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?

For the second night this week, Little Foot has woken me from a dead sleep to express an intense desire for peanut butter. Fair game, though—last time she got hungry in the night, I’d gone on a 6-mile walk before bed; this time I biked 23-odd miles in an evening for Critical Mass. So while I munch my toasty grain bread smeared with nutty love, and while I drink my mug of ice cold milk, I will tell you all about this evening’s bike ride. Why not? Get ready for some good-ole-error-ridden-3am-writing, friends…

Critical Mass happens every month in cities all over the world. In Chicago, a Critical Mass forms on the last Friday of every month at Daley Plaza, in the shadow of the one-eyed Picasso. Critical Mass is not an organization, but simply a group of bike-riding-people operating under a shared knowledge to meet, pedestrianize the city streets for a few hours, and remind citizens of our constitutional right to assembly. The official “party line” is that there is no political affiliation, but I tend to think that the simple act of commuting by bike is political, so it really depends on who you talk to.

I live about 15 miles from Daley Plaza and left at 3pm for a 5:15 arrival. Typically, this would give me loads of time to linger at the plaza, read my book, and eat my tangelo, but while I rode my bike, Little One rode my bladder. I had to stop, lock up my bike, and rush for a piss a grand total of 5 TIMES, just on the ride downtown. I arrived at the plaza just in the nick of time.

I met a work friend at the Mass early to help her distribute fliers for work (the MCA is offering 2-for-1 admission to anyone who bikes to the museum this week and next—you just flash your bike helmet at the admissions desk to redeem the offer).

People seemed genuniely excited to get our 2-for-1 tickets. I like talking up the museum with the people; Strangers are so much friendlier than the world gives them credit for. Handing out coupons, I met another pregnant biker, who in addition to the big belly, was hauling a cute toddler and a dog riding in pull-along cart. She pointed at my middle, pointed at hers, held up her hand for a high-five, and said: “Rock on!”

Once all my coupons distributed, I met up with a new friend named Lexi. She’s the new fiancée of a pal I went to high school with who now lives in Chicago. I’d met her at a few parties and suspected we’d hit it off if we hung out solo and I was right: she is super cool. Lexi is getting her doctorate in children’s psychology and is a very smart, excellent conversationalist. She fears that she’s boring people with talk of grad school findings, but I loves me some research so we make good companions. I think she’s just bored herself to some extent: getting a doctorate like this, complete with internships and residencies, pretty much consumes your life.

Once the ride began, about 250 friendly bikers hit the streets with police assistance. Not every city is so awesome about blocking off the streets for rallies, but Chicago police expect us and are always ready. They block off traffic at intersections so that we can all stay as one car-free group. Riders who beat the cops to an intersection get off their bikes and block cars with their bodies to let the riders stick together. As we pass pedestrians, we yell: “Happy Friday!” People lean out their car windows, quizzical. Some honk in anger. Some honk in respect. All cooperate very nicely. It is really the most effective demonstration I’ve ever partook in. I’m pretty sure this is because the call-for-action IS the action.

We rode through the south-west side, then up north to Humboldt Park. At this point, it was close to 7:30pm and Lexi and I smelled tacos. We parted from the group and got some delicious dinner at a taquria, which included trough-sized cups of ice-cold Horchata. We lingered for an age at the taco-place; she’s doing her thesis on Fatherhood and Paternity; I find this to be a pretty fascinating subject, especially since the two are so often two separate rolls. For me growing up and for many: biology has little to do with who our dads are. Lexi seems to be investigating why this is, and why is is not as frequently the case with maternity (I concur whole-heartedly: step-moms are entirely different creatures than step-dads).

By the time I got home and showered up, it was way past my bedtime. My muscles are pleasantly sore in that first-ride-of-the-season kind of way. This baby loves bike rides almost as much as she loves tacos and peanut butter.

Did I mention it was 80 degreed here today? You know the fates are rooting for you when the first-bike-ride-of-the-season coincides with the first warm day. More warmth tomorrow. I look forward to my Frisbee.
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Have you ever participated in a critical mass, bike or otherwise?

In an unrelated note:
Parenting is a subject I’ve become increasingly interested in but cannot abide most books/articles/magazines about. When I mentioned this to a friend, she reminded me of something I’d heard of ages ago: Ariel Gore‘s Hip Mama zine. I subscribed and just got my first issue today. And I got to say: in a society where parenting is oftentimes just another excuse for companies to sell you shit, it’s great that people are writing about the topic from a realistic, politically-engaged, sponsor-free perspective. Anyhow, I just thought I’d pass along this tip: if you know a pregnant femanist, this mag makes a really great shower gift.

No work today. The sun was sunny. The wind wasn’t ferocious for once. Shaun and I spent the afternoon walking along the lake shore path. We bought a bag of Duros from a street vendor and crunched on spicy bites of love. I almost forgot how a person can get lost in walk and conversation if the weather is cooperative; we were out for nearly 4 hours.

Currently, a pot of homemade wheat Mac ‘n’ Cheese bakes in the oven. A massive bunch of kale waits for water to boil. Lilly Allen plays on the stereo.

I love weekends. I really do.
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What are you looking forward to this weekend?

Also: what are your thoughts on the name Ezra Manning? How about Suraya? Esne? So far, Ezra has been the leading contender, but we want to make sure that we keep an open mind, should anything else be appealing. And the other two recent thoughts were also appealing.

“See these small folds?” the nurse asked, pointing out a little coffee-bean shape on the screen.    
We nodded.
“That’s a textbook girl,” she said.
I turned to smile at Shaun,”a wee girl,” I said.
He took my hand and squeezed it, a happy man with a daughter.

Our modest little fetus was not as happy as we were at this discovery. She squiggled away from the tech for the rest of the ultrasound, refusing to participate. The nurse was literally chasing the little one around the womb with the camera; everywhere the nurse went, the fetus flipped over and away from the camera accordingly. She’s quite the acrobat.

“Get that camera out of here,” the girl fetus said, “I’m not ready!”

To give fetuses a clean bill of health, the doctor must see pictures that account for each limb, it’s spine, it’s face, and it’s heart. I have to go back in two weeks, hopefully with a more cooperative fetus, for the nurse to get snaps of it’s face and heart.

They were able to give an approximate weight for the little thing, though. She is 14 oz, which—the doctor says—puts her in the 65th percentile of all fetuses that are as old as she is. This girl is growing into a long one, which only makes sense since I’m her mom. All six feet of me.

Doctor says I’m a healthy lady, too. Blood pressure is still runner-healthy. I’ve gained a good pound and a half since last month. My belly is measuing a little small, but that’s okay since my body’s never done this before. Also, Tammy Lee’s Abs of Steel used to be a regular part of my workouts, so my stomach muscles are still working to hold and host the belly up.

Everything is getting very real now. I’m enjoying the preggers more than I thought possible. I like having the liscence to put my health at the forefront—I have a built-in excuse for going to bed early, eating when I’m hungry, taking a small nap if I need it. Life usually forces me to ignore things like this, but the world bends over backwards for a pregnant lady, I’ve found. (Too bad we aren’t always so respectful of eachother’s bodies! Can you imagine how much better this country would be if we all had enough rest?!)

Also, I’m able to visualize our little family. I suspect our daughter will be a dark eyed, heavy browed beauty. She’ll have a healthy sense of humor, she’ll be a happy smarty pants. I like this wee girl. She moves around alot now. I realized that any feeling I was having prior to late last week was just me stretching. Because when she moved, I thought: “Holy shit! What was that?” It’s so obviously somebody else. Creepy. But cool once you get used to it.

On an unrelated note: if you’ve not had Edy’s Tart Honey Frozen Yogurt—preferably sandwiched between two gramcrackers—you’ve got to get on this. It is a truly beautiful thing.

Life has been chugging on by without blog lately. I’ve been in journal-mode, getting my head in order for the future air-breather that lives in my stomach. Things have been good, though. I’ve been happy and my journal is getting right-full of love.

I took a really fun screenprinting class with a friend last weekend and discovered a new art form that gives me much pleasure. Screenprinting is one of the few art forms that can give a person quick gratification using very simple shapes. I made a cute grocery bag featuring bacon, a pear, a biting fish, a skull, a chicken drumstick, and a fetus.

Behold:

My brother Juje is in town this weekend to visit us and help set up the baby room. (Currently, he is snoring on the futon. He has a really funny, sporadic snore.)

Yesterday, Juje and I spent the afternoon listening to music and installing baby art. The design is by a UK studio called Tado. The work itself is comprised of hundreds of little vinyls. To assemble, you have to apply each thing individually, like a puzzle, to create the scene. The best thing is that the puzzle has extra bits, so you can make individualized amendments to the design.

Behold the finished product:

The wall is actually a soft, pretty green color–the camera flash sort of made it weird.

Here’s part of the work in detail. When I say that “each piece was applied individually,” I mean that the mushrooms in this picture were white stems, white dots, red caps–you fit them all together to make a mushroom. Same with the little monsters–all their facial features and details were put together by hand.

We call the guys in this detail “Horrible Hippos” and “Business Whale.”

This death swing cracks me up.

We decorated the light sockets with some of the extra bits.

Babies love bats.

Next month, my cousin Sheri moves into her first house. This is a HUGE deal, people. That woman put herself through a doctoral program, is now earning some much deserved dolla-dolla, and has bought herself a real live grown-up house. We’re going to spend a weekend with her in Grand Rapids, MI to help with the move. Shaun can do some lifting and I will wrangle her ferrets and help with unpacking. I can’t wait to see her and celebrate this happy accomplishment.

What else?

I joined a book club at work and we’re supposed to be reading Nabokov’s Ada, but I got sucked back into Gravity’s Rainbow (will I EVER finish that book?), so I’ve got to get on with that.

I also wrapped up my regular yoga class and started a pre-natal yoga class. I really like it and it is neat to be around other pregnant people–none of my friends or colleagues have the preggers. It’s just nice to get to chit chat with other ladies who also have all these random, new things happening to them. It’s also nice because most of the class are new to the mommy train like me, so it feels more sort of like an adventure.

Shaun and I have also been continuing our three-day-a-week work outs at the park district gym. Plus, the weather is nice enough for us to resume our neighborhood walks. I read somewhere that kids with moms who maintained a regular work-out schedule have a few extra advantages in life. They are more apt to be fit themselves and they score well on tests. I don’t usually take much stock in “findings” like that (too many factors skew it, namely: the fact that fetuses grow up into individuals with individual inclinations and personalities), but it helps to keep me on a rigorous routine. Usually, the thing that kept me on a routine tended to be getting faster, getting stronger, getting lean mean muscle-tone. But the goals are different during vessledom.

What else has been keeping me occupied? Not sure. Friends, new exhibition at work, going to bed at 9:30 every night.

I found some random pictures from March on my camera. Want to see?

Rainy walk

A beach day in March.

Snowy sand.

I do, too!

I got some excellent new earrings for my birthday. They are made of the various green currencies of the world. I enjoy them a great deal.

I took a picture of this miserable shulmp bear during my birthday outing to the zoo.

Behold this handsome polar bear! (Bears have always my favorite zoo animal.)

From the Lincoln Park Conservatory.

Work is going good. Our new exhibition is busy, in no small part to it’s opening coinciding with spring break. We’re all preparing and excited for the Olafur Eliasson show that opens in May. My maternity leave plan is in order and my boss has approved my distribution of labor to the other staff. If all goes well and I am able to work right up to my delivery, I’ll be away for about 7 or 8 weeks. I wish I could go on leave longer—and originally had high hopes of doing so—but it’s just not economically feasible at this point.

Usually, recovery from a standard, healthy birth is about 6 weeks. Work pays for 30 calendar days of maternity leave, so that’s about 4 weeks of salary. The remaining 2 weeks I get 60% of my pay, thanks to disability insurance. I have to use my paid time off before I can dip into any unpaid time off, which gives me two additional weeks for a total of 8 weeks. Federal law will protect my job for 12 weeks of leave (thanks, FLMA), but they can’t do anything to assist with my income during that time.  Plus, I still need to be getting income for us to keep up with the insurance coverage—playing catch-up with bills like this would be very stressful.

I’m trying to keep a sunny outlook about the abbreviated maternity leave. I try to forget that my friends in Scotland all get 1 year paid leave, plus job protection. I remind myself that I am much better protected from the horror of the financial crisis/accessible health care crisis than many American mothers-to-be. My workplace is much more accommodating than many in this country. News of the impending baby have been met with support and joy from my bosses and colleagues. Our little family is going to have to get used to a new routine sooner or later and for us: it’s just going to have to be sooner. Plus, sunniest outlook of all: We’ll have a little bundle of snuggle in the fray. Added bonus: I won’t be pregnant anymore! (Not that is is so horrible or anything, but I definitely prefer my normal-lady state.) 

In other news, next week is going to be pretty excellent:

* On Tuesday, Shaun and I go to the doctor for the super long 20-week appointment. There, they will take glamor shots of the fetus showing off it’s boy or girl bits. Looking forward to it! 
* On Friday (Payday! YAY!), I’m going to dinner with colleagues and on Saturday, Shaun and I are taking a Cuban Cooking class (his very delicious birthday present to me).

Lots to look forward to. And more busy busy to come.
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What is your favorite animal at the zoo?

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.