Looking at my paystub from last Friday, I noticed that I had one vacation day remaining for this fiscal year that I’d loose if I didn’t take advantage of this week. So, with little expectation, I took yesterday off work.

Chicago has dished me up more than a few Perfect Days in our time together. Unlike most cities, Chicago wants you to love her and isn’t afraid to woo. She knows she isn’t always pretty (November–March); she knows she’s smack-dab in the middle of nowhere (Illinois); and she knows that she isn’t always well behaved (political corruption, Cubs fans), but Chicago wants to make it up to you. And yesterday she had charm in spades.

The morning started out rain-streaked and stinking like a damp gym sock. I putzed around the house doing chores and listening to NPR. But by the time I had to leave to catch the bus to my noon hair appointment, the sun had come out and the day was transforming into a warm, happy thing.

After my hair trim, the day was truly beautiful and I found myself totally adverse to going back home. I had the whole day to myself—why not just go for a romp? I took the blue line downtown, transferred to pink, and soon found myself at the National Museum of Mexican Fine Art.

This was my first time at NMMA, but it won’t be my last. The gallery I spent the most time in focused on the history of Mexico, from ancient Mesoamerican civilizations to conquestadors to liberation to present day. The exhibition presented art works as direct outcomes of this history, which is not typically how art-history is discussed within museum walls.

Typically, art museums present work in a purely art historical context (how an artist impacted on subsequent movements, what movements this artist was born from), but rarely are the happenings of that artists life and time given much weight in an exhibition (you have to buy the catalogue for that).

It’s almost as if, unless an artist is overtly political, the assumption is that artists function outside the realm of their society. And while it’s true that artists sometimes live on the fringes, they are in no way elitist. They are everyday people, likely with first-hand experience with economic hardship by the very nature of their profession. Plus, artists spend much of their time observing the world around them, digesting it, and regurgitating it to show people something about their world that they might otherwise have missed. To exclude an artist’s society from discussions of their work is to exclude much of the point. Either that, or it assumes a lot of the museum visitor. It assumes that we are all highly educated people with knowledge of every nation’s history. Or it assumes that the visitor has $50 to drop on an exhibition catalogue.

The curatorial vision at the NMMA made no such assumptions. Their exhibition was fresh, accessible, and something every museum should take note of. I enjoyed the collections so much more once I had a thorough understanding of Mexican history; the works took on a new life. Art history was not held aloft and separate from the people who made it, the people for whom it was made for. Plus, the NMMA is free. What could be better?

After the NMMA, Fetal Friend was making her demands for food. Around 3pm, I stopped off at a place called Mi Cafetal and let a hoard of Mexican grandmothers pet my pregnant belly for luck. I don’t think I’d usually allow strangers to pet me, but these ladies wanted to feed me a free mango smoothie (“for el niña!”), so I let it fly. I devoured a delicious chicken torta on the cafe’s front patio, listening to the banda music piping from the next-door bodega and reading my library book. A weird dude sauntered over to my table at one point, sat down, and started to chat me up. Slightly annoyed, slightly flattered, I put my book down on the table, revealing my unmistakable middle. I’ve got to say: it was more than a little fun to watch him physically recoil and magically disappear.

With a full belly and a quieter fetus, I left the cafe to wonder the streets of Pilsen, a predominantly working class Mexican neighborhood on Chicago’s Southwest side. There are loads of great murals all over Pilsen—it was a pleasure just to stumble across them one by one.

Still not in the mood to return home, but wanting a change of scenery, I decided to get on the subway and head north. I found myself exiting at State and Lake to see if there might be a freebie concert on at Millennium Park. The department of cultural affairs puts on loads of free concerts in Millennium Park’s Pritzer Pavilion every summer, so I thought this was a likely prospect. I love laying out on the pavilion lawn; it is one of the most relaxing yet rejuvenating things a person can do in this fair city.

As luck would have it, Thursdays at 6.30pm, the Music Without Borders series is on at the park. I sent a text to Shaun and to our friends Melissa and Liam and an hour later, they all came down to meet me with picnic blankets and snacks for some incredible Pakistani music by singer Faiz Ali Faiz.

Once the concert was over, we were all thoroughly hungry for dinner. We made our way to the northside to Devon Avenue’s Little India to eat a late-night dinner at Hema’s Kitchen. The food was amazing and the company was even better.

Melissa and I went to school together (she’s was just a grade younger than me) and we were friends on the school bus. Apparently, we both went to Columbia to study film, although neither of us knew it until Facebook. These days, Melissa is a professional video editor married to a nice man who designs bottles for a living. Best of all, they are both hilarious and un-shy. We didn’t have to go through any of the “getting-to-know-you” bull crap when we first started hanging out this spring. We just started in with the jokes and the good conversation right off the bat.

We got home late (11:30 or so) and sleep was just getting to it’s deepest stages when the world was rocked by a massive thunder storm. After rushing about to close the windows, I stretched out and listened to the thunder crashing, the lightening electrifying the night. Fetal friend stirred as the rain pattered down and I felt so happy and so lucky to have such a good, very good life. I let the day carry me off and where it lead me is home.
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When is the last time you let a day take you on a whim? What did you do?

All I want to do today is lay in a shady hammock and read. Iced lemonade is somehow involved, although I always struggle when trying to have refreshments in a hammock—spillage is inevitable. Perhaps someone could rig me a separate little lemonade hammock, with a flat-bottomed plank, to dangle at just the perfect distance from me. While I’m in the hammock, a nice person might also fetch me a plate of Trader Joe’s Lemon Ice Cookies. I’d also like to have Prospect Magazine, Bust Magazine, and Gravity’s Rainbow near me, although I bet I’ll be drifting in and out of naptime for much of this scenario.

As you can tell, I’m feeling really motivated today. Back to work…
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If you could do anything today, what would you do?

I don’t know if it’s an attitude adjustment on my part or if impending motherhood has made the world warm up to me a little more, but life has been pretty freaking good lately. In particular, family life.

Lets be frank here: I love my family fiercely, but they’ve been known to cause me more stress than a timed math test. (If you know my relationship with algebra, that’s saying a lot.)

My mom and step dad’s relatively recent split and subsequent pairings with new loves required all the expected amounts of adjustment (as well as some new and surprising ones). Then there’s the inconceivably fucked up world of my dad’s family and the exhausting task of tending to Shaun’s mom’s perpetual state of worry. Sad but true: family get-togethers of the past have left me with a deep need for a dark silent room and a cold washcloth to drape over my eyes. But things are changing.  I dare say: they’ve changed.

After his visit in early spring, my step-dad has been calling weekly to check in on his grandbaby. While we’ve always talked regularly, we’ve never chatted weekly. It’s almost like the prospect of new life has allowed him to let go of something and give himself over to something softer. (In my company, anyhow.)

My mom and Rick came to visit last month and honestly, I had a blast. While my mom and I have always been close, the aforementioned period of adjustment added some annoying element of tension to our family interactions for a while. This seems to have dissipated entirely. We are at ease with one another, the four of us (mom & Rick; Shaun & me) working under a new calm. During their visit, we went on long walks, visited the farmers market, ate yummy dinners at home, rode bikes, hung out in the park, went to the zoo. It was really one of the most relaxing weekends I’ve had all spring.

Yesterday, Shaun’s mom and step-dad came into town. I feel awful having dished about my trepidation yesterday, as they’ve demonstrated nothing but pure sweetheart behavior. Their train came into the city at about 12:30 yesterday afternoon. Shaun and I fed them sandwiches, quinoa salad, and beer before taking them downtown to relax on a blanket at the free Blues Festival happening this weekend in Grant Park. Shaun’s step-dad is really into Blues; the rest of us aren’t adverse, but had more fun just chatting and eating almond M&Ms in the shade.

After a time, we wondered over to Millenium Park to show them The Bean. Once evening fell, we headed back to our neighborhood to pick up our first CSA box at the Friday Evening Farmers Market at Uncommon Ground. A great bluegrass band was playing the market and we hung out to listen to them for a time before walking home. We walked in the door just in time for the Red Wings game, which we turned on and let the parents veg out in front of while Shaun and I cooked up dinner with the fresh veggies from our CSA box.

For dinner, Shaun and I dished up cilantro pork chops, a warm veggie mix of kale/fingerling potatoes/heirloom radishes, and crusty grain bread. We ate at the table with the Red Wings loosing in the background and munched lime popsicles for dessert.

This morning, Shaun’s taken his family to the Chicago History Museum to check out the Abraham Lincoln  exhibition. I’m chilling out at home, not wanting to miss my noon pre-natal yoga class. We’ll all meet up for lunch and garage sale scouting this afternoon. The rain is supposed to let up by then, so lets hope that happens.

What we’ve not done is allow an unspoken tension to accumulate around us. This weekend is unfolding with the same ease as when my mom visited. It’s amazing!

Perhaps pregnancy has humbled me enough to be thankful for assistance when offered, and that helps ease tension. Perhaps the common goal of wanting the best for Little Skittle has made everyone forgive each other for the silly, minor familial infractions that normally cause irritation with prolonged exposure. Perhaps we’re all just letting go, letting change be, letting the chips fall where they may and allowing ourselves to be pleased with the results.
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Have you experienced a recent pleasant surprise?

Fetal Friend had her 7 month appointment Wednesday morning. The doc held a mic to my stomach and Shaun and I listened to the Darth Vader swooshing of the fetal heartbeat.

The doctor also said that I could take Sudafed for my cold, which came as a huge relief. After the acupuncture took away the sinus pressure, my cold worked its way into my chest, creating a seriously phlegm-tastic cough.

After work Wednesday, I stopped by CVS for me drugs. I’ve not had as much as a Tylenol or a cup of coffee in 7 months, so the Sudafed knocked me on my ass straight away. This drowsiness was more than welcome, seeing as how I got only 3 hours of restless sleep the night before. I woke in the night for a second dose and had a third dose at breakfast.

Scanning lazily over the Sudafed box while munching my toast Thursday morning, I realized the type of Sudafed I’d bought was called Cold and Cough; the doctor’s “safe med list” just listed plain Sudafed. A quick google revealed that the Sudafed I’d been ingesting had cough suppressant in it, which is known to create birth defects. I’d been eating the wrong kind. Awesome.

Not that long ago, expectant mothers were permitted to drink, smoke, pop quaaludes and eat spam. My rational mind knows that a three measly doses of the wrong cold meds couldn’t have done any lasting damage, at least not in the grand scheme of things. But Fetal Friend was very quiet yesterday. She moved a bit, but not in the riot grrrl way that she usually likes to.

Fetal Friend is doing all sorts of really difficult things at the moment, like building a brain from scratch. My stupid choice in over-the-counter medication made her job harder than it needed to be. Even if the Sudafed didn’t cause any lasting damage, it probably made her have a totally crappy day.

On the upswing, the cold is on its way out and Fetal Friend is back on the move this beautiful Friday morning; I think she’s forgiven me for drugging her.

This afternoon, we’re expecting Shaun’s parents. They are visiting for the weekend and we still have to get groceries in the house for their visit. I think they are keen on watching the Red Wings game, which is something I don’t really know how to host. We’ve never watched sports in our apartment before. Do you serve snacks? Like buffalo-wings or something? Perhaps we’ll persuede them to go to a sports bar. Are hockey games long? Can I read a book in a sports bar? Have I ever really gone to a sports bar before, intentionally?

Anyhow, we’re also planning on hitting some garage sales tomorrow, if weather permits. Shaun’s family past-time is garage sale-ing, and we are still looking for a used stroller and a used car seat (to strap into cabs–we don’t have a car).

What else we’ll do with them is anyone’s guess. I’m always at loose ends when they are here. I love them, but I’m not used to sedentary company. They are perfectly happy just to sit around all day long at the kitchen table to talk and eat at regular intervals. When we try to get them out for a walk or to a museum or festival, they get a little cankerous. They’ve told us often enough that they dislike cities; I think that even the simple act of walking around in one sets them on edge. They prefer to keep themselves hidden away in our apartment.

I don’t want to sound like a downer—I am looking forward to seeing the in-laws. Shaun’s mom has the capacity to be a really good listener and often is. Shaun’s step-dad can be really funny and has some good stories up his sleeve. We’ve not seen them since Christmas, so this will be the first time they’ve seen me preggers.

I’m dreading the onslaught of pictures that Shaun’s mom will want to take of me with a belly (I hate shit like that–if I’m having a picture taken and I happen to be preggers, that is one thing. But I am not a circus side-show.). Also: Shaun’s mom has a tendancy to get really emotional and anxiety-ridden. I’m anticipating that my being pregnant with her grandbaby will bring those traits to the surface (where they already live, so really I’m bracing myself for an onslaught). I’m going to just do my best to go with it, recognize where she is coming from, and ultimately—let Shaun deal with her if she gets out of hand.
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What are you up to this weekend?

I say this with good humor, as I’m surrounded daily with people who make me laugh: this week sucks.

After thinking that I’d shaken loose all the grotesqueries of pregnancy with the dissipation of morning sickness at week 12, I seem to have entered the 7th month feeling like a sick sack of gas. I’m hoping that it’s not the actual pregnancy that is making my life crud this week. Is it possible that I’m feeling under-the-weather and the presence of fetal life is compounding the issues of an already worn out body?  Hope so. Because this baby’s got three more months to cook.

I left work early on Monday to get my nose sorted out at acupuncture. I’d spent the weekend with a miserable sinus cold nightmare and once you are in the third trimester, medications for shit like that are out of the question. Babies hate drugs.  The good news is that I felt instant relief. Four pins were jammed in my ever-loving nose, one between the eyes, and two at the base of my neck. Oh good lord it felt so good.

I’m a big fan of the acupuncture, but I’d never gone for something quite as concrete as a sinus cold. For the unacquainted, acupuncture doesn’t hurt (the needles are thinner than a strand of hair), but you can feel them hitting your nerve in a crazy way that is akin to when someone is giving you a really nice massage and getting a knot in exactly the right way. Acupuncture is also horribly expensive ($70 for an hour session is normal); if I were a rich girl, I’d go every week. As it stands, I go when I have issues.

Anyhow, so after acupuncture I felt really good. I went home and napped one of the top ten naps of my life.  I hadn’t been able to sleep for about two days, what with the inability to breathe properly and the constant pissing and the feral Fetal Friend and the inability to get comfy with a volleyball stomach. It was amazing how much a functional nose helped my REM cycle. Monday night, I slept like a baby.

Tuesday, I woke feeling 90% better. My cold still existed, but the congestion was gone and with it, the horrible headache. I could breathe. I’d slept. Life was good. Or so I thought.

Once at work, I had lots of setting up to do. Staff meeting to lead, new signage to put up in the building, random running around. I’d been in constant motion for a good hour and 1/2 when I finally stopped by a friend’s cube to answer a visitor attendance question. I was standing while she explained her question when suddenly I knew: I was going to pass out. I excused myself awkwardly and stumbled into my old office (I used to work in the Marketing department). “Hi Chaz,” I said, “mind if I pass out on your chair?” My vision was darkening and I knocked a stack of folders from an extra office chair. I got down just in time. My vision and hearing was completely gone, but I’d not lost consciousness.

Chaz was amazing. She fetched me water, set me up with paper towels to mop up the profuse sweat pouring off my face (my shirt was also soaked through along my chest and belly, which is a very professional look for a woman). Chaz stayed with me and was quiet until I felt normal enough to sit there and be a part of the world. Once I was alert, but un-ready to rejoin the world, she talked to me about other, fun, things to take my mind off the bad feeling.

I got to the point where I felt fine enough, but I spent the rest of the day feeling out-of-sorts. I also think I experienced my first bout of Braxton Hicks contractions today, which sucked. This is a normal thing to happen at this point in preggers; your already stretched taunt stomach goes from feeling like a drum to feeling like a horrible underseas rock with barnacles all over it. It is a practice contraction, the uterus warming up for the big day. The shock lasts only a minute, but holy crap. It’s a little more than distracting.

I went to bed at the more than decent hour of 8.30pm, exhausted trying to get myself rid of this cold entirely. But now I’m up, insomniac extraordinaire.

In other news, I attended a really great staff talk today with our summer artist in residence, Nora Chipaumire. Aside from being an interesting, engaging, and seriously nice woman, Nora is an internationally renown coreographer from Zimbabwe. Nora also mentioned a name of one of her collaborators that I liked for Fetal Friend: Joelle.

For those of you who enjoyed round one of Name That Fetus, the top contenders for names these days are:

* Lila Eleni Manning

* Joelle Eleni Manning

The name Eleni is one that my grandma and grandpa Jaggers proposed. It is the Greek form of Helen, as in Helen of Troy, daughter of Zeus and Leda. This is fitting because the girl is a good part Greek, thanks to her dad. Shaun and I are also fans of Greece and Mycenaean myth. Plus, I imagine having a face that “launches a thousand ships” might come in pretty handy for a girl. The reason why we’re thinking middle name here is because I’d hate to spend my whole life correcting people who mis-pronounce my name. And seeing as we live in the midwestern United States, this seems pretty likely for her. (For anyone curious as to the correct pronunciation of this name, click here and listen.)

Lila is a word I learned in yoga class. In the Hindu tradition, Lila is a word used to describe the notion that all reality—life on earth, the cosmos, everything—is the outcome of creative play by the divine absolute (Brahman). A story is told of two gods who were having sex at the beginning of time—with no real intention, just enjoying the thing that is sex—and the world was born as a result. This is “Lila” in action.

Joelle has a less thrilling meaning (its a French name, deriving from some hebrew phrase that praises god), but I find it really beautiful said aloud. It is equal parts masculine and feminine. It is a name that somehow sounds like a successful person, a person who might be a scientist or an indie rock legend; a lawyer or an artist. I like how open it is.

The baby will have Shaun’s last name. I have no need to pass my dad’s lineage on to anyone else.

Anyhow, I’ve finally written myself sleepy. So goodnight folks.

It’s 3am. I am sick for reals. Springtime cold. Can’t sleep. Snotty. Achy. Breathing like a pug dog. But it’s not just the cold keeping me up tonight. I’m having bad dreams.

A weird thing happened on my train ride home from work today. Just as my northbound red line approached the Wilson stop, the train screamed to a halt in a scary, completely out-of-control way. I slammed into the seat in front of me, my chest cushioned by my gigantic purse. Standing passengers were knocked to the ground. A bucket of Harold’s Chicken went flying, drumsticks chasing underfoot. And then the power went out. We were locked on the train. No announcements were made. We were all just sitting there, cursing the driver, wondering what had happened.

Soon though, from my window, I noticed a man laying face up and out cold on the platform. He was one subway train window ahead of mine. Platform bystanders gathered, crouching to try to wake the man. He was not bloody. Rather, his entire head, shaved clean as it was, gleamed purple and swollen. Like a rug burn. Soon, one of the bi-standers was gesturing wildly, explaining to the others what he’d seen.

From what I gather, the man was knocked from the platform (pushed? fell? jumped?), into the oncoming train. Instead of getting pulled beneath the tracks, he was violently bounced back onto the platform.

Bi-standers shook the man, called out to him. No response. Where was our train conductor? Where were the transit authority personnel? I’m no expert on CTA-accident protocol, but surely someone should have stepped in to tend to the situation. But no one did. Bi-standers took watch of this man. Bi-standers called 911.  

Meanwhile, on my train car, the stress of the event had divided passengers up into “us” vs “them” camps. Those Who Had Places to Be and Needed Off This Train v. Those Who Had Compassion and Were Disgusted by the Selfishness of their Fellow Passengers.

Those Who Had Places To Be jostled at the door, trying to pry it open with the handles of their umbrellas. Those Who Had Compassion told them to calm down, that someone had just been seriously hurt. Those Who Had Places To Be cursed the Compassionate. The Compassionate cursed Those Who Had Places. Everyone cursed the conductor for not making an announcement. I sat fixed to the window, shocked at the events unfolding, appalled at the behavior of my fellow passengers, and slightly afraid of the aggression mounting in the train car.

The police and paramedics arrived about 5 minutes later. The paramedics did no better to rouse the man than the bi-standers did. And they did not seem that rushed to help him, either. This is either a very good sign or a very bad sign, but judging by the unnatural shade and size of the non-responsive victim’s cranium, I’d put money on the latter.

Once the man was taken away via stretcher, the doors opened. Police were still there, interviewing people. It did not look like the train would be moving for some time. I exited and called my friend Squee. She was meant to meet me at my place for a quiet dinner and a movie (we both have the same cold, so there was no risk of infecting one another), but she ended up picking me up from the Wilson stop in her car and we drove over together.

I told the story twice, once for Squee and once Shaun. I was a bit shaken, but Shaun’s delicious mac ‘n’ cheese eased me back into the normal world. I was home. The train ride was over. Auntie Squee felt the fetus move. We watched a movie. We gossiped. 

After, at bedtime, thunderstorms rolled overhead. Rain pattered softly on our windows. The downstairs neighbors had sex. The upstairs neighbors had sex. I blew snot into countless tissues and fell into a restless sleep.

I dreamnt of exiting a train only to find that the conductor had opened the doors on the wrong side of the car. Instead of walking out onto the platform, I was falling from the elevated tracks onto the bustling traffic on Broadway. I woke before I landed, clammy and tangled. A picture of battered, purple skin lingered in my mind, the thick stench smell of fried chicken clinging to it.
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Have you been haunted by something recently?

Yesterday evening I was meant to attend a party—one I was really excited about, Art Night at my pal Kristen’s house. Kristen throws these parties from time to time, evenings of chit-chat, snacks, and art making. I’ve been wanting to go for ages, but yesterday was the first time my schedule was free for it.

I woke up early yesterday. Shook loose the discomforts of sleeping with a volleyball stomach. Felt great after a few stretches. A slight throat tickle, but nothing to be alarmed about. Walked to the gym. Had a great work out. Walked to drugstore for toothpaste. Gave change to homeless man who told me that I’d give birth to a cherub because I was an angel fallen from heaven. Called my mom on walk home. Lunch! Chipped away at re-organizing the house to carve out a little room for Little Foot. Walked to get groceries with Shaun and the old lady cart. Came home. Cooked dinner. Collapsed.

I’d done just done what would usually be normal for me on a day off, but somehow it seemed like I’d hiked 20 miles up a mountain. With chains around my ankles, carrying a mattress. I’d done too much. I thought that if I just stretched out on the couch for a bit, I’d get over my exhaustion in time for the party. But that’s when Fetal Friend went feral.

She does this sometimes, the Fetal Friend. She gets hyped up over life, just at the moment when I need to rest.  It’s like, she’s grooving on the constant motion of my body and the instant I stop she gets all, “hey! HEY! Why did we stop? Come on, lady. Mush! MUSH!” Either that or growing brain wrinkles and fat must be something seriously thrilling.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for the fetal excitement. But when someone is super pumped and they LIVE INSIDE OF YOU, the feeling can resemble having a can of pinto beans chucked at your kidneys. After an hour of non-stop ninja action, I was more tired than ever. Shoveling cottage cheese into my mouth and watching True Blood on DVD was about all I could muster. And even that was taxing. Art Night was out of the question. I was a party pooper. Shaun was nice and stayed home to poop the party with me.

It was a nice evening at home, but still. It sucked to realize that this was probably just one of many social outings that wouldn’t come to fruition. Because pregnancy can kick your ass. And after, kids get sick. Sitters flake. Schedules become critical, especially when something eats from your boob. And as much as I’m sure Little Foot would be welcome at Art Nite, the same is not true for all parties.

I’m not saying that I’m preparing for my life to be over or anything. In a life where family is far from us, our friends become our day-to-day support system. We are lucky enough to have friends as strong as that here. But there will be many concessions—probably much more than there is even a point to imagine.
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When is the last time exhaustion stopped you in your tracks?

Next week I’ll be 7 months pregnant. Up until very recently, I’ve flown under the pregnancy radar, thanks to my super tall, lanky build and a uterus that is apparently just as vertical as the rest of me.

But now that the fetus is making her unmistakable presence known, I am called upon to respond to the following statements/questions more than a dozen times a day.

Colleague: Oh my god. You’re pregnant!
Alter-ego: Actually, I ate a baby for breakfast. I have un-hingable mandibles, like a snake.

Colleague: What are you having?
Alter-ego: Indigestion.

Colleague: Awwwwwww!
Alter-ego: Please stop making that noise.

Colleague: Did you want a girl?
Alter-ego: They both taste the same.

Colleague: When are you due?
Alter-ego: Heavy-bodied snakes require twice-monthly feedings.

Colleague: You must be so excited!
Alter-ego: I also enjoy rodents.

Kidding aside, I’ve started to dread elevator rides at work. Either a polite regurgitation of the conversation above ensues or I’m asked in a horrifying, syrupy, cringe-worthy voice: “how are you feeling?” My usual response is, “Fine thanks. You?” Because honestly: I feel great. I eat, work out, attend protest rallies, hang out with friends, and work just like a normal person. With better skin, sans sushi and booze. Sure, I miss riding my bike everywhere (I’ve restricted myself to pedestrian paths only) and sex poses a few new and irritating challenges, but no one wants to hear about those issues in an elevator. Even with my short, cheerful response, colleagues still look at me with a lame puppy-dog gaze—like someone getting misty-eyed while watching the Special Olympics. It’s totally unsettling.

The excitement about the Little One really just surges up out of the blue, mostly when I’m with Shaun or when I see little kids around the neighborhood doing cute shit. Last Thursday, I was waiting at the crosswalk with a little girl (with a seriously incredible afro) and her mom when the following ensued.

Mom: It will still be light out when we get home. Should ride bikes?
Girl with Incredible Afro: Oooooooh! Yeah! Yeah! My bike! My bike! I LOVE MY BIKE!

On Saturday, I was giving breaks at the admissions desk at work. A family came in with a girl who had a teddy bear peeking out from her backpack zipper. I was reminded of my own girlhood bear, Theodore T. Bearington (aka: Thee). I used to take Thee hiking with me in a similar style. I gave the bear an admissions pin of his own. Stuffed animals love contemporary art.

So there are times when the excitement hits. But these are private, unexpected moments. It is not a perpetual state of being. At work, I work. With friends, I am a friend. When I read, I am reading. When the Little Foot kicks and boogies around inside while I do these things, I smile.

Growing a fetus isn’t all I’ve been up to these days. We opened a gorgeous new exhibition at work. Some of my best employees are moving on with their careers and I’m in the midst of a springtime hiring mini-frenzy. Shaun and I road-tripped it to Michigan to help my cousin move into a beautiful new house. My mom and Rick (her husband) came for a really wonderful visit. Prop 8 was upheld in CA and I was outraged and protested.

Here are a few pictures taken in recent weeks.

Cousin Sheri’s impressive and much-deserved new house that she bought for herself. If ever there’s been a self-made woman, it’s her.

Sheri’s ferret friends.
 
Sheri’s nature friends.

Me pretending to poop in Sheri’s sandbox. Sheri is two years older than me and when we were little, I loved her so much that I basically did whatever she wanted me to. Once, she told me that my dad’s toilet was broken and that he wanted me to use my sandbox to poop in and bury it like a cat. So I did.

The kids who used to live in Sheri’s house left her a fort in the back yard. I forced Sheri and her friends to get in it and act like cave people.

Sheri and Me + 24-week Fetal Friend.

Sometimes we are capable of acting normal.

This is a picture from Chicago’s May 26th Gay Rights rally. We were all more than pissed about California’s stupid decision to allow minority rights to be put to popular vote.

What do we want? EQUAL RIGHTS! When do we want it? NOW!

Baby’s first protest at 26 weeks. We bumped into my friend Freddy at the rally and he let me borrow his very excellent sign for this photo.

If you too were pissed at CA Supreme Court decision, please take a moment to donate to the good people at Lambda Legal. For the unfamiliar: Lambda Legal is the oldest national organization pursuing high-impact litigation, public education and advocacy on behalf of equality and civil rights for lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, transgender people and people with HIV.

Hope all is well with you, gentle reader. Happy spring!
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What does your alter-ego say?