Tracks to Clementine

10 Days

Until the Due Date. Mathematically, that is. Mystical biology knows no time. Or something like that.

See also: during the last conversation I had with my father, he asked me about episiotomies. Like this: "What about, when they cut?"

And then we had a chat about how I don't want one at all and how my midwife pretty much doesn't do them and processes to avoid one. I think he was worried about me. I think.

I am only worried about our apartment. Is it ready yet? No. (And my paperwork isn't done, either, so back off or come do it for me.) It is starting to look pretty great, though. Like, I try to take a nap but then keep opening up my eyes because I get ideas of what to do next. And I have difficulty working on one thing at a time because whenever I get started on something I invariably have to take a bathroom break and that means I go past all of the other rooms and get distracted by all the other things I have to do and then I do a little bit of that and the other that and then this thing and then work on the original thing, which I'm pretty sure was writing giant runon sentences.

Which brings me to: how can you tell if behavior is pregnancy-related or just your regular personality? Well, I'll tell you what I've noticed:

Prior to being pregnant, I had regular food cravings and peculiarities so that didn't change much. What did change was how well I could taste the food and that spicy food tasted even spicier. Of course, I never remember that spicy food tastes spicier to me, so whenever I eat I end up crying and laughing and wondering when I'll forget again.

Prior to being pregnant, I was very focused but also easily distracted (see also ASS). This has not changed with being pregnant. I don't think any of the house cleaning and arranging I'm doing has to do with nesting. If it turns manic I'll think differently, but right now it's all arranging yarn by color and books by genre and author. (Except I didn't do that last part. I usually do, so let that be proof to all that I am actually taking it easy and that there are some things I'm willing to let go for the time being. But don't mess with the crafts/office supply closet because it is an organized WONDER. Do feel free to use up anything you like, however, because we could outfit a convention. You choose the topic.)

Prior to being pregnant I would not get out of bed in the middle of the night. Now I get up all of the freaking time. I am not a fan. I truly believe that once in bed it is my job to stay in bed. I will not be troubled by regular waking once the baby is born (duh, of course I'll be tired and perhaps delusional) because it will be for a whole 'nother person. Getting up just because I have to go to the bathroom is irksome. In fact, when I was visiting my mother in France she said that even though I'd told her I was pregnant, she knew it for a fact when she heard me get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Seriously, I once convinced my grandmother that, even though the fire alarm to her building was going off loudly, we could stay put because if we actually needed to leave we'd smell smoke or the firemen would come and get us.

What kind of grandmother lets her 18-year-old granddaughter do that type of convincing? The same kind my mother sent home when one of my brothers was born because she was no help.

Something that is absolutely different about being pregnant (besides how freaking amazing and fascinating it is that there is human baby inside of me): man, am I a mood ball! After one of our birthing classes (which have been over for two weeks, thank god, because I did not like them) I cried on the street for at least ten minutes. Yellow Dog stood there with me and held me and was nice and comforting while I sobbed and sobbed. Internally, I was laughing because I was imagining that the scene looked like this total douche was breaking up with his pregnant girlfriend. Unlikely, but HILARIOUS! I also cried when that same kind Yellow Dog brought home dark chocolate Hershey's kisses instead of the regular kind for the Mrs. Santa Claus my mother made in the '80s. And I cried when my sister and I went to see Robyn Hitchcock because I became so lovingly overwhelmed at how artful this kid's life is going to be, especially because SCN was singing with Mr. Hitchcock and it was just so small world I couldn't take it. Does it matter that the song was Queen Elvis?

And those are just a meager few of the tearful stories. There's also been some pretty amazing firey fireball angry frustration, but I'm pretty good at noticing when that is coming on and do things like leave the room for awhile or take Rescue Remedy or at least give fair warnings that if one more something happens that I will explode into an actual Fury. I have not yet exploded and have managed to deal with it--which is less impressive when I reveal that yelling freaks me the fuck out so I try really hard to let myself feel angry without hitting the uncontrollable part. This too shall pass or some junk. (I think I have been better about this whilst pregnant than past history would note.)

This has been quite long and rambly, so let me conclude by saying that my eyebrows and eyelashes look fantastic thanks to spa treatments. Like, you'd never know I'm getting no sleep because waxing and tinting (with vegetable dye) make for one bright-eyed gal.

Note: this post would read entirely the opposite were I posting it at, say, 10pm. Then it'd be all "owmylegsowmylegsowmylegslookatthefreakingveinsinmyhandsgodquitpunchingmycervixyeeeeowwwwwwcchhhhh!!!!!"

Posted by Ida at December 5, 2007 05:28 PM