Okay, so we didn’t get to find out the sex of the baby yesterday. We go to a group practice — which I love because all the doctors are women and anyone who will deliver your baby you actually see.

Your due date is calculated on your last period (not actual fertilization). Since my cycles were so bizzarly long, one of the doctors must have thought I was a whole four weeks ahead of where I actually am in the pregnancy (which makes complete sense when you are used to ladies with a 28 day lady cycle). And since I’ve not really been reading too intensely about what to expect (I’m too in the science of the fetal development of mammals to invest much time with sappy, poorly written books with pastel covers), I just took the last doctor’s word for it when she said, “yay! You get to find out the sex at the next appointment. ”

Yesterday the doctors check out my blood pressure (a-okay), weighed me (holly crap! 154 lbs of Amazonian Motherload!), and put the mic to my belly to let the fetus beat-box away on it (I think we were supposed to hear a heartbeat, but to be honest: it just sounded all swooshy to me. I didn’t really understand what I was hearing). Our next appointment — where we REALLY discover the sex of the baby — is April 14.

After the doctor’s, Shaun and I ate delicious lunchtime soup at Au Bon Pain.

Earlier that week, I realized that my self-image had taken a nose dive when I found myself susceptible to cat calls. While walking to work, a jittery crack head shouted after me, “You beautiful, girl! Beautiful!” After his pissy, metallic smell cleared, I found myself smiling as if to say: “Really? You think so? My husband says that I am, but at this point, he’s sort of obligated to.”

It was time I get my appearance under control.

Old Navy was near our lunch destination, so I stopped in to get some new sports bras and work-out pants; my “regular” versions of these things are currently strangling me to death. I won’t lie: it was a thrill to buy a bra that was a whole size bigger.

I looked at Old Navy to see if there were any clothes there that were cheap and might be good for work. But holy ugly! It might just be me, because I know loads of decent looking people shop there, but man. Those rags made me look way more disgusting than usual. They have a maternity section that is crammed up in the kids section, in a horrid dusty old corner. In it, you can buy revolting mumu’s and shirts that make it seem like your pregnant belly is also coming out of your sides and back (mine is just a ball that sticks out from my front and I hope to keep it that way with my work-out schedule). Also, Old Navy dosn’t think that pregnant people have to work. Or that they work at a pre-school or in a gym.

Shaun remembered that they had a cute maternity boutique in Wicker Park called Belly Dance. We took the blue line there from Old Navy, just to see what cute stuff there is in the world for a pregnant lady. I  ended up buying a pair of nice black dress pants there for work. While they were way more than I plan on paying for most of my pregnancy items, I’ve been having a really hard time finding maternity pants in long. (It’s hard enough to find regular pants in long!) So I just bought this nice pair and plan to wear the hell out of them.

The Belly Dance Store was really great. They had gorgeous outfits there. There were also those pregnant stomachs that you could strap on to see how the outfit would look once you grew bigger. Those were hilarious. 99% of the things there were way too pricey, but spending some time there gave me a better idea of what knock offs and resale items will look good on me.

While we were in the trendy trendy Wicker Park neighborhood, I decided to get myself a haircut. The hormones and vitamins have made my hair wild. It grew long super fast and got crazy waves and thicker than usual (I already have very thick hair). It was looking pretty witch-like and I tried not to care in order to save money, but I’ve been near tears some mornings trying to get ready for work. (“But I look unprofessional!”)

The hair cut lady broke me of my bad habit, acquired from being a teenager of the 90′s, of styling my hair with a round brush. She cut my hair with loads of layers in a crazy bob with amazing bangs. She gave me step-by-step instructions on how to style it with a  finger diffuser and product  to  make my waves and curls happy instead of trying to straighten them into submission. I like it a lot! And it only takes about 5 minutes to get really good. Yay!

It was a really good day yesterday. Shaun gave himself the day off to go to the doctor’s with me and tromp about the city together. It was chilly but super sunny, which made walking about wonderful. And by the end of the day, I didn’t even need a crack head to make me realize that I feel pretty.

Sometime in the past week or two, The Fetus (aka Mantis, aka Grain, aka Avocado Dog, aka Fur Ball, aka Squid) grew itself some life-changing bits betwixt its little fetal legs. Little does Fetus know, its blissful gender-free days are numbered. Soon, it will enter the world of pink and blue presumption, a world of unjust category.

Fetus, soon the world will have a million ways of telling you that you are exclusively smart or beautiful; dangerous or in danger; critical or irrelevant. I will tell you that you are capable of all of it; you will surprise yourself in good and bad and beautiful ways in this life. Your dad will tell you that you are everything all at once, all mashed together; the trick is knowing what part of yourself to use when. I hope you listen to us: I suspect we are happier than most people. We want you to find living as fun as we do.

Also: I’ve enjoyed our time together when you couldn’t give a crap what gender you were. You were too busy with important things, like forming your skeleton and making eyes. I want you always to be able to abandon your gender like that, with the same dedicated intensity. Because there will always, always something more important to think about.

***

Tomorrow we have our doctor’s appointment and the ultrasound will tell us if the Fetus is a he or she. We both are really excited to find out. Neither Shaun nor I has a “feeling” about what it is and neither of us can stand the thought of someone (the doctor) knowing something we don’t. So we want to find out. We have no preference, although hermaphrodite presents a few additional challenges in life.  

 I think that finding out will really help me visualize us as parents. Because things are so fuzzy now, so obscure. I can’t quite believe it and I’m not sure what it looks like at all.

Someone asked a few weeks ago, “do you have kids?” And I shot back with an automatic, “Naw! Me?” Before I remembered that, well, soon enough I will have someone with shared genetics to love and take care of. I know that finding out the sex of the fetus isn’t going to beam a magic vision into my head, but perhaps replacing “it” with a “he” or “she” will get me on the right track.  

I’m just wrapping up lunch break and thought I’d give my Xanga a little love. Plus, I need some advice from you smart readers.

With my birthday money, I took the sewing machine my mom passed down to me in for a tune-up. I made a few Christmas gifts on it this year and I felt like I was wrestling with the damn thing and the finished products looked sort of lame (sorry, family). My mom mentioned that I might need to have the tension checked out. I had a friend look at it, but she couldn’t get it working properly either. This is how I decided to use my b-day funds on a sewing machine repair. And $75 later, I have a good-as-new machine. Yay!

Anyhow, in an attempt to save money, I’d like to use the sewing machine to alter as much of my own wardrobe as possible for the Maternity Good Times. Maternity clothes are crazy expensive. If I’m going to buy brand new outfits, I’d better be able to wear them for more than a few months, preferably during a time when I don’t identify with beached whales on a visceral level.

At this point, I’m 12 pounds larger and in charger. While physicians recommend many ladies are only gain 5-10 pounds at this point (the fetus and me have been solid for 15 weeks now), I was classified as “underweight” when I got on the preggers scene and was instructed to eat a few additional calories than your average pregnant lady (who eats about 300 extra calories a day; I was told to shoot for 375). Not like I could go buck wild, but it meant that I was eating mid-morning and afternoon snacks for the first time ever: raw nuts, cottage cheese, a few pieces of grain toast, fruit, raw veggies, a glass of milk.

So I’ve gained this 12 pounds, right, but as far as I can tell, it’s all in my tummy. This is weird for me, as I usually wear my weight gain to the tune of Baby Got Back. This time around, I’ve just got a full-frontal muffin top, full of delicious fetal-filling. Pants are getting annoying; they leave mean marks where they once were and I feel like the belly explosion from the waist is just about the least fashionable thing I’ve ever pulled. Which says a lot for me.

This weekend, I was planning to transform some of my regular people pants into maternity pants using these instructions:

http://www.craftster.org/forum/index.php?topic=28377 

The instructions mention using a t-shirt for the “belly band” at the top. I feel this is dubious and doubt the power of any t-shirt I own to hold up my trousers. Does anyone have any fabric recommendations?  I’m a newbie at sewing, but still I have to imagine that stretch material exists at the fabric store. Any tips on buying that? Any warnings on sewing stretch stuff to denim? Anyone want to say, “Hey! Stop! Those instructions are actually really lame!”?

Let me know, people. I’m open to it all!

Edit:
In case any of you know a pregger lady, I just thought I’d share:

A smart lady at work suggested I skip making the maternity pants for now and just buy something called a Bella Band. The ladies on the website are wildly attractive and I find myself at the whims of good avertising.  She also recommended something called a Swelly Belly. Not sure about the Swelly yet, but I ordered a black bella band to get some releif.

We watched There Will Be Blood on Netflicks last night. I have to know:

Am I the only one who thinks this is the most unexpectedly hilarious movie ever?

Keep in mind, I still maintain that Death of a Salesman is the funniest play ever written. I thought The Happening was the feel good comedy of the summer. Shaun tells me that I have trouble differentiating between melo-drama and comedy.

Regardless of what it is supposed to be, I LOVED this movie.

On an unrelated note: don’t forget Daylight Savings Switch-ero tomorrow. I don’t want anyone showing up for work at a funky hour on Monday.

Also: Thanks for all the birthday love!

I turned 27 today. And let me tell you: it’s been pretty spectacular.

In no particular order, these things kicked ass today:

1.) SHAUN!
I got to hang out with him all day long. No work allowed. It’s hard to get that lad away from the 24/7 freelance hustle. Don’t get me wrong–I love that my partner has the stamina and tenacity to write freelance, but hot damn is it a time suck. I miss him!

2.) PRESSIES!
I got so many wonderful pressies from my big, sprawling, wonderful family. Highlights include: checks, books, and a cool pair of earrings made of foreign currency. Shaun got me a cooking class for the two of us to learn how to make cuban feed.

3.) POLAR BEARS!
Shaun and I spent the morning at the zoo. We spent a long while watching the polar bears, one of which had an exceedingly itchy neck and was rubbing a log vigorously to scratch. It was so cute my eyes fell out of my head. 

4.) NICE WEATHER LONG WALK!
It was 60 degrees outside today, people! The wind was calm, the sun was sunny–it was a real stunner outside. We walked for a good hour and 1/2 after the zoo. I love watching one neighborhood turn into the next.

5.) PERUVIAN FOOD!
Our walk lead us to Matchu Pitchu. Not the mountain in Peru, silly. The restaurant in Chicago’s Lakeview neighborhood. There I ate a loving lunch fried bit of tilapia with a sweet drink made from blue corn. Delicious!

6.) FLIGHT PLANS!
With birthday money and wonderful deals on kayak.com, I booked a flight to visit my family in Colorado this summer! My mom is flying out at the same time, too. WooHoo!
 
7.) BIRTHDAY CALLS!
Friends, family, strangers who dialed the wrong number–all have called to wish me a happy birthday. Makes a girl feel real loved, you know?

Tomorrow….
Saturday is my back-to-work Monday this week. I usually work Sunday–Thursday, but I’m leading a special training session for our museum volunteers, which is a first for our department. I’m a bit nervous, as I’ve not prepared as much as I normally would like to, due to having been out of the office one day this week with an infectious and revolting cold. But I’m sure it will turn out alright in the end. I need to put it out of my mind and enjoy what’s left of the birthday good times.
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What did you do today?

I had a dream last night that I had to escape from a rapist while barefoot and pregnant. Not pregnant in the mild, mini-bloat way I really am now. Huge pregnant. Cautionary whale pregnant (1).

Typically, my dream-self thinks on her feet, she is quick and athletic and smart. She is prepared. She runs faster than bad guys, nuclear missiles, fires, tidal waves, tornados. She uses teeth and claws. She’s saved my brothers, my husband, my cousins, my staff, my cat. She knows exactly what to do.

But last night, dream-self didn’t have a plan. She was scared out of her mind. She was clumsy. She’d forgotten where she put her shoes.

I had a real-life melt-down a week and 1/2 ago.

I love Shaun’s mom. I really do. We can talk at the kitchen table for an age. She is hilarious and generous and warm hearted. She wants the best for people and has dedicated her life to making this world a better place. Regardless: I am 99% certain that woman lives with an undiagnosed anxiety disorder. The situations she invents to fret about are elaborate to say the least. Her worry seems an all-consuming, devouring, crippling force.

While mom-in-law has consistently expressed her anxiety and fear about Shaun and I’s life-choices, offering her reassurance has been nothing more than a mild annoyance, a small bruise. We’ve always been 110% confident in our decisions. Plus, at the end of the day: we live out of state and have never asked for anything but a few rides to/from the train station.

The decision to have this baby, though, is different. We are scared shitless and can’t possibly reassure anyone right now, least of all a relentless anxiety-riddled woman. I can’t physically do it. I’m the one in need of reassurance, damn it! Usually I bristle under that type of attention, but now, in this, I need it to keep moving, keep breathing. I need it to be able to keep telling myself the story of how this all turns out okay in the end. It’s not so much that I think Shaun and I will be bad parents. It’s more that, like my dream-self, the only thing I despise more than relinquishing control is asking for help. And as the weeks tick by, I’m realizing that both are required–not for me, but for the little human hatching in my uterus.

The melt-down in itself was ridiculous. Rage, tears, more rage. I ranted on the sidewalk. I made grand sweeping generalizations. I vomited pad thai. But in the end, I’m glad mother-in-law gave me the catalyst to admit my fears, to articulate them, and have the subsequent difficult conversations (2).

Since the melt-down, I feel closer to my mom than I have in a long time. Not only has she been a wonderful listener, full of concrete plans-of-action and generosity, but I’m also glimpsing another side of her.

My mom is just as fiercely independent in nature as I am, but when the situation called for it, her desire to do what she thought was best of me over-rode that. When I was little, my grandparents watched over me from dusk until bedtime, five days a week. My mom and I even lived in their house for a time. And I never thought anything of it except that I loved being around my grandparents. I could just be projecting here, but I’m beginning to realize that all of that didn’t just happen. My mom had to make admissions. She had to ask. I’m guessing that was a really hard thing to do.

Dream-self did not end up getting raped last night. The taxi she was trapped in slowed in traffic. She stumbled out of the car and flagged down a female jogger running roadside. She jogger ran with her to a gas station where a giant, mastodon of a woman armed the ladies with metal snow shovels. The three hid together in a mildewed mop closet. The plan was to only use the shovels if the rapist opened the closet, but at this point, dream-self was mad as fuck. She waited until rape-man was in range and smashed his cocky face in.

For the record, dream-self is usually more escape-artist than violent revenge-seeking furie. She’s just chalk-full of ferocious mother-bear hormones these days. Also, it appears that dream-self has a little posse now, a network of people watching her back.
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What’s the last difficult thing you’ve had to learn?

Faux-Footnotes:
1.)  The phrase “Cautionary Whale” is a direct rip-off from the movie Juno.
2.) In the interest of full blog disclosure, my summary of the melt-down is a lot more mature than the actual events. “Subsequent difficult conversations,” was more like me sobbing on the phone to my mom in ways I’ve not sobbed since I was sent to my room for being a little bitch to a poor neighbor during a boat outing when I was six. I’m talking big, shame-filled crocodile tears.