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Pregnancy Week 39: Seven Things to Do While Waiting for Baby

July 2, 2014

We’re in the home stretch! I’m full term! Over easy! Well done! If I were a Thanksgiving turkey, the red pop-up thermometer would be poking out of my tummy right now.

And yet, there’s not a lot happening at this stage. I’m bored. It’s hard to write, because my laptop no longer fits on my lap. I’ve outgrown most of my clothes, so I don’t feel like leaving the house much. Mostly I just wait for baby.

The waiting is the hardest part. (So wise, that Tom Petty.)

If you’re in the final countdown like me, here’s what you can do to fill the time:

1. Take some last belly bump photos and get into a fight with your husband.

ME: Frame the photo so that you cut out my arm, okay?

HUSBAND: I’ll try. But you’re beautiful, and your arm looks fine.

ME: My arm looks doughy.

HUSBAND: You’re pregnant.

ME: My arm isn’t pregnant.

And so on.

I want to love the skin I’m in.

I hate being this person — the 15-year-old girl who shrinks from photos because they might reveal a flaw. I know I should be wowed by my body’s amazing ability to create life instead of disappointed by how it looks. And there are definitely times when I feel like a curvy pregnant goddess, but lately those moments are few and far in between.

It can be strange and surreal to fully embrace a body that now requires GPS navigation. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize this landscape at all.

Maybe I shouldn’t take anymore photos, so I wouldn’t even have to deal with it. But I regret now how little documentation I have of my teenage years, all those times I turned away from the camera — and I’m sure I’ll be sad someday if I let my droopy triceps stop me from having pregnancy photos.

So I take the photos. And I fight with The Husband about chopping my arm from the image.

Look, ma! No hands! Or arms.

2. Answer a lot of phone calls and have this script ready: “Nope. No baby yet. I’ll let you know.”

See also: “It’s fine. My due date is still three days away.”

3. Read all the child-rearing books.

I have all these really great literary books on my nightstand. But I’ve temporarily pushed them aside to plow through parenting guides instead. Now I know how to have the happiest baby on the block, and I’ve become “baby wise.” I know how French women raise their babies, and I know the essential life skills every child needs. And I also know that all these books offer radically different, conflicting advice.

I told my friend Dean that I feel like I’m cramming for the biggest exam of my life.

“Yep,” he said. “And you won’t know the results for 20 years.”

4. Exercise.

I’m desperate to leave the house and go walking, but it’s been a little hot in the desert lately. Even in my air-conditioned house, it’s hot.

Today was Nazi-looking-at-the-Ark-of-the-Covenant hot.

So I’ve been doing laps around Home Depot and Costco. I swim every morning. I do yoga DVDs. I still don’t feel like I’m doing much, but it’s something.

Swimming. And still hot.

5. Nest.

In my household, this involves rearranging all two pieces of furniture in the guest room closet-turned-nursery. (It’s a strange room. If you could see it, you’d understand why the furniture is in the closet.)

Nobody puts baby in the closet! Except me. I put baby in the closet.

And painting a wooden letter.

For the door of the nursery. In retrospect, I don’t know why.

And tossing a bunch of crap that should have been thrown away years ago.

HUSBAND: Why do we have three bottles of anti-malaria pills?

ME: Well, you never know. We could go somewhere with malaria.

HUSBAND: They expired in 2011.

ME: Your point?

HUSBAND: Wouldn’t you want new malaria pills?

6. Get really good at stressing out.

Current worries include but are not limited to:

* I’ll never have time to write again.

* I am too young to have a baby.

* I am too old to have for a baby.

* I won’t have any snacks at the hospital.

* I will miss the coziness of just The Husband and me and regret expanding our family.

* Baby won’t love me.

* Baby will be born without a butthole. (This happens to 1 in 5,000 babies, by the way.)

* I will give birth to a dolphin.

7. Nap.

People keep telling me to sleep now and enjoy this time before the baby comes, as if sleep is something I can stockpile.

I only sleep for a little while before I get too uncomfortable, and then it takes a lot of momentum to get out of bed. I have to rock back and forth, flapping my limbs around like an awkward turtle that ended up on its back.

And as soon as I get up, I just want to take another nap.

Pregnancy week 37: Don’t call me mistress

June 23, 2014

Who has a brand spanking new MFA in nonfiction? Why, that must be me!

The fauxploma before the real diploma arrives.

You can just call me Master Maggie from now on. It’s cool. I don’t mind.

I’ve told people that this is my big accomplishment of the year, that this degree makes me prouder than most anything else I’ve ever done. And in response, those people have gasped and said, “But you’re having a BABY. Babies are a blessing. Babies are life’s biggest accomplishment.” They act like I’m skinning kittens and punching orphans.

I’m not a terrible person. I’m excited about the baby too, and I’m grateful to have had a healthy pregnancy thus far. I hoped and cried and planned for this baby. And I know that motherhood will be something to be cherished, something wonderful and strange that I don’t even understand yet.

But having a baby doesn’t make me value this educational achievement any less. I truly worked for this degree, and I put years into it. This degree is my trip around the world, my mom’s life and death, my imaginary characters, my poetry, my grief, my layers of scar tissue. I have given so much to it.

Now I’m finally finished, which is scary and exhilarating. Mostly scary. (I’m actually going to have an emotional breakdown about that very soon. Stay tuned.)

And I graduated in a banging maternity dress. BOOM.

WERK. Rihanna, take note.

The days leading up to graduation were fairly stressful. I met with a couple of agents and editors about my book — meetings that later reduced me to hot, ugly tears, even though they all gave me valuable, thoughtful advice. It was good stuff, really. It just feels like your soul is getting crushed when people don’t say the things you desperately want them to say. Or when they don’t hand you a Publisher’s Clearinghouse-sized check in exchange for your work.

Then I gave my graduate lecture, which probably could have gone better, but it also could have gone worse. I didn’t cry, vomit or lose my mucous plug, so I considered it a success.

Finally I had to say goodbye to the people who have formed my literary community over the past couple years — my protective snowglobe filled with mentors, professors, friends and cheerleaders. And that was sad.

I miss these homies already. And all the rest of my nerds too.

My lovelies.

BFFL.

Speaking of my friends, they are fantastic. My friend Ashley flew in from Dallas and wrangled one hell of a baby shower for me. She enlisted help from a bunch of my friends, and they generously created a memorable night of laughter, lemon cake, lovely gifts and a pin the sperm on the egg game.

No funny caption here, because this cake was serious business. Seriously good.

If I give this baby even half the love, care and kindness that my friends have shown me, he’ll grow up just fine. I am deeply thankful to have such good people in my life.

Duffle coat for my little Paddington Bear.

One perk that I’ll miss about my grad school is that we stay at the Omni Rancho Las Palmas Resort for a 10-day residency period twice a year. I’ve always loved the resort, but I don’t think I fully appreciated it until I got pregnant.

I have never been so comfortable in my life. The bed was cozy and delicious, and it came stacked with a zillion tiny pillows that I tucked around my sore body. I had two buffet meals a day, and my room was clean whenever I returned. The shower had the perfect level shelf for me to shave my legs. I worked out, walked the gorgeous property, and every morning I went swimming and soaked in tepid water and purple desert skies.

Good morning to me.

I only wish I could have spent all 9 months there.

Pregnancy week 35: The closer I get to my due date, the more I love my dog

June 2, 2014

My due date is about 30 days away. But instead of organizing the nursery or preparing other things for baby, I can’t stop lavishing attention on my dog.

I’ve always loved my dog, of course. Lemon is a six-year-old, double-dapple dachshund, born blind, deaf and full of sass. People say she’s lucky I adopted her; I think the opposite is true. I’m grateful that of all the dogs in all the world, this wriggly, cuddly, brave pup found her way into my home. She teaches me what it means to be confident and true.

MUCH HIKE. SUCH DOG.

Lately, though, my dog love has been particularly strong. After my husband leaves for work, I grab the dog from her bed and pull her into mine. There I prop myself up on pillows, writing and working on my computer, while she burrows against my legs in the place where the backs of my knees form a right angle. (Or on top of my legs. Or sprawled across my lap.)

I find it difficult to pull myself away from her, and I only do it if I must — like if I need groceries or have a doctor’s appointment. Our regular walks have gotten longer, and they feel more leisurely and special.

SNUGGLING SO HARD.

My phone has 1,196 photos on it right now, and I’d say the bulk of them are of her silly, furry face. Sometimes I also shoot video — Lemon walking down the stairs, tearing the fluff from a stuffed gorilla, kicking and snoring in her sleep. Really compelling stuff.

LOOK AT HER LITTLE FURRY FACE!

My husband has this theory that I’m chock full of mommy hormones right now. He thinks with no baby here yet, all of my maternal instincts have been concentrated into a big laser beam of love, directed right at this fur-child.

My doula believes there’s a part of me that must know my relationship with Lemon is about to change, so I’m trying to get all my snuggling in now while I still have time and attention to spare.

I think it’s something else entirely — I’m scared.

I’m scared I’ll be a bad mother. This is my first child, and I haven’t spent much time around babies, so I’m not sure I know how to be a parent. This is something that goes way beyond creating a nap schedule or knowing how to change a diaper.

It’s an enormous responsibility to shelter and nourish a child; to love him and keep him safe; to educate him and teach him to be compassionate, ethical and respectful. How do I know if I have the capacity for that? How can anyone be certain?

In college I had this Giga Pet, which required regular (electronic) feeding, activity and loving. One night I got particularly smashed and awoke from my drunken stupor with the Giga Pet wedged underneath my body, the angel of death on the screen. It was horrifying. And it only takes one traumatic robot death to make you wonder how you’ll fare as a real-life parent.

I’m scared I won’t bond with him. I worry that I’ll give birth, and I won’t feel the things that mothers are supposed to feel.

Yes, this baby was desired. My husband and I wanted him, we planned for him, and we spent a long time trying to conceive him. But simply wanting something doesn’t eliminate the fear that comes along with it.

What happens if I bring this child home, and I don’t like him? What if that part of me is missing? It must happen.

I’m scared my baby won’t love me. That must happen sometimes too.

Maybe I should have gotten a Corgi. I know Corgis like me.

I’m not certain birth will alleviate any of my worries — all of these emotions will probably exist in the shadows, live and loaded, for many years to come.

I expected that pregnancy would come with a lot of physical changes, the rise of a belly, the heaviness of my breasts, the cravings, the fluctuation in energy. What I didn’t expect was how much emotion and anxiety would also swell inside my body. The self-doubt, the compound of past damage, the feeling that I’m walking on the edge of a slippery cliff.

So now I wait for my human child to arrive. I continue to wonder how we’ll feel about each other. And I focus my affection on a creature that never fails to return my love — my dog, mom’s best friend.

Here’s how everything else is going this week:

Baby: Is enormous. I’m afraid the next ultrasound will show the Michelin man.

Has anyone seen my beach ball?

My body: Is a wonderland.

Or a constellation.

My milky way brings all the boys to the yard.

How do you prepare for a baby? You planet.

Eating: I think I’ve hit the wacky stage of pregnancy eating. Today The Husband asked what I wanted for lunch, and I said, “Pizza. Or sushi. Or falafel. … Or pizza WITH sushi AND falafel.” And The Husband looked scared. Very, very scared.

(We ended up eating quinoa salad and sweet potato fries, in case you’re wondering. No sushi/falafel pizza. Not yet, anyway.)

I’m still craving lots of fruit too. Watermelon, cantaloupe, grapes, watermelon, strawberries, banana smoothies, watermelon.

Exercise: It’s difficult to find motivation to work out when I wake up feeling heavy and lethargic, and it’s already 90 degrees outside at dawn. I’ve been swimming a lot and trying to do as much yoga as possible, but I feel increasingly lumpy. I’m pretty sure my blood type has changed from A-positive to gravy.

The Husband: I found this old photo of The Husband with our niece, and it cracks me up. You can just tell by the look on his face that he believes he broke the baby.

This is what our house will look like soon.

Pregnancy Week 32: Mother’s Day

May 11, 2014

My favorite memory of my mom is also one of the most mysterious.

It happened when I was in first grade, and the teacher abruptly sent me to the principal’s office. My mom was there, waiting, and she gave me the kind of look that meant I should keep my mouth shut.

This was clearly unusual. I had never been to the principal’s office before, let alone in the middle of the school day. My mom signed a form or something, and then she held my hand as she guided me out of the school, into the parking lot and into our family station wagon.

When I was buckled into the car, she handed me a paper bag from some toy store that probably doesn’t exist anymore.

“Go on. Open it,” she said.

Inside was a Glamour Gal, a 4-inch tall doll of molded plastic and tiny features. She had luscious blonde hair, just like the lady on WKRP in Cincinnati, and was wearing a blue tube dress. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

The present was strange, because it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas or any special occasion at all.

I had the one on the right. Eventually I also got the one wearing the pink dress — a dress that easily slipped off her shoulders so she could have filthy sex with my gigantic Ken dolls. The ’80s were crazy for everyone.

After that, we went to McDonalds, and my mom bought me a Happy Meal. This was also strange, because it was something that just didn’t happen. We rarely went out to eat, fast food or otherwise, but when we did it was with the whole family.

I remember stirring my soggy fries into puddles of ketchup, just like mom did, and it felt very grown-up, like two sassy ladies out on the town. When my mom finally brought me home, she said I must never tell anyone about our secret afternoon outing. I waited for something like that to happen again, but it never did.

My mom did a lot of terrific things for me, so I’m not sure why that incident sticks in my head. I suppose it’s the oddity and rarity of it.

I don’t remember the context of that day — what was happening at home or at school. Maybe my mom was sad and lonely, and she wanted to do something to strengthen our relationship. Maybe she was just bored and wanted to see me. Maybe that’s the day my first-grade teacher was baptizing everyone into the Church of Satan, and she was protecting me. Who knows?

I wish I could ask her.

This is the fourth Mother’s Day since my mom passed away. But since she spent 10 years dying of Alzheimer’s Disease, it feels like I’ve been without her much longer.

I think we're both wearing cool Member's Only jackets because it was the '80s and we were totally rad.

I think we’re both wearing Members Only jackets because we were totally rad. Also what is this place? Anyone know?

It’s difficult to explain Alzheimer’s to those who haven’t tried to love someone through it. It’s a thief of a disease. It doesn’t only steal memories, it steals the victim’s everything.

Alzheimer’s took the light that illuminated my mother’s eyes, and it left behind someone I no longer recognized.

It’s only fair, I guess, that she no longer recognized me either.

At the nursing home.

I spent many years resentful of this — it’s how I mourned. I was angry that my mom abandoned me. I didn’t have a mom to call when I got engaged. I didn’t have a mom to watch me walk down the aisle. I didn’t have a mom around when adult life felt fierce and overwhelming. I didn’t have a mom when I needed one.

For a long time, I pushed away memories of her. I could only recall the most mundane things — our drive to church, her vacuuming the house, the way she studied her the arch of her eyebrows as she filled them in with a makeup pencil.

But now that I’m writing a memoir in which she figures prominently, I’m starting to excavate my memories again, and she materializes in the most surprising places. I hear a George Michael song, and it reminds me of mom dancing in the kitchen, committing crimes against chicken. (Seriously, she was a terrible cook.) Spring flowers remind me of how my mom found wild honeysuckle in our backyard, plucked the stamen and placed the sweet drop of nectar on my tongue. Certain smells remind me of her perfume, her sweat, her skin.

I think of her even more now as my pregnancy progresses. I wish she were here to offer me advice and guide me down this brand-new path. Maybe I wouldn’t even want her opinions if she were here to give them; maybe I would hate her advice. It would just be nice to have the option.

This is one of my favorite photos of my mom. I love it because she looks completely fallible, like she’s about to drop my screaming sister right there on that lawn full of weeds. She has absolutely no idea what to do with this child.

The funny thing is that the longer she’s away from me, the closer I feel to her.

Mommy and me. She was clearly an investor in Aquanet at this point.

Mommy and me. At this point, she was clearly an investor in Aquanet.

I’m not a person who believes in heaven as a literal place. I think it’s a beautiful myth, and I have no problem with people who do believe in the concept. But for me personally, I don’t think my mom is watching me from above or looking down over me. I don’t think I will somehow be reunited with her when I die.

What I am attached to is the concept of energy, which doesn’t dissipate simply because a physical body dies — I believe souls never disappear, they just change form.

I’m sad my mom will never meet my son. Even so, I feel her energy now, every day. It’s here as I rub my growing belly. It’s here as I feel a small little thing kicking inside me. And it’ll still be here someday when I spontaneously pick my child up from school, give him a surprise present and take him to lunch for no reason whatsoever.

Pregnancy Week 31: The disconnect

May 5, 2014

I should have known this would happen. Right after I posted that pregnancy makes me feel oh-so-sexy, my body turned against me.

My walk developed a distinct waddle. My right eyelid got fat and swollen. I became super farty. My thighs turned into tree trunks.

To be clear: I still FEEL sexy on the inside. But my outside looks like Sloth from “Goonies.”

It could be worse. I could look like Mama Fratelli.

Otherwise, this has been a terrific week. The Husband and I made a little excursion to Sunnylands, the former estate of Walter and Leonore Annenberg that now serves as a retreat center for national and international leaders. This means I am basically Obama, but with better hair.

Sunny days at Sunnylands

Also my historic summit was with a bunch of cacti.

Agave maria.

And sometimes I sat on the ground.

It looks like I’m grabbing my crotch, but trust me — that’s belly I’m holding. (At this point in pregnancy, my crotch is located in some other state.)

I love barrel cacti, so it doesn’t bother me in the least that my belly now resembles one.

Look at this barrel!

Here’s what else has been going on this week:

BABY: I really don’t think he’s doing much at this point, other than putting on weight. He’s supposedly the size of a pineapple now, but the other day I held a pineapple at the market and I don’t see how that’s possible.

ME: Emotions. So many emotions. And heartburn.

The biggest thing I’m feeling now is an enormous disconnect — it’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that the baby in my belly is going to be an actual baby living outside of me. Soon.

Here’s how bad it is: Some friends recently gave me wonderful books on child-rearing, and my initial thought was, “Aw, that’s so sweet! But why are they giving me books about raising children? I’m only pregnant.”

It reminds me of my freshman-year grammar class, which was part of the core curriculum at my journalism school. It was a difficult class, so I often thought, “Yeah, this is a good class and all. But when am I ever going to use this?” Around midterm it finally dawned on me, “Oh yeah. EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF MY ADULT LIFE.”

That’s what’s happening to me here — I’m having that midterm moment of realization. At some point this baby is going to be a BABY. Holy crap.

EXERCISE: This was a terrific week for exercise. Great energy, lots of walking and yoga, plus one day of swimming and one 10-mile bike ride.

CRAVINGS: My usual nacho tooth appears to have been replaced by a sweet tooth. I’m craving watermelon, mango and anything made of cookie.

CAT: Has officially declared ownership of my belly.

CAT LOVE SLOTH.

A long time ago, I thought my cat was a reincarnated version of a dead ex-boyfriend, since they both liked to watch me pee. Now I just think my cat believes I’m a cat too — and he seems to be under the impression that he’s the father of my child.

It’s gonna be awkward when this baby pops out with no whiskers. Like, Maury Povich paternity test awkward.

HUSBAND: Sewing wonderful things for baby.