Rhinoceros Running

It is a gorgeous, perfect spring day here in Chicago. It is warm, there’s a light breeze, the sun is shining, there are flowers and greenery. Last year at this time, I would have gone out for a long run. Now, I watch people running and I marvel, what’s it like to feel that energetic again? My friend Tessa is laid low by mono and feeling the same way, very much missing her former life of running and spinning and lifting.

Occasionally, I look at my calendar for this year, where I’d penned in all my favorite races. I was going to run a marathon towards the end of this month! Life interfered. Because all my closest women friends had their kids and then resumed their athletic lives, I have faith that I, too, will find my way back into my running shoes.

As for reading, I’m on a history kick, re-reading my Alison Weir books. Last weekend, I watched Elizabeth (with Cate Blanchett) again, so I got the Elizabeth I biography off the shelf. Fascinating. Now I’m onto The Children of Henry VIII.

My mother is coming around a bit. She’s knitting for the baby.

Starbucks is my new home away from home. I crave their iced tea. I’m also a huge fan of egg salad, and their sandwiches are particularly delicious. Yesterday, Ruby and I sat on the patio and watched some construction crews prepare to pour new cement on all four of the corners at the intersection of Montrose and (I think) Wolcott. Whereever the Starbucks is. It’s a good corner for people watching, too. Commuters get off at the train station within sight of the Starbucks, so there’s a steady stream of people. Ruby laid on the patio and received sandwich crusts, appearing supremely content. I thought if I had a little boy, just watching men prepare to pour cement might be a couple hours of entertainment. How about that for a stereotype? I try hard to catch myself when I think stuff like that.

I suppose the construction posed some minor inconvenience to pedestrians, having to walk a yard or so out of the way, around the barricades. It didn’t seem like a big deal to me, but one guy strolled up and was so visibly and verbally put out, I wondered how he reacted to a genuine hardship. I’m curious about what people want . . . we want any number of civic improvements, but want them to happen . . . magically? Performed by elves? In the dark of night?

I’m watching an English sitcom from the 80s, I think. As Time Goes By? Judi Dench is in it. One of the characters is a young woman and she’s wearing a large, somewhat shapeless sweater and loose bluejeans. If this were an American sitcom, the jeans would be formfitting, and there’d be at least some cleavage, and a full face of make-up. Maybe modern English sitcoms are also busy overly sexualizing their women characters.

Despite still having lots of kid-related stuff on my mind, I feel very upbeat and positive and happy. Despite the momentous-ness of these impending changes, I believe we’re going to be more than okay.

It’s been a little rainy here in Chicago, which is par for the course in the springtime, isn’t it? Everywhere.

What heralds springtime for me isn’t so much the greenery and the way the population of cold climates ventures out-of-doors–it’s the smell of wet dog. I don’t know what it is about sprinkling a dog with a generous bit of rainwater that yields the very distinct scent that is Wet Dog.

I’m seriously thinking about a line of products called Wet Dog. Wet Dog candles that smell like–wait for it–a dog just in from a walk in the rain. Perhaps a bit of Wet Dog Feet–that rank odor along with the smell of corn chips. (Why do all dogs’ feet smell like corn chips?)

Other ideas: Sick Dog. Dog Loses to Skunk. Flatulent Dog. Possibly my personal favorite: Dog Breath.

I haven’t posted for a while, mostly because I am preoccupied with many of the kid-related decisions I need to make. I am alive and well, just preoccupied.

My mom still isn’t up for dealing with this (her words, not mine), and I’m not up for superficial conversations about lunch and dogs, so we haven’t been in contact much lately. This is especially hard because everyone’s advice includes relying on your mother.

After about two months of silence, I got a text message from my baby’s father. He wrote:

I think we should hang out and have sex again

This is not a paraphrase. I was stunned for a little bit. Do some men really make their decisions based on the head in their pants? This one seems to. I waited a bit, then replied:

I think you’re crazy.

I might have written something like, When hell freezes over, but the weather forecast called for snow today, and not that Chicago is hell, but I didn’t want to get roped into something based on meterological disturbances.

He seemed to get the message, though, since he’s been silent ever since. We’ll see what he comes up with in two months.

Another weekend draws to a close, and of 48 hours in a weekend, I’d say that I’ve slept . . . 36 hours of it. This is not an exaggeration. Gestating a human being is a lot of work. the baby is just 3/4 of an inch. Tiny. But it’s consuming my body and soul. Like my heart beats, the baby is ever present in my mind.

I am making some progress on my reading challenges, though. I take random notes for various entries, but then become tired and take another nap. 

The poor dog, though . . . she needs a good game of fetch or frisbee.  

An exciting Friday night for the knocked up: Kashi oatmeal dark chocolate cookies with organic 2% milk, watching some bad Friday night television. The Ghost Whisperer, for example. I find the forays into the supernatural inherently interesting, but the main character dresses in such a ridiculous fashion. Tonight, she hoofed it into an underground tunnel littered with human skulls in platform stiletto shoes. Seriously? The only women who wear those are professionals and women headin’ out for an evening of beverages at a bar. You gotta get a little drunk to ignore the pain in the balls of your feet. Women who work retail do not wear heels of any kind, and women chasing ghosts through skull-strewn underground passageways.

Now I’m watching the Bulls game, my other options being the Miss USA pageant or The Price Is Right. I remember when Michael Jordan played and the Bulls were consistently championship contenders. I distinctly remember one year intentionally staying inside each night the Bulls were expected to clinch the championship. Each night the city put out something like $4 million dollars worth of extra police protection on the streets. My number could be wrong, but I know that over multiple nights, the figure was breathtaking. I find it amazing that millions of dollars can be rounded up to try and discourage adults from acting like idiots, but education dollars just can’t be found.

I am so over the sonograms. Tuesday’s sonogram was very cool because it was both my first view of the baby and the strong, unmistakeable heartbeat. The doctor didn’t need to tell me what it was; I knew immediately. It was the clearest thing on screen.

Today’s sonogram was far more detailed . . . to the doctor, anyway. Hell if I know what he was looking at. Evidently I have a cyst in an ovary? He said it wasn’t anything to worry about, so I’ll have to take his word for it.

My general policy is that internal organs are internal for a reason, and I think there’s probably a limited number of times in my life that I need to see my ovaries in such detail. There are quite a few other internal organs I’ve never seen, and I am completely at peace with that.

Overall, today’s visit wasn’t a source of any new information. It was just very expensive. There are a number of tests I can get at different times that will isolate any problems, but strangely, the doctor recommended that I only get the tests if I intend to do something about it, which I suppose means abortion.

But the only reason I’d abort the baby is if there was something so wrong that the baby would most certainly die. I see no point in birthing a child whose life will be short and painful. So, although the doctor seemed to be recommending against them, I think we’ll still need some of the tests.

Due Date: November 15th.

Dearest Unborn Child,

I want you to know that as your mother, and because I will be your only parent, I believe that our relationship absolutely requires honest and open communication. I will never lie to you. I know there are some pieces of information that are best digested when you’re a little older and more mature, especially regarding the complex relationship between your biological father and myself. We can go into that later.

I need you to know straight up that I cannot take you to Disneyland. Ever. I think it’s evil. I loathe it. And this is not because I don’t love you. I don’t know you yet, but I love you. There are just some things even the most devoted parents can’t do. Please don’t ask it of me.

Love,

Mom

I continue to gestate a human being.

I had my first ultrasound today, and got to see a picture of peanut, aka squirrel. It’s tempting for me to scan it and post it here, but it’s pretty hard to discern what you’re looking at in a static picture. I wouldn’t have known what to look for except for the unmistakable but strong beating of the little tiny heart. A strong steady throb, the clearest thing on the screen.

My doc said, you’re definitely pregnant. (I didn’t actually doubt this.) And then she said, thank god it’s just one. Twins are only cute when they belong to someone else. She was very happy about what she described as the good strong heartbeat, and my vitals also look very good.
 
I’m beginning to feel better. Like, I’m only nauseous 19 hours a day instead of the full 24. So, that’s an improvement. And what’s kind of funny is that I’m so used to feeling physically good, but mentally yucky. Now I feel physically bad, but mentally, every day I feel better.
 
I’ve gained quite a bit of weight already–I had visions of myself as a house before this is all over, but the doc reassured me that it’ll come off around week 12 when my nausea-related eating subsides. Whew.
 
I told my mother this but she wasn’t real helpful. She said, yeah, hopefully. For the tiny bit we’ve talked about this, I can see we have radically different ideas about how this should go. I, for example, will be breastfeeding and for some strange reason, she’s talking about bottles already. The concept of family bed is also completely foreign to her. Yesterday, I thought we were a little closer together. She sent me an email detailing a plan she and my father cooked up for remodeling the basement of the house, and assigning me the two first floor bedrooms. I felt a degree of relief that I could definitely go home for my maternity leave, but I have no intention of sleeping apart from my newborn. I know people have different thoughts on this, but my thinking is this: for nine months, baby rests comfortably in me, with my heartbeat as the soundtrack of the baby’s life. So then baby is born, and it’s unbelievably cold, and the lights are too bright, and inexplicably, food isn’t automatically forthcoming. In essence, baby says WTF? Baby can learn how to sleep alone later. There is plenty of time. I think our beginning together should be as stress-free as possible.  
 
I got the ok to run, keeping my heartrate under 140, and I’m actually feeling a tiny bit more energetic. I can fathom going for an evening walk/light jog.
 
I also have my first appointment with a specialist on Thursday, primarily to evaluate my depression meds as related to the fetus. Interesting: although I am fully insured with some rockin’ insurance, I have to pay the specialist a retainer up front of $530. I’m curious about what happens when someone needs specialist care, but can’t come up with that kind of money. It was also kind of interesting because every office I went to, the first thing they wanted was my insurance information, and if you don’t have it, they cancel your appointment. Don’t misunderstand me–I like getting paid, too. I dig it. And it’s fair. But even a regular doc will tend to your cold if you’re insurance card has gone missing or something. and there’s nothing on the line there. But when a pregnant woman rolls up, they’ll turn her away? Prenatal care is vitally important, and yet, they’ll withhold it.
 
I have been kind of surprised at the relative lack of ob/gyn options here. I thought that a city the size of Chicago would have a much larger number, but then I saw a poster in my doctor’s office about medical litigation laws here in Illinois making high-risk specialists rarer and rarer, and now I think I understand. It’s truly unfortunate. If I have amazing insurance (seriously, this stuff is a freaking gift from god), and I am having a hard time getting people to see me, what do the un- and under-insured do? Is decent, basic healthcare really supposed to be a luxury? 
 
I’d say a turning point for me so far has been seeing the heartbeat. It’s much realer to me, that unmistakable beating heart and the tiny person developing around it. It’s blissed me out all afternoon. Seriously. I’m walking around smiling at people, and even enjoyed my bus ride to work on a completely packed bus with teenagers talking too loudly on their cell phones. I might look a little crazy, but I don’t care.  

I’m stilllllllll knocked up.

Yesterday, I ventured into some maternity and baby stuff boutiques along Southport, for the first time. As this is a relatively ritzy shopping district, I didn’t come across any really good inappropriate onesies. I did come across some very expensive baby and maternity clothes however. Kinda of funny for clothes that are for a most temporary time of one’s life. Adorable tiny sweaters–unbelievable that a tiny human being fits into them, and what’s more, that that tiny human being will come from me.

I spent a bit of the afternoon with Michelle, a newer friend who has a 3 month old, and I was extremely encouraged to learn that her baby started sleeping through the night at six weeks. Like, 8-9 hours a night. Now, I realize many babies don’t do this, but I thought NONE of them did, so this was a bit of encouraging news. I just had this idea that for a very long time, I’d be getting up every two hours.

I’d hoped to retain some sense of my own identity, but I can see how easily a person becomes baby-obsessed. I know I’ve written this before, but I marvel still at how my priorities immediately shifted, my list of very important stuff changed completely.

My mother still isn’t on board with this yet. I know that once the baby arrives, and once we have a more certain set-up, and hopefully once we are not just getting by, but doing well, she will be a most adoring grandmother. I know this distance she keeps is based in worry and fear. It isn’t a moral kind of judgment; we weren’t raised in any religious faith. If I were better off and maybe a homeowner to boot here in Chicago, I really think the news would have been more warmly received.

It is what it is.