SOMETHING MY HUSBAND SAID RECENTLY THAT MAYBE HE SHOULDN'T HAVE:
"I feel great! I got twelve hours of sleep last night!"
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Even though my parents were just in San Francisco to meet the baby/Barnacle, I recently took the baby/Barnacle to Evanston, Illinois, to stay with them for 10 days.
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It's been quite the transition to motherhood or, as I like to call it, Mom Eats Last. Some days it feels like SJ and I are killing it: We get enough sleep, we eat, we shower, the house gets cleaned, the bills get paid, and we leave the house and return to it, all without killing the baby.
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I've settled on a word for how having a baby makes me feel: peeled.
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So this is what I've been up to: giving birth, better known as simultaneously vomiting into a bag and gushing blood and amniotic fluid out of your vagina onto a hospital bed as you lie on your side butt-naked in front of your husband and a roomful of strangers.
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I'm officially on maternity leave THANK THE FUCKING LORD, and just in time: I'm having all the symptoms of end-stage pregnancy.
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Ever since I set a start date for maternity leave (two more weeks!), I've had a rush of energy.
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Being 34 weeks pregnant is like having a 30-pound goiter that kicks you. Also, I don't know if you know this, but being very pregnant, being newly married, working two jobs six days a week, and living in a new place is, at times, somewhat stressful.
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I am officially over being pregnant. It happened almost overnight.
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Next week will mark one year together for me and SJ, my donor (by mutual agreement, he is no longer my "provider of intercourse," as he is not providing very much these days).
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On Thursday, April 20, SJ and I got married. That day I worked until 2 p.m., threw on my wedding dress in the building's bathroom, and took a Lyft to City Hall.
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Two weeks ago I moved in with SJ. Hired three guys to load all my stuff, including my coffee table (SJ does not believe in coffee tables -- he calls them "shinbangers" -- so when we want to watch 30 Rock instead of talking to each other, we eat dinner on a piano bench, like highly educated vagrants …
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Something weird has been happening: Strangers are noticing my body and reacting to it, and I don't like it. WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT.
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A couple Sundays ago, I lay on my back on SJ's bed (fully clothed -- it's not that kind of a transition) and pressed a stethoscope against my belly -- and the baby kicked the stethoscope!
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All week I've felt like crying. It feels exactly like the low-grade nausea I had during my first trimester, without the nausea. There's no REASON for me to cry, and I DON'T cry, but I FEEL like crying.
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I am running on fumes. FUMES, I TELL YOU. In addition to having a full-time job, a part-time job, and a daily commute, this is what I've been doing instead of blogging about millennials, bonding with the heirloom tomato in my uterus, and getting my head around the fact that IN TWENTY-ONE WEEKS I WILL HAVE A SON.
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When you're pregnant, all the women who have gone before rally to tell you how their babies ripped apart their vaginas.
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I arrive at O'Hare late Wednesday night after 10 hours of travel from San Francisco. Dad picks me up at baggage claim. His first topic of conversation, after greeting me, is everything he's posted recently on Facebook.
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And just like that, I'm in the last week of my first trimester.
No more nausea, no more exhaustion. And last week I got great news: The baby is at low risk for major chromosomal defects (which means the baby is at low risk for ABORTION -- lucky baby!), and ... it's a boy!
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The first time I heard about pregnancy sex was in 2004 when writer friend Michelle Richmond published an article on Salon.com called "Oh baby!: Why didn't anyone tell me that pregnancy sex is amazing?"
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