Saturday (1/12)

(Peanut's birth story, Part 1 of 3)

S and I woke up early on this gray January morning geared up for a long and busy day.  Over breakfast, we made a to-do list for the weekend, which mostly included things like "grocery shop to stock freezer," "buy a diaper pail" and "decorate nursery."  So much to do before baby arrives!  All of which would have to happen on Sunday.  We quickly showered and left the apartment to walk to a local church that was holding a blood drive.  It took S a little over an hour to donate.  I waited for him at the snack table and stared at the piles of animal crackers and pretzels, willing myself not to sneak anything into my pocket or my mouth.

We rushed home, scarfed down a bite to eat, then walked to our local yoga studio.  Earlier this week, I had learned they were offering a workshop about nurturing relationships using hands and touch.  I thought it might be a good exercise for S and I to attend together to help us connect and have some couple time before baby arrived, and also to prepare us to support one another in the birthing process.  I am generally pretty uncomfortable with touch and massage, so a formal workshop seemed like the perfect way to open myself up to receiving nurturing and care from S.  We spent two hours sharing a space with our neighbors, mostly young queer-identified folks, touching our partner's faces, shoulders, necks, and feet.  It was easy for me to massage S; he challenged me to receive.  At one moment, he told me he would continue touching my shoulders and chest instead of switching off and having me touch his.  My eyes filled with tears. 

"No!" I whispered sharply.  "It's my turn to massage you.  It's not fair to be so one-sided."  He pushed back gently.

"I'm happy to do it.  Really.  Let me take care of you for a few minutes longer."  My emotions caught me by surprise.  He had been rubbing his hands over my heart for several minutes, and had clearly opened up some vulnerable space inside me.  I pulled myself together, frowning, and finally agreed.

We rushed back home after the workshop, processing what we had experienced as we walked.  I was mostly focused on the fact that we only had an hour to get home, eat, and head back out to meet friends for dinner.  We had just pulled together a mini lunch when S got a phone call.  An old friend of his was in the neighborhood with her husband and young baby, and she wanted to drop off some baby clothes for us.  We welcomed her over, leaving our untouched sandwiches and soup on the kitchen table.

S's friend walked into our living room carrying their tiny brown baby in a car seat.  I felt something stir inside me.  He was so small!  At 10 weeks old, the adorable baby boy looked to me so close to how I imagined our own baby might look.  I kept staring at his little face and thinking, "ok, now I get it.  We are going to have a real, live baby, just like this one... so soon!"  The teeny tiny baby clothes she passed on to us seemed almost too small for a human baby to wear.

After S's friend left, we scarfed down our now-cold lunch and ran off to the train.  At this point, we were running late and I was pretty tired, but our friends had very generously offered to meet up with us in a neighborhood fairly close to our apartment, so we didn't have to go far.  We started with Thai food at 4pm, gabbed for hours and hours, and ended with coffee at 11pm.  We spent a good chunk of the evening talking about our hopes and dreams for life with our little one.  When we exchanged goodbye hugs in the train station, there was excitement and nervousness in the air.  We knew the next time we saw each other, our little one would be here.
 
S and I were walking home from the train station arm in arm when I suddenly began to feel pain in my lower abdomen.  "Ay, babe," I said.  "I'm having those menstrual-type cramps again.  They're really strong!"  I asked him to slow down a bit, and I clenched my teeth as we rounded the corner to our apartment building.  And just like that, the cramps disappeared.  "It's such a weird feeling," I remarked.  "I guess my body is preparing to give birth!"

We snuggled into bed together and continued to talk, still wound up from our activity-laden day.  "I feel like everything we did today was really good for us," S said.

"Yeah, it was a really good day," I agreed.  "It's going to feel good to get everything off our to-do list tomorrow, too!"

New Year's Rituals

Since I've been with S, New Year's Eve has become one of my more favorite holidays of the year.  I love new beginnings, fresh starts, opportunities to revisit old goals and set new intentions.  Typically, S's mom spends the holiday season with us in the city, so we usually take her out dancing at a low-key venue with salsa music.  Without the pressure to have to find some fabulous party or over the top way to ring in the new year, the occasion has really become simply an opportunity to spend time together, and for reflection and ritual.

This year, S's mom postponed her visit until after our little one is here.  So the two of us went about marking the occasion a little differently.  We began our preparations for 2013 over the weekend, by scrubbing down our house.  We cleaned out the freezer and sorted through the piles of baby stuff we've accumulated during the past few months.   On New Year's Eve, we started the evening by doing some of S's mom's favorite activities in the city, including visiting a famous Christmas tree, getting champagne truffles, checking out the holiday storefront windows, and going to a gorgeous cathedral to light some candles and say a few prayers.

We spent the later part of the evening having dinner with friends, and at midnight we ended up watching fireworks at a local park.  In a new ritual for me, our friends provided us each with 12 grapes, and instructed us to eat each one in the first 12 seconds after midnight while making a wish for each month of the new year.  It was fun to challenge myself to conjure up a different wish for each grape.  They mostly came to me in the form of single words.  I was overwhelmed with excitement, knowing that 2013 will be the year that we will begin our journey into parenthood.

On New Year's Day, we welcomed another new tradition when we cooked and ate a delicious dinner of black eyed peas with brown rice, kale and beets, a meal that is supposed to bring prosperity and wealth.  We capped off the week with our third annual new year's decadent pancake breakfast with one of our dearest friends in the city.

We constructed a start to the year with many, many opportunities to put wishes and hopes and dreams out in to the universe.  Maybe that's because there is so much uncertainty in our lives right now, so much anticipation and excitement and fear and a lack of clarity about what our lives will look like in just a few weeks.  I have no idea how my birth process will go, what will happen when our child emerges into the world, how being parents will impact us as individuals and as a couple, what it will be like to reconfigure our identities and our schedules and our priorities.  All I really anticipate is our lives are soon to be flipped upside down.  Even ordinary things like going to the grocery store or making plans to grab coffee with a friend won't look the same.

I'm ready for my life to change, and have been for many years.  So many of the parents I talk to tell me that being a parent is an amazing, hard and wonderful experience.  I'm ready to grow, I'm ready to be challenged and stretched in 2013.  Hopefully all those wishes we sent out will be there to protect us in the process.  

Full Term

Yesterday marked another pregnancy milestone.  I am 37 weeks pregnant.  Full-term.  I'm grateful to have made it to the point where our baby will now more likely be able to easily adjust to life outside my body.  It brings me much relief.

At 37 weeks, I'm having weekly appointments with my OB.  Yesterday's appointment confirmed that my cervix is still closed.  I'm feeling some mild cramping throughout the day - not quite Braxton Hicks contractions, more like menstrual cramps.  I'm continuing to sleep pretty well, am peeing ALL the time, and between heartburn/nausea and my stomach being pretty compressed, I'm having a hard time eating.  Still trying to get through with small meals and snacks throughout most of the day.

I feel huge.  Now when I rub my hands over my hard belly, all I can feel is limbs.  Baby body parts, pressed up tightly against the sides of my gigantic uterus.  When the baby moves, I feel less of a kicking motion and more of a hard poking.  Sometimes my belly looks lopsided.  It's kind of hilarious to envision our little one all cramped up inside.  It makes me think about our almost 5-year old godchild, who arrived two weeks past his due date.  When you ask him why he came out so late, he says, "it was cozy in there!"  I hope our little one is feeling cozy, too.

I'm starting to imagine what it will feel like to look at our baby for the first time.  To feel his or her skin on my skin.  To hear him or her cry.  I wonder what it will feel like to hold our baby.  I've always felt uncomfortable and nervous holding other people's babies, but I have no fears about holding my own.  I think I will be able to do it with some degree of confidence.  I'm eager to kiss our little baby's head, to rock him or her in my arms, to feel the little hands and little feet.  Until now, these things have all felt pretty theoretical.  They still do, in some ways.  But our baby shows up in my imagination more concretely now then even a week ago.  I'm starting to feel ready.

Musings at 9 Months

Today marks another milestone: I am officially 36 weeks - that's right, 9 months - pregnant.  WOW. 

There are some definite physical signs that I am this far along - the heartburn, the smaller appetite, the swollen feet, the exhaustion, the aching lower back, the constant need to pee, the fact that I literally have almost no clothes that fit anymore, feeling that the little one has perhaps dropped a little bit into my pelvis so I can feel more pressure between my legs when I'm walking down the street.  And then there's the "pregnancy brain."  I've been forgetting things constantly - my wallet, phone, umbrella, shoes - all things about which I'm typically meticulous have slipped my mind several times during the past few weeks. 

And yet, it's still hard to believe there are only possibly 3-6 weeks left of this experience.  My view hasn't changed much.  When I look down at my belly, it still looks about the same size as it has for weeks.  It's only when I happen to catch a glimpse of my profile in the mirror that I realize my belly is in fact very, very large.  I'm still (thankfully!) sleeping pretty well and without a need for any strangely shaped, oversized support pillows.  In spite of the awful head cold I've had for the past five days, I mostly feel like myself energetically and emotionally.  The third trimester hasn't been so bad so far. 

My 36 week visit to the OB today revealed that the little one is a healthy 5 pounds, 13 ounces, still in the 50th percentile for weight and length.  Which apparently is very good news.  The doctor emphasized that given my petite stature, she really doesn't want me to have a large baby.  And in even better news, we learned that the baby is in vertex position.  Head down, turned to the side, unlikely to flip.  I was thrilled, and it was exciting to confirm that the body parts I've been feeling moving near my ribcage are, in fact, our baby's little feet.

As the days pass I am growing more excited and less stressed about meeting our baby.  Last night I had a dream in which I could see our little one sleeping next to me on the co-sleeper we recently bought from a neighbor.  I couldn't quite see baby's the face, but I could see a dark head of hair and beautiful brown skin, all wrapped up in a tight white swaddle.  I could see myself watching the baby for a while, and I saw myself reaching out to nurse.  It is the first time I can really recall having any sort of concrete vision or feeling of what my life might be like after pregnancy.  In the dream, just watching our baby breathe, my heart felt really really full.

Assumptions

For ten to fifteen minutes, write as fast as you can anything and everything you assume to be true about pregnancy, labor, birth, and being a mother. 
-Birthing from Within, by Pam England and Rob Horowitz

Here we go... this is going to be the first stream of consciousness piece I have posted on this blog, and it makes me feel vulnerable to engage in this exercise here.  But I think it's an important party of my process of preparing to give birth.  I'll do my best not to edit or think about writing for an audience.

Everything I know to be true about pregnancy, labor, birth, being a mother... is basically that there is no recipe, no formula, no "normal" experience.  Everyone is unique and each person's relationship to these things is different.  In my own experience, I can say that I now know to be true that I can handle pregnancy comfortably (well, at least this one so far), and can actually enjoy the experience of growing a small human.  That's not something I believed about myself nine months ago.  I assume I will continue to have a healthy, manageable pregnancy through the next five to six weeks. 

Regarding labor... I think of myself as someone who is pretty independent, willful, self-determined and strong.  Or stubborn, narrow-minded, unwilling to accept help or support, especially when it feels like weakness.  However you want to frame it.  Yet at the same time, I know that I am pretty mousy when it comes to dealing with authority or other people in general.  I don't like to make a scene or cause trouble.  I follow rules pretty rigidly, even when I don't necessarily agree with them.  I am pretty passive when it comes to self-advocacy.  I like to be liked, to be "good." 

When it comes to my personal labor and birth experience, part of what I am assuming right now is that I will be "resigned" to the system.  In a hospital setting, I assume I will be unable to advocate for myself, that I will be more than willing to do what professionals suggest in the way of interventions, that I will be easily swayed even if internally I disagree with a decision.  Right now, going through the process of labor and birth feels daunting and even a little sad to me.  I'm not sure I have the strength or courage to go through it in a way that will make me feel powerful and in control.  I've read too many stories of people being disempowered by the system, influenced to go through interventions that ensure that they give birth in a way and on a timeline that makes sense for others.  Right now I'm assuming my experience will be similar.  I assume I will find the pain of labor and birth incredibly challenging to manage.  I assume I may have trouble accepting help and support from S or anyone else.  

On being a parent... I assume that I will feel connected to my child when he or she enters the world.  I assume the first few months will be challenging but manageable.  I assume that I will be a good parent.  I would like to be a great parent, one that approaches parenthood from a place of abundant love, hopefulness and creativity.  I assume I have the skill, patience, and capacity to raise my child in a way that feels right to me and consistent with my values.  I assume that I will need to work on expressing love and emotion very explicitly, more so than I am used to doing, to ensure that my child grows up secure and attached and confident.  I assume and hope that I will continue to have access to the resources (money, employment, time, shelter, safety, family support, community support) I need.  I assume that raising a child in a heteroqueer family will come with many privileges and challenges, especially as the child grows older and has to navigate complicated family and social systems.  I assume that S will be an incredible partner in the journey and will do an even better job than I at loving our child, fostering his or her imagination, raising him or her to be fierce and independent with a critical consciousness about injustice in the world.   

Childbirth Class

S and I spent the weekend attending an intensive childbirth education class run by the hospital at which we were originally planning to give birth.  Walking into the room, the first thing we were struck by was that the class was composed entirely of couples.  Heterosexual, cisgender, mostly white couples (identities we assumed based on cursory observation).  No single people, no identifiable queer couples, few other POCs.  I took a deep breath and tried to remain open.

The nurse leading the class asked us to introduce ourselves, our due dates, and "what we are having" (side note: can I rant here about why so many nice, well-intentioned people ask "what I'm having" when they're really inquiring about whether or not I know the sex of the baby?  It's such a weird question!  I'm too polite to answer, "well, I hope I'm not having an elephant!"  But that's what I'm thinking.  The question irks me.)  Every woman in the room introduced herself, her husband (in the style of "we are Jane and John Smith") and identified the "gender" of their baby.  I introduced myself, my "partner" S (with a different last name than mine), and said we didn't know the sex of the baby.  Simple semantic differences that immediately marked us as the weirdos in the room.  Or so I hoped.  It's rare that we are in such a homogeneous, heterosexist space, and it was heavy and uncomfortable, especially since we pass as straight and folks tend to assume that the homogeneity means we're all on the same page (in this case, that we all identify as "moms" and "dads.")  Yet short of wearing t-shirts that say "we're here, we're queer," or a real opportunity to engage in meaningful conversation, it's sometimes hard to figure out how to out ourselves and our politics in such a setting.  So we rely on little cues.  Or I should say, I do.  At the end of the class, S, who is more direct and intentional than I, went to the instructor and straight up said, "I'm transsexual and really appreciate that you used the term "partner" rather than "husband" throughout the weekend.  Because you never know who is sitting in the room."

Overall, though, the class was good.  Very good.  The nurse was very much an advocate for the fact that nature is perfect, that our bodies are designed to know what to do during pregnancy and birth, that we can and should trust ourselves, and that non-pregnant partners are capable of supporting us through the birthing process.  I learned so much from her about the stages of labor, pain management options, what to expect from the process of giving birth in a hospital, postpartum self-care, and newborn care.  At times, it was disappointing for me to hear about the differences between the approaches of our first-choice hospital (for example, providing birthing balls in the labor room and allowing for the consumption of clear food and liquids during labor) and that of other hospitals in the city (bring your own birthing ball... maybe.  and consume nothing but ice chips throughout labor).  But I tried to keep in mind that ultimately, a hospital is a hospital, and even our first-choice hospital has as high of a c-section rate (29% - or 1 in 3 births!) as many others in the city.  No hospital setting - even a supposedly "baby-friendly" one - is going to allow me a huge degree of agency or self-determination in the process, no matter how much the nurse tried to portray the experience otherwise.

I came away from the weekend feeling much more informed, confident and prepared to ask my OB specific questions and to think concretely about what I want from my labor and birth experience.  The class was exactly the catalyst I needed to shift my mind into a place of focusing on my desires.  I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all since.

In fact, I've been feeling some serious urgency to perhaps flip our current birth plan on its head and maybe take an entirely different approach to bringing our little one into the world.  My mind is spinning, spinning, spinning.  I've made some phone calls.  Perhaps the fact that our hospital is closed is actually opening up more of an opportunity in our journey to parenthood than I originally thought.

33 Weeks and My Shoes Don't Fit

Walking home from the train last night, I began to realize one of the reasons I haven't been writing much lately is because I'm becoming a bit emotionally distant from this pregnancy.  It's a self-protective thing.  Suddenly the weeks are flying by, and as my due date draws near I'm starting to get nervous.  Scared, in fact.  My life is about to change dramatically in ways I can't even begin to anticipate.  I know I can handle it, I know I want it.  And still, time feels like it's moving too fast.

I've been coping by avoiding my emotional self.  I haven't really been connecting with the little one, thinking about giving birth, or grounding myself to get ready for this next big moment in my life.  Sure, I've been preparing.  Logistically.  By dealing with "stuff."  Organizing stuff, buying stuff, planning stuff, reading stuff, thinking about stuff.  I am constantly busy and moving at a million miles an hour.  There is so much to DO DO DO during the next few weeks, and too few days left in which to do them. Only nine / eight / seven weeks left!  I still have energy!  Must buyacarseat / packahospitalbag / getnursingbras / cookandfreezemeals / findapediatrician and on and on and on.

Yet at 33 weeks, it seems that my body just won't let me keep moving forward in this disconnected manner.  During the past few days, I've been feeling noticeably more tired.  Two days ago I came home from work and my hands and feet were painfully swollen.  This morning I woke up and found out that none of my shoes fit.  I desperately tried on pair after pair in a frustrated attempt to figure out what the heck to wear in the bitter cold.  I couldn't build a warm, work-appropriate outfit with barely any clothes that accommodate my growing belly and no damn shoes!

So I started crying.  10 minutes before I had to leave the house.  Not the most opportune moment for my pent-up emotions to emerge, but I was triggered and it was hard to stop feeling the enormity of my body's physical changes.  I finally rushed to the train in a pair of widely-laced sneakers, forcing back tears, my mind spinning.  I know I need to slow down, breathe, meditate, feel.  I want to start thinking about the birthing process, to envision how I want it to look, to express my needs and desires, to prepare my mind and heart go through such an enormous, life changing experience.  I hope I can create the time for myself to do the emotional work.  But first, I have to go out and buy myself a pair of new shoes.

My New Normal, Part II

It has been a month of half-written posts - about the election, about watching Ricki Lake's film The Business of Being Born and beginning to think about my own process of giving birth, about the baby shower my family threw for us, about taking a healthy pregnancy class.  It has been a very busy month and I've grown more tired with each passing week.  Most nights I don't feel like turning the computer on to write.  But I miss the process of writing, and there is so much I want to document for myself and for our little one as the weeks fly rapidly by.  Tomorrow I will be 32 weeks pregnant.  8 months along.  Our little one will be here unbelievably soon.

One of the most valuable tidbits I've picked up during this past month came from the aforementioned healthy pregnancy class.  The nurse leading the class started off by saying, "it's good to have a plan.  And a plan B.  And then, you need a backup plan, a contingency plan, and then you'll realize that many aspects of parenthood are totally unpredictable and all your plans will go out the window."

It was a direct reference to the fact that as a result of superstorm Sandy, the hospital where we plan to give birth is actually closed.  It could be weeks, it could be months, before the hospital re-opens.  When I spoke to my OB about the situation in mid-November, she said they were temporarily delivering at a hospital uptown.  I laughed to myself, realizing it was the same hospital with which we had originally considered working.  I began to prepare emotionally.  I needed to be flexible enough to deliver at either hospital, and to perhaps not know at which one we would actually end up until a week or two prior to giving birth.

Today, I had another visit with my OB.  She let me know that they are now delivering at a different hospital, located downtown.  While it's certainly closer to where we live, I don't know anything about their approaches or policies.  The news threw me for a loop.   It now seems our original plan to work with a hospital which is known for its newborn rooming-in policy, breastfeeding support, and allowing partners to stay overnight have indeed "gone out the window."  Rumors say our hospital may not open until February, if not later.

Between this news and the fact that my office building also may not re-open before it is time for me to go on parental leave, it has been an interesting few weeks.  I'm someone who relies heavily on planning and predictability for my personal wellness.  Yet life seems intent on teaching me that there isn't much in life that's actually in my control.  And while it's not entirely comfortable, I'm actually doing ok with the uncertainty in my life right now.  I'm just grateful that despite all the logistical challenges, I still have a job I love and an OB I trust to help us bring our little one into the world as safely as possible.  Perhaps there are important reasons for these changes in our plans.

My New Normal

It has been a weird couple of weeks.  My office building was impacted by superstorm Sandy and we haven't yet been able to return to the space.  So we've been working from home and in temporary offices scattered around the city, trying to piece together some semblance of routine despite not really being prepared with the tools we need to work remotely.    

For me, working from home has mostly been an great blessing during this third trimester.  I've never worked from home before, and always thought I would be someone who couldn't freelance or telecommute for lack of discipline.  What I've learned about myself during the past two weeks is that, in fact, I am really good at establishing boundaries and routines for myself when I'm held accountable to a job.  It's not like being in school, sitting at the library and procrastinating on writing a paper.  I've actually been waking up at a regular time, eating and taking breaks on a schedule, starting work earlier and focusing when I'm at my desk, and even finding time to exercise and take care of household tasks in ways that are much harder to do when I have to commute two hours each day.  Not having to take the crowded train and deal with the stress of being pushed around and finding a seat has been simply wonderful.  The few days I have had to go into the city I've realized how much I'm enjoying the escape from the rat race while pregnant.  Being home has vastly improved my quality of life.

I do miss being in an office and seeing my colleagues, and generally, I think I'm someone who thrives on being a part of an office culture.  I look forward to being back in our building at some point.  But for now, my new normal has left me more well-rested than I've been in a long time, something I've appreciated as I've been getting more achy and tired with each passing week.  The ability to feel, massage, and talk with our super active little one throughout each day has been a great perk of working from the privacy of home.

Entering the Third Trimester

A week has passed since the "superstorm" ravaged many areas of our city.  A long week.  While we have continually been giving thanks for our many blessings (housing, warmth, food, water, health, safe family and friends), it has been a time of intense reflection and bearing witness to the suffering of our neighbors.  A week of feeling angry and frustrated in the face of enormous economic and racial inequity.  A week of feeling heartbroken and sick when hearing about the injustices and inefficiencies propagated by our local governments and multinational corporations.  A week of feeling mostly helpless and trying to find small inroads into communities and networks from which we are ultimately so disconnected.  While I have been inspired by the remarkable grassroots efforts to support the recovery of the most devastated neighborhoods, no donation made or number of cans collected or volunteer shift served seems like enough.  In many ways I felt paralyzed and wasn't able to figure out how or where to meaningfully contribute to or participate in physical relief efforts while pregnant and without access to transportation.  So I mostly turned my focus inwards.

With unplanned time away from our jobs, S and I used last week to work on some of the household preparations for our little one that we had been hoping to get done during our limited weekend time; building storage closets, cleaning, sorting out and getting rid of clutter, planning and making the decor for the nursery corner of our bedroom.  We were able to find the space and time to connect with each other; to rest and relax and heal from the exhaustion, burnout and routine of our typically busy day-to-day lives.  We hosted a little brunch at our home over the weekend and enjoyed quality time with our queer neighbors.

We were unexpectedly "nesting" during the very week we began the third trimester of our pregnancy (28 weeks and counting...!)  As a result, my stress and anxiety about getting everything done before the little one arrives has significantly subsided; I feel SO much better and more prepared to manage the rest of this pregnancy.  I feel well-rested.  I've been trying to trust that this week was a gift of time that was okay for me to receive.  And yet heart still aches for those from whom time was the very least of what was ripped away. 

On Health and Pride

I pride myself on being someone who is pretty self sufficient, especially when it comes to taking care of my body and physical health.  I've been blessed thus far with a relatively uncomplicated health history and generally the "buck up and suck it up" approach has worked to get me through the challenges I have encountered.  However, in misguided efforts to not be a burden to anyone, I have a really hard time asking for help or support around my health, sometimes, to my own detriment.   I typically won't go to a doctor when sick, and as those who know me most intimately can attest, it takes some serious pleading to convince me to even pick up the phone to call a medical professional for guidance.

Which is why at 27 weeks pregnant, I'm anticipating that dismantling my own stubbornness around self-care may be my greatest personal challenge during the next 13 weeks. 

The bliss of the symptom-free second trimester is slowly coming to an end.  As I approach the third trimester, I can feel some marked and uncomfortable shifts in my body.  My back is constantly achy.  My belly is stretching and sore.  I'm getting acid reflux.  And this morning, out of nowhere, I experienced shortness of breath and dizziness so strong that I almost passed out on the train.

It took everything in me to suck up my inclination to assume everything was fine and actually respond to my body's needs.  I was standing up and reading when I suddenly realized I was having a really hard time breathing and felt too hot.  My usual self would have just dealt with it and waited for the feelings to pass without "creating a scene."  And that's actually what I did for a few minutes.  But my pregnant self had almost no choice but to react, lest I end up passed out amongst a crowd of unresponsive city folk.  I was scared.  I grabbed a hard candy from my purse, popped it in my mouth, and set my bags down on the floor of the train.  I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves.  I was still too hot, and everything around me looked oddly bright, like a movie.  Though I was a mere minute away from my stop, I knew I had to do more.  I contemplated sliding onto the floor.  Instead, I walked over to a seat and asked someone to move so I could sit down.  Once I sat I immediately felt better, and by the time I left the train moments later and got above ground into the cool October air, the dizziness had passed. 

While I was proud of myself for actually taking a seat, I worried about that all-too-familiar feeling of resistance in my chest.  It took me longer to take action than it should have, given the potential risks of the situation.  I want to learn to prioritize my health - our health - over what others may think about my actions.  I want to learn to ask for help when I need it.  I want to call my doctor and ask questions without feeling like I'm weak, or being a burden to her.  I NEED to do these things.   Taking care of my body is no longer about just me and my pride.  It's about the safety of my little one, too.        

Channeling Grandma

This past week, I visited my extended family in the Southwestern U.S. - namely, my maternal grandfather, uncle, aunt, and two cousins.  The last time I had visited their home was in 2009 to attend my grandmother's funeral.  Needless to say, walking into their house was a charged event for me, namely because I could feel my grandmother's presence everywhere.  When she was dying from uterine cancer, I had the opportunity to visit her and say goodbye as she sat on the recliner in the living room.  Years prior, I had come out to her over chai at the kitchen counter.  In visits prior to that, she had taught me to cook mung dal and bhindi masala, watched old Hindi films with me, allowed me to record her life stories on a tape recorder, massaged coconut oil into my scalp and channa flour with turmeric and yogurt into my skin, and lectured me about the importance of praying regularly and attending services at the mosque.  Her spirit still nests in the house.

While we always lived quite a distance apart, the impact my grandmother had on me as a fierce, opinionated, wise female role model was significant.  One of the many things I loved about her was her extensive knowledge of home remedies.  She regularly read Gujarati newspapers and would store away the anecdotes she found like a squirrel.  Then she would offer frequent suggestions for even the smallest of ailments - apply breast milk on the face for acne, drink a few drops of peppermint oil in water for a stomach ache, a little of this for mosquito bites and some of that to make your skin glow.  I remember being annoyed by (and sometimes grossed out by) her directions as a kid, and yet loving the fact that she was caring for me and my wellness by spreading egg whites all over my face.

It was the absence of this wisdom that I was feeling so deeply during this visit.  I had always wanted her to be a part of my pregnancy experience.  Even though my coming out as queer created an emotional wedge between us, she still loved me and I trust she would have shared her advice, prepared concoctions, and pampered me in her stern, tough-love kind of way. 

One night, I asked my aunt if she remembered any of the tips my grandmother had shared while she was pregnant with my cousins.  She gave it some thought but couldn't remember much.  Then she pulled out a notebook.  "I forgot I had written some things down," she said.  We pored over the notes together:

• Kesar, badam and pista in warm milk 
• Papaya 
• During the third trimester methi paak to prepare the body for delivery; also after delivery to cleanse the body   

The notes went on.  With her memory jogged, my aunt eagerly began to share with me her recollections, and even stories about her own pregnancy and deliveries.  The next day, she ran some errands and showed up back at the house with bags of almonds, cashews, pistachios, dates, apricots and raisins for me to take home.  "Just eat a few nuts and dried fruits every day," she said.  "It's good for you and the baby."  Later she ground up a badam-pista mixture.  "You can add this to your soymilk," she said.  It felt so good to be taken care of, to be nurtured and supported.

It was significant to me that the first time I returned to my grandmother's house after her death was while carrying her great-grandchild.  I felt her energy surround me.  While I missed her, I was grateful for the opportunity to spend a few days remembering what a remarkable person she was.  Hopefully, our little one will reap the benefits of her wisdom in spirit. 

Reflections on 6 Months

As of this week, I'm 24 weeks pregnant.  Here are some thoughts on the current state of the bump: 

• A few days ago, I had my first experience of someone offering me seat on the subway.  I was triumphant that finally - finally - I look pregnant enough to compel someone to actually offer.  I'm pretty sure the fact that I was wearing a t-shirt and tight hoodie that emphasized my bump, and I happened to stand right in front of this particular woman's face while doing so, was the reason I was asked.  Most days, however, I'm wearing looser clothing and apparently my modest bump doesn't justify a seat.  I think folks may still be unsure if I'm actually pregnant, or if this is simply what my belly looks like.  Consensus amongst friends seems to be that I look pretty small at six months.   Few, if any people who don't know me have asked when the baby's due, or if I'm pregnant at all. 
• Folks who are in the know seem to think I'm carrying a boy.  Apparently the bump is high and pointy which indicates a boy, rather than low and round, which indicates a girl.  The super of our building did some math based on my age and the date of my last menstrual period and also concluded I am having a boy.  I've had a pretty strong feeling I know the sex of the baby as well - but based on a non-specific feeling, simply a "sense," nothing more. 
• I am really enjoying being pregnant.  And I'm still marveling at that fact.  Several years ago a close friend of ours was pregnant with her first child, our beautiful godson.  I remember her saying that she felt she was "born to be pregnant."  Before and during the pregnancy, she seemed just so certain of herself, so comfortable in her skin, so ready, so clear that she wanted to carry, nurture and birth her child, and that her body was equipped to do so.  I clearly remember thinking that wouldn't be my own experience.  I was certainly willing and ready to get pregnant, but I never anticipated I would enjoy the experience as deeply as she.  For much of my life, I wasn't someone who anticipated wanting to give birth; in fact, I assumed if I were to have a child, it would be through adoption.  Pregnancy just wasn't an experience in which I felt particularly interested or to which I felt connected.  Yet now that I'm going through it - as I've grown physically during the last few months, as I've felt the little one move, and as we rapidly move closer and closer to the day I will actually birth a child into the world - I've spend more time being present with the fact my body has known exactly what to do along the way.  My instincts - about resting or moving, about eating more of this or less of that, about the limits of what I can and cannot handle physically and emotionally - have been dead-on throughout the process.  Every time I read a chapter of one of the week-by-week pregnancy books on my nightstand, I'm pleasantly surprised to find that my body has been guiding me well.  The experience of trusting myself to do what's right for me and our little one has been profound. 

At this juncture, I simply want to remember that at six months pregnant, I am feeling calm, grateful, and grounded.  I am in awe of this magical process and moved by the fact that I have the opportunity to be pregnant. The experience is changing me in ways that I don't yet understand or know how to express.   

Meltdown

Despite the fact that S and I celebrated our one-year anniversary with a lovely fancy dinner out on Sunday night, it seemed that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed on Monday morning.  As soon as I arrived at work, I realized I was feeling really off.  I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong or why.  I scanned my body and tried to figure it out.  Was I getting sick?  Was I overwhelmed by a big project at work?  Did I not sleep well enough?  I just didn't feel like myself.

I continued to feel worse and worse all day long.  I was nauseous and couldn't eat my breakfast so I went downstairs to buy a muffin.  I couldn't eat my lunch, so I went out and bought a sandwich.  As I worked through the afternoon, I became more and more irritable.  I avoided interacting with my coworkers.  The little one started moving excessively on my right side.  What had the day before been cute and exciting became annoying and invasive.  I put my hand on my belly willed the movement to stop.  It didn't.  I sighed and tried to ignore it, all the while fearing how I would manage when the "flutters" turned into full-blown kicks.

After an evening of running errands at the city's most annoyingly crowded grocery store, I finally made it home to eat dinner and watch some mindless television.  And still, I felt off.  I was cranky at the TV.  I finally crawled into bed and hoped to sleep the awkward feelings away.  The little one began to move again.  S joined me in bed and put his arm around me.  I felt like I couldn't breathe. 

"Please don't touch me," I snapped.  S pulled away, confused.  "I'm not feeling well.  I need space."  And with that, I burst into tears.  I got up abruptly, left the room, and decided to sleep on the couch.  S followed me a few minutes later.

"Please leave me alone," I bawled.  "I'm not feeling good." 
"Just come to bed," he said softly.
"NO," I replied.  "Leave me alone."  So he did.

Twenty minutes later I still couldn't sleep.  My neck was sore from doing pre-natal yoga the day before.  I was restless and I couldn't lay still.  I wanted to shake my arms and legs, to run around and scream.  I wanted to turn off my brain and stop the racing in my chest.  Instead, all I did was cry.  A lot.  And then I went back to bed.  S, in an effort to respect my wishes, didn't react to my arrival.  I tapped him on the arm, forcing him to pay attention to me again.

"I don't know what to do," I said.  "I can't stand this.  I don't know what's wrong with me.  And my neck hurts."  Tears poured down my face.
"Why don't I make you some tea?" he suggested.

So he did.  We sat together in the kitchen at midnight, sipping chamomile.  I was numb from the exhaustion of managing such a weird and terrible day, but the warm liquid brought much-needed relief as I finally began to relax.  We once again returned to bed, and I fell asleep within minutes.  By Tuesday morning, I felt like myself again.  It was as if Monday had never happened. 

Hormones?  Too many to-dos?  Feeling overwhelmed by change?  I'm still not quite sure what fueled my meltdown.  Perhaps it was just a part of the process of going through such a massive life transition.  All I know now is I'm glad our little one's movements seem sweet once again.  And I'm going to stock up on chamomile tea.

The Meaning of Dreams

During the past two weeks, I've had a number of dreams about building a family. 

In the first, S and I were home from vacation and learned that a six-year-old kid we were about to adopt - and had never met - would be arriving at our home anytime during the month of September.  I was excited but anxious, because we were planning another trip in early October, and we didn't have any childcare plans in place.  I spent the entire dream figuring out what to do, and ultimately asked a lesbian couple we barely know in the city if they would to look after the kid for a few days while we were away.  They agreed.   How weird that we prioritized our trip over spending time with our new kid?

In the second, S and I had already built a family.  A huge family.  We had adopted six kids, in fact, and also had a number of dogs and cats in our home.  I remember smiling in this dream, seeing the kids and animals running around in our sunlit kitchen, and yet feeling completely overwhelmed.  (I'll admit, this dream was likely influenced by a photo I saw of Angelina and her brood in a magazine before going to bed).

Last night, I dreamt we had arrived home from our vacation and S had opened up the gifts of receiving blankets and onesies we received from his family. I was upset with him for doing so.  "I wanted to take a picture of the gifts before opening the packages!" I said.  He looked at me, confused.  A minute later, I understood why.  It wasn't, in fact, mere days after coming home from our trip.  It was years later.  We had already used the blankets, and as our school-aged kid walked into the room, my heart sank as I realized I had completely blanked out on the experience of raising our baby until then.  I didn't even know our child. 

I'm not quite sure why none of these dreams have involved my pregnancy or an actual baby, but instead, have been about some form of adoption of school-aged children.  In all of them, I recall feeling happy about the presence of the child(ren) in my life, but ultimately having some degree of detachment from them. 

According to some cursory internet-searching, it seems dreams about adoption can happen during periods of transition and uncertainty.  Dreams about separation from your children might mean that you are overwhelmed by your responsibilities in life.  Both of these themes do speak to my current frame of mind.  A mere 24 hours after coming back from a relaxing vacation, it suddenly hit me that we have So Much To Do before the little one arrives.  We are (obviously) in a period of preparing for major changes in our lives, but 20 weeks seems to have been the defining line between my summery "oh, it'll all work out" attitude and the "OMG, I haven't done X, Y, or Z, and we only have 134 days left!" reality.  I spent most of last night wide awake, my mind racing about responsibilities at home and work.

Thinking about it now, perhaps these dreams are serving as the kick-in-the-pants I need to get my act together.  Time to make some to-do lists.

Milestones

S and I just got back from a week of visiting his beautiful homeland.  Over the years, it has easily become a place has has worked its way into my heart.  I love spending quality time with S's friends and family, basking in the sunshine and swimming in the warm water, enjoying local food, and engaging in fun rituals we've developed over the years ("we HAVE to get a passion fruit frappe, and only from that one particular beachside kiosk!")  I always come back feeling happier, more relaxed, more hopeful, more connected to S and his roots. 

This year's trip included several milestones.  We hit the halfway point in our pregnancy: 20 weeks/five months.  We celebrated our one year wedding anniversary.  And most notably, on the night we spent with S's mom, we felt our little one move for the first time.

At first it felt like a goldfish, quick and slippery.  Then there were other  movements I can only describe as little vibrations.  One.  Two.  Three rumbles.  I grabbed S's hand and put it on the lower left side of my belly.  The movements were subtle, but distinct and persistent.  During the next few days, I continued to feel little rumblings, most often when I laid on my side before going to sleep at night.  I even felt occasional jabs, strong ones that made me gasp with surprise. 

Feeling the movements, or, "quickening," was significant not only because it was the first time we felt them, For me, the experience really drove home the message that there is a live little person growing inside me, a reality that has been hard to really wrap my mind around during all these weeks of pregnancy.  Until last week, the fact my body was fostering the growth of a human who will someday become independent of me still felt pretty theoretical.  Now putting my hands on my dancing belly feels like a response to an actual being.  Our little one is communicating with me in a way I can tangibly understand. 

I am at the beginning of a new relationship with our baby.  The fact that it began while we were in S's homeland feels all the more special.  Apparently our little one enjoys fresh coconut and alcapurrias as much as I do. 

Acquiring "Stuff"

Soon after we told my parents we were pregnant, I got a call from Pop.

"Your mom and I have a bet," he said.  "We want to know who's right.  Would you prefer to get new stuff or used stuff for the baby?"
"Used stuff," I answered without hesitation.  "Babies grow out of things pretty quickly and don't use things for very long.  And there are a ton of parents in the city who sell used stuff pretty cheaply." 
"Ah ha!" he said triumphantly.  "I was right!" 

He knows me well.  When we got pregnant, one of the first things I did was join a local neighborhood listserv, reputed for not only it's hilarious discussions between drama-oriented and overprotective yuppie parents, but also for it’s helpful reviews of local resources, and opportunities to get affordable used baby stuff.  Within the first few days of poring through an overwhelming number daily classified postings (up to 150/day), I was able to follow trends on the kind of gear local parents buy, recommend and sell. 

The first thing I learned about was an oft-used baby swing - cozy and cute for a newborn, and best of all, portable.  I wrote to a parent selling the swing for an affordable $15 and made arrangements to pick it up after work.  When I arrived, the parent had prepared it for me in a clear plastic garbage bag for easy transporting.  At this point, I was a mere seven weeks pregnant, not at all showing, and nowhere near sharing the news publicly.  As I hauled the swing uphill toward the nearest subway, I repeated to myself over and over again, "please don't let me run into someone I know.  Please don't let me run into someone I know."

And because life always gives us what we ask for, as soon as I descended the subway stairs, I ran into someone I know.  A coworker whom I never, ever see in the office.  Who was waiting for the same train, to get off at the same stop in my neighborhood.  She looked at the bag, and then at my belly.

"What did I miss?!" she said with raised eyebrows.
"Oh, nothing, this is for a friend," I said, vaguely.  We took the train together and I attempted to make small talk, panicking in my head all the way.  We finally arrived at our stop after an excruciating ten minutes.  And as we got off the train, because life has a sense of humor like that, we ran into ANOTHER coworker.  I tried to be nonchalant about the fact that I was carrying a giant baby swing with a bunch of cutesy animals all over it up the stairs.  "So... what's new with you?" I asked.

Needless to say, it's been much less stressful acquiring baby stuff at a point when I can share the news of our pregnancy.  To-date, I've done pretty well through the listserv.  I've scored a free baby tub, carrier, car seat and snap n' go, a cheap pack n' play, and our most momentous purchase, a crib... all without running into someone I know.  When a neighbor delivered the crib to us last weekend, S and I truly felt the excitement and anticipation of our little one's arrival.  Nothing says, "we're having a baby!" like having to rearrange all the furniture in our one-bedroom apartment to accommodate a bed for a new little person.

Yet, I'm trying to walk that fine line between acquiring just enough and not too much "stuff."  I'm of the belief that babies don't need much and most of what's out there is just part of a multi-billion dollar marketing effort to try to get us to buy buy buy more and more crap that just ends up in the landfill in the end.  Perhaps I'm naive, but I like to imagine us as parents who will take a pretty minimalist approach. 

Even then, I have to say of the stuff we have acquired.... it is mighty cute.

On gender and anatomy

Throughout our pregnancy, whenever anyone has asked me or S if we plan to find out the sex of our little one, we’ve answered with a resounding “yes.”  To me, it has seemed like the practical thing to do given that the technology is available, I’ll be uber-curious to know, and knowing may make choosing baby names a little easier.  While both S and I hold a critical lens around sex and gender and we want to raise our child with respect for his/her self-determination around his/her gender identity and expression, we’ve also discussed the fact that we live in a world where gender is presumed and norms are imposed at birth based on sex.  Pinks and blues are hard to avoid, especially when it's going to be quite some time before our child will be able to express his or her own desires around gender representation.... and when our little one already has many eager aunties, uncles, and grandparents already oohing and ahhing over the very pinks and blues of which we're so critical.  So for the past few months, we've figured, "why not find out?"

Last week, we were scheduled for a 17-week anatomy scan at the imaging clinic.  We anticipated we might have the option to learn the sex of the baby at this appointment, and two days before, it really hit me that we were at another major decision-making moment in our journey.  I approached S as we were getting ready for bed.

"So... do we really, truly want to find out the sex of the baby?"  I asked.

S turned to me with wide eyes. "I think so," he responded slowly.  "But I'm not sure.  What do you think?"

"I'm not sure either," I answered.  "I was pretty sure I did want to know... but now that we're actually in this moment, I'm thinking maybe we shouldn't."

"Maybe we shouldn't," he echoed.  "Let's think about it."

So we did.  We thought and talked and processed for the next 24 hours.  We came to the conclusion that even we, try as we might to be thoughtful, will inevitably impose gender assumptions and stereotypes on the fetus at as early as 17 weeks.  We'll think about the little one differently, based on whether it's a he or a she.  As will the well-meaning supporters in our lives.  Our parents will go out and buy "little princess" or "little slugger" onesies and our home will be filled with tangible markers of gender norms faster than we can say, "but pink is for boys, too!"

When we arrived at our appointment, we were finally clear that we want to fend off the gender boxes and straightjackets while our little one is still developing.  Before the ultrasound technician checked on the fetal genitalia, she turned off the monitor we were watching to respect our wishes to keep the information private.  S and I smiled at each other, knowing it was the right decision for us, one that is consistent with our worldviews and values.  

We want to challenge ourselves and our loved ones to honor that the little fetus is simply growing into a strong, healthy little baby.  And we can confidently say that's all we all really need to know for now.  

Belly button

When I graduated from college ten years ago, I struggled to find a job for a number of months.  I spent the summer temping at a police department and applying for jobs in the big city.  When I couldn't successfully land a permanent gig, I moved to the city anyway and temped for another few months.  I was thrilled to be living on my own in such a big, promising, exciting place, a home where I could be politically active, connect with other queer and brown folks, and build a life for myself based on my values and needs.  And at the same time, I was worried, stressed and feeling defeated about the fact that I hadn't yet found a stable place to work. 

The day I got the call offering me an entry-level job at a non-profit organization, I cried.  Partly, because it wasn't quite the job I wanted.  Partly, because after six months of desperately looking for a next step, I felt such relief. It wasn't perfect, but I was getting my foot in the door at an organization for which I had a lot of respect. 

My first day of work was November 10, 2002.  After I clocked out on November 11, I headed to the East Village and walked into the most punk, bad-ass tattoo parlor I could find.  And I got a belly button piercing.  Just like that.  It was the most celebratory, cathartic, semi-permanent thing I could think to do to honor the beginning of a new stage in my life.  As a typically a cautious, planning-oriented person, it was thrilling to do something that was so spontaneous and "unlike me."  I've worn the barbell piercing I got that day throughout my adulthood as a symbol, as a reminder that I am courageous and resilient, that I am living life differently than how it was expected I would, that I am willing to take risks to follow my dreams. 

Tonight, after ten solid years, I finally removed the barbell.  Over the past few days, my stretched-out belly has made the piercing site increasingly painful and irritated, and my OB told me the jewelry would eventually have to be removed for my own comfort.  I didn't think it would be a big deal.  But to be honest, the moment I held the small piece of metal in my hand, I was overcome with emotion.  It again felt like a symbolic gesture, this time, of an era of my life ending; not in a bad way, but in a significant one.

The belly is such a powerful emotional place in the human body, a place I've relied on to guide me through life's major decisions and transitions, a place from which I've taken many leaps of faith and found my grounding and trust in myself.  Tonight, I'm realizing  that our little one is now nesting in the very place where a little piece of metal once did.  And it will be in the process of raising and loving that little one that I will continue to have to find my courage and strength.    

16 Weeks and Feeling Good

At 16 weeks, I am solidly in the second trimester.  And I've been feeling great.  I have my energy back and am moving around more.  I'm able cook and eat healthier meals and experiencing less stress and anxiety about food.  There's still the occasional bout of nausea (note to self: seriously, don't try Thai food or pizza again for a while), but generally, I can understand why the second trimester is reported to be a much better experience than the first.  I feel like myself again!  Well, myself with a different body shape.

As of this week, I can't sleep on my stomach anymore.  And I actually think I've noticed my body feels a little off balance when I walk.  My stance is a bit wider as I try to accommodate my new weight.  A friend of mine tried not to laugh as she imagined me waddling around with a third trimester belly.  I won't say that I'm quite waddling yet... I'd say, "walking differently."

I still fit into most of my clothes... sort of.  While I can't really button any of my pants any longer, belly bands have been an awesome way to keep wearing them comfortably and to avoid buying new clothes for the time being.  I'm hoping to avoid doing so until the fall, but I'm not sure I'll make it.  I'm up a whole bra cup size... which might be exciting for some folks, but for me, it's a bit overwhelming given that I was already pretty well-endowed for a petite person.  I'm working on accepting my new chest and getting comfortable with serious cleavage.  

My belly is more visible but I don't yet look pregnant who folks who aren't in the know.  In fact, a coworker admitted she had been thinking I had put on some "post-wedding weight" before I shared the big news.  My personal test for "looking pregnant" will be when some New Yorker begrudgingly gives up their seat on the subway for me.  I'll let you know when that happens.