks (in water). I despised any toppings on my pizza, refused to have anything to do with sauces that didn't originate from a tomato, and loathed nearly all cooked fruits and vegetables. 

I've taken to dipping the most offensive things I have to eat in ketchup. I'm pretty sure the midwives would be less than keen on this practice, but I'm telling you I don't know what else to do. Getting protein every day is a serious challenge when the taste of beans and the smell of meat utterly repulses you. 

Still, the baby and I must eat, so I'm learning to live without enjoying my dinner. I'm also keeping my eye out (or my nose out) for things that I won't mind eating quite so much. Let's just hope that my taste buds take a break after Babe-leo arrives.

This line of thought reminds me of another that I had last week during my yoga class. My fellow mamas were commiserating over the loss of ownership over their bodies. While I can't say for certain that I won't eventually feel this way too, I couldn't help but realize that my body has never been my own. I own my body just about as much as I own the air in my lungs or the light on my face.

I appreciate this body that carries me around, and now carries my child too, but it isn't me, not really. So if it changes, so be it. Like the baby I am about to bring into the world, all I can do is help it along, and hope to protect it as best I can.

(And feed it ketchup when it feels like being unreasonable.)

P.S. This post is part of my 30 Days With a Grateful Heart series. You can see my other posts in this series on Mary Makes Dinner, Mary Makes Pretty, and here on Mary Makes Babies. Check out Bless Her Heart to find other bloggers participating in this series.

To Selfie or Not to Selfie?

Bob (father-in-law): "Are you showing? Ooh! You'll have to send us a picture."

Me: "Umm..."

Bob: "Come on! We want to see our grandchild!"

Me: "Well... you'll see him when he comes out, right?" 

I've never been one for full body selfies. I have a tendency to be pretty hard on myself when it comes to photos. When I look in the mirror I am totally cool with what I see, but photos always seem to capture a range of imperfections (not to mention a layer or two of blubber) that I am normally pretty adept at glossing over. 

My sister was adorable throughout her pregnancy, taking cute photos every week to share with friends and family, and on her blog. I suggested having Scott pose for a similar series instead of me, but he wasn't into it. During the past few weeks I've gone back and re-visited Sarah's photos several times, comparing the growth of my own bump with hers, wondering if it's really as enormous as it feels. After sufficient scrutiny I have not come to a conclusion. 

Maybe I'm being a stick-in-the-mud, but I just don't feel like the model of prenatal beauty. I feel OK, and for that I'm grateful, and my hair is awfully thick, which is... interesting. (It was already quite the carpet, now it's like a wool hat.) I've been steadily losing weight (much to the midwive's delight) which is a really REALLY odd thing to comprehend while you are simultaneously growing larger.

But I haven't lost so much weight that I feel any more confident regarding my overall body type. I'm still a chunky gal, and now my waist has pretty much abandoned me. With a belly that dwarfs my jugs, and a healthy pair of love handles erupting on each side, I feel more like a garden gnome than a maternal goddess.

I'm not all that caught up in the vanity, mind you. I'm actually pretty at peace with the whole surrendering my body thing, and like I said, when I look in the mirror I feel fine. So why am I such a grinch about photos? I suppose I'm worried that if I'm confronted with a bunch of pictures of my body I might sudddenly NOT be OK with how it is changing, and that's a pretty useless headache to give myself. 

Then again, perhaps taking self portraits would be a good way to help celebrate the changes, and find the beauty that I haven't been taking the time to look for. 

Damned if I know. Either way, Bob will see me and the bump in person next month, so I guess there's not much to worry about. 

Just Call Me Mama Yogi

Photo by S. in the Midwest vis Flickr

Every time I do yoga I remember how much I love it, and feel like a total dim-wit for not doing it more often. It's no surprise that after my first prenatal yoga class I was pretty much walking on air. 

Of course, stretching helped my body feel better. My joints have been a symphony of creaking pops and cracks lately. I've been stiff and sore for months, so you can imagine how nice it feels to finally take the edge off of all that. 

On a deeper level, the class helped me to get over the overwhelming sense of fragility that I've had for the past four months. I don't know if this is a normal fear or not, but I am constantly worried that I am going to hurt the baby somehow.

I keep thinking that I am squashing her or hurting her by moving the wrong way. I've got it in my head that I might put him in danger by working myself too hard or trying to do too much. Even sneezing freaks me out, as it is now accompanied by a brief, but sharp pain in the deep pit of my groin.

Thus, the waddling, the shortness of breath, the general feeling of weakness and infirmity that I've been living with. During last night's yoga class, I saw women with third trimester bumps and tiny ten week bellies contorting themselves every which way. They were stretching and twisting like pretzels, balancing one legged, and reaching out to the sky like housing another human being inside your body was the most natural thing in the world.

It is, of course, but it's one thing to say so and another to know so. It's hard to wrap your head around being pregnant, no matter how much you think you are prepared for it.

In the midst of child's pose, I realized that I hadn't bent this far over in weeks. I've been so afraid of hurting the baby that my entire body has been jacked up, held tight in terror as if I were made of glass.

By the end of the class I was pouring sweat. My muscles were burning. My heart was pounding, and for the first time in a while now I didn't feel fragile at all. Not one bit. 

I felt strong, and flexible, and sturdy. Boy, did I need that.

You're So Lumpy, Sweet Sixteen

Well, we've gone and done it now. The cat has officially been let out of the bag, and now the whole wide world knows that Babe-leo is on the way. We've recieved nothing but love (or at least almost nothing but love) from our friends and family, and we're super grateful for having such a great community of folks wishing us well. 

I don't have much news to share this week. People ask me how I'm feeling, and I respond "lumpy" as that is primarily the biggest difference between my current and former state. The bump seems to get bigger and firmer every day. Sometimes I wake up and I could swear that it grew overnight. It's a little hard to get used to, especially when my brain is still so resistant to comprehending the whole "I'm having a baby" thing. In fact, I keep forgetting, and just thinking "boy I'm fat!". 

If thick-headedness runs in the family this kid will never have to worry about sharp corners or bike helmets. I'm pretty sure mine is made of concrete. Why can't I get comfortable? Why doesn't this shirt fit anymore? Hey, where did my waist go?

Oh yeah. Duh.

I'm pretty sure I can feel Babe-leo moving now and then. It doesn't happen every day, but every once in a while there it is, a whirly, swirly, bubble-filled flurry of movement in very particular place. "Hey stupid.", it seems to say, "I'm cooooooooooming."

Things That Made Me Cry This Week

Well, hello week fifteen, you sure are sobby, aren't ya? I'm not sad or anything, just weepy. It seems like anything fairly sentimental can get my tear ducts flowing lately. I thought it might be fun (or funny) to share some of the things that have been inspiring waterworks around here.

Let's kick things off with this orchestra flash mob.

This one really had me going. People can be so rotten, but then they can also be tender and lovely. When space aliens finally show up one day and try to decide whether or not the human race is worth a damn, I hope they'll stop at a record store before making their final decision.

I heard David Ramirez play this song live during a Sofar Sounds show last year, and ever since it has been burned into my heart. It came on in the car the other day and just about killed me. If you get a chance to see this guy play, take it. He's something else.

This Catching Fire trailer. I'm a huge, crazy, ridiculous Hunger Games fan. Tissues will be required this weekend. 

A random ColdPlay song came on while I was driving home yesterday, the same one that was used for my sister-in-law's wedding photo slideshow. Tears, tears, tears. In my defense, they used a really amazing photographer, AND that particular song is awfully moving. I dare you to go watch the slideshow and NOT cry. See? Who's hormonal now?

Collecting

 

I have begun collecting baby things. I wouldn't let myself buy or gather anything during the first trimester, mostly out of superstition. Now that I've been let loose, I'm not going crazy or anything, but I am keeping my eyes out. 

Today, Babe-leo's first gift, from me to him/her, arrived in the mail. I found this really pretty driftwood mobile on Etsy while building my registry, and I decided to celebrate the second trimester by getting Babe-leo a little gifty, the nursery's very first decoration, and a lovely symbol of simple beauty. 

I've decided to dress up the nursery in a seafaring / world traveling theme. I started a quilt and matching crib bumpers with a hodge podge of scrap fabrics from my stash. There are polka dots, octopi, crushed velvet, and dusty calicos. It's not your classic nautical theme, but to me, it says pirate ship all the way. I bought a few yards of green and yellow fishy fabric from the local quilt shop to line the inside and back the quilt. I'd say it's coming together quite nicely. Mr. Pickles obviously agrees.

 

I've also been collecting books. The library has been my dear friend lately, and I've found a lot of value from taking whatever pregnancy and parenting books I find on the shelf home with me. There are a whole lot of attitudes and approaches out there. My plan is to check out whatever I can and to keep the things that strike a chord in my pocket for later.

In addition to my random library finds, I invested in a few used copies of titles that weren't available through the Austin Public Library. Somewhere someone was laughing when I ordered Dharma Family Treasures, Babywearing , and The Diaper-Free Baby last week. Let them laugh, I say. Once upon a time I lived in a country full of mamas wearing diaperless Bhuddist babies. Those free and breezy baby butts were burned into my memory. Ever since Beijing I have been plotting to go diaper free.

Here at home they call it Elimination Communication, and it has turned out to be one of the more notorious Brooklyn hipster parenting schemes. Ah well, I'm not too concerned with whether or not it's cool. I'm just into the idea of a housebroken baby (and naked baby bottoms). Of course, I could totally fail at the whole thing and end up in diapers anyway. You never know. We'll just have to wait and see how Babe-leo likes the idea. In the meantime, I have a book in hand and a newborn potty chair on the way. (I didn't dare register for anything that weird. I don't want to scare my friends and family too much. )

Hello Happy Thoughts

Now that we've crossed into the second trimester it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off of our shoulders. Baby should be much safer now. What a relief. 

I've found myself finally entertaining ideas and daydreams of what Babe-leo might actually be like one he or she arrives. It was hard to do earlier on, when I felt like our happiness was too fragile to handle too much optimism.

We've had our baby names tucked away for years, ever since we started trying to get pregnant several years ago. It occurred to me the other day that one of those two imaginary babies is now very real, and located inside my belly. Holy wow.

For a moment (or three) I was tempted to change my mind about leaving the gender a surprise, but after talking it out with Dr. Feelings, I ultimately decided to stick to my plan. It's a half emotional and half logical decision.

The logical half is that I am pretty much sure that I'll want to have more children in the future. It would be great to re-use all of the basics that we collect for this baby. By leaving the gender a surprise, friends and family will also end up buying gender neutral things, giving us a whole collection of gear that will suit any baby that comes along later. It will also make our collection of baby stuff easier to pass along to sisters and friends who have their own kids down the road.

As for the emotional half, I feel like this is a great opportunity to suspend my expectations and accept the unknown. I know that I'll love this baby no matter what, and my life is about to become a series of new and unexpected events. Leaving the gender a surprise helps me honor that commitment, and drive home the reality that though this baby is mine, they are also their own, and I have a very limited amount of control over who they will end up being.

It's not my job to decide what kind of baby they will be. My job is simply to love them and help guide them through life, no matter what gender, personality, or genetic cocktail they show up with. 

Still, it's so hard not to picture them in my mind. I see a warm little newborn curled up on my chest, a little kid with round cheeks, dark curly hair, and huge brown eyes, an adventurous teenager with a talent for scaring their mother. Then I also see a chubby faced blonde, or a freckled scamp with a mop of red hair. I see so many possibilities, any number of which are all too easy to get carried away with.

A book I'm reading suggested that I should be spending my imagination on visualizing the kind of parent I want to be. I suppose that would be a lot more useful than dreaming about what the baby might be like.

It's hard not to do, with so many babies to compare:

Baby Fox, my sister's son

The Leonard Grandkids, Scott's nieces and nephews

My sister, Caity, as a cute little baby

Me, Sarah, and Heather (my sisters)