I should have known better.
I stood, smelling like Lysol, in my cleaning tee and shorts, with my hair glistening from lack-of-shower and my face rosy with the allergic response to seasonal pollen. In another few minutes, I would discover that I was wearing the T-shirt inside out.
I should have been on my guard.
But when Princess wandered through the living room and stopped, mouth agape, I couldn't help but trust her beautifully innocent expression. "Mommy!" she cried. "You are SO. BEAUTIFUL!"
I melted. "Oh, sweetheart," I said, "Thank you. I needed that! That is so kind - "
"Can I have a cookie?!"
It was a nice try. Thank heaven it will be a few years before subtlety kicks in.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Friday, March 27, 2015
Not Food
My children are obsessed with the "Veggie Tales Christmas" CD, and while Junior Asparagus does a particularly strident 'While By My Sheep', I can't say that I'm a fan. Something about hearing it 735 times and having to sing a Jamaican "Angels We Have Heard" in March makes me want 'accidentally' destroy the CD player. I could never do that, of course - my children love this CD.
In order to stem the tide of singing French peas, I have created a few games: The Rhyming Game, The Synonym Game, The 'What Starts With L" game, The 'Seriously, if you make one more annoying tongue noise you will never see the Kindle again" (less of a game), etc.
Anyway, Daddy suggested that we play the Antonym Game on the way to church.
"What's an antonym?" Spiderman asked.
"An opposite," Daddy explained.
"Oh! Like FAT and SKINNY!" Spiderman cried.
"Sure," I said, hoping he wasn't referring to the front seat passengers, "or FAST and SLOW. Your turn, little girl."
"Say 'UP & DOWN'," Spiderman whispered to his little sister.
"UP & DOWN!" the Princess shrieked.
"Why don't we let her come up with one on her own?" I suggested.
"Do you know an opposite?" Daddy asked.
She thought about it. "CHEETOS."
Pause.
"And FOOD," she finished.
Daddy laughed so hard he nearly veered into oncoming traffic.
"No," Spiderman sighed. "That's not an opposite."
"Oh, yes, it is!" I said. "She is wiser than you know."
In order to stem the tide of singing French peas, I have created a few games: The Rhyming Game, The Synonym Game, The 'What Starts With L" game, The 'Seriously, if you make one more annoying tongue noise you will never see the Kindle again" (less of a game), etc.
Anyway, Daddy suggested that we play the Antonym Game on the way to church.
"What's an antonym?" Spiderman asked.
"An opposite," Daddy explained.
"Oh! Like FAT and SKINNY!" Spiderman cried.
"Sure," I said, hoping he wasn't referring to the front seat passengers, "or FAST and SLOW. Your turn, little girl."
"Say 'UP & DOWN'," Spiderman whispered to his little sister.
"UP & DOWN!" the Princess shrieked.
"Why don't we let her come up with one on her own?" I suggested.
"Do you know an opposite?" Daddy asked.
She thought about it. "CHEETOS."
Pause.
"And FOOD," she finished.
Daddy laughed so hard he nearly veered into oncoming traffic.
"No," Spiderman sighed. "That's not an opposite."
"Oh, yes, it is!" I said. "She is wiser than you know."
Monday, February 2, 2015
Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren, Part III : There is No Such Thing as Privacy
The Right to Privacy.
It's important.
My daughter, currently three-going-on-fourteen, insists on shutting doors for herself and others in the name of 'piracy'. The ACLU is obsessed with it. You're used to having it.
But when you try to inform your relatives that you are PREGNANT you may be surprised to find that your middle isn't the only thing growing. The circle of people familiar with your temperature, constipation, and hormonal rants expands as well.
For example, if you confess to your mother that a series of hormone-based birth control has caused you to gain six pounds in two weeks while crying constantly, you think that is private information. But the public thinks that reproductive health is not only your concern, it is everyone's concern (insert national politics). So when my doctor recommended taking a break from the contraception that had turned me into a raving lunatic, my mother shared this information with a friend while standing in a hardware store. And they decided it would be a great thing to pray that God would give me a baby.
Now which would you suspect is more effective? Three forms of birth control? Or two women praying in a Lowe's?
You know the answer.
I was sitting in the doctor's office for my birth control shot two weeks later when the nurse came back smiling. "I ran two tests," she said. "They are both positive. Congratulations!"
Piracy - - I mean, privacy. It went right out the window.
I stammered, "But... but... HOW?!"
She winked at me. "You'd know better than I would, dear!"
The. Horror.
Soon, the post office employee was asking me, "Are you sure you know who the daddy is?" The random passerby would smile sweetly and say, "Awww!" Strange children would gape and say, "Do you have a BABY in there?"
"That's what I'm told."
Your middle becomes a public talking point. Where once people commented on your fabulous taste in shoes, they now speculated on your past sex life. And strangers in Target were happy to corner you near the yogurt to advise you on natural birth practices or the absolute need for an epidural the minute you set foot on hospital grounds. I have never discussed my nethers with so many people I didn't know.
Which brings me to the story of my second child. Since our first was eighteen months old, some insane instinct informed me that having more children couldn't be that much harder than having one (Note: There is no evidence to support this idea). My dear husband and I decided to 'think about it'.
A week later, my mother came to visit. She descended from the guest room for breakfast and announced, "You're pregnant."
"I'm not," I sighed between flipping pancakes and wiping juice off the chair legs. "I don't have time."
"You are," she informed me. "I dreamed that you are pregnant."
"I'll inform my biological clock," I answered.
Two weeks later, I called to inform her that she was correct. "Please, please don't dream about me having twins," I joked (NOT A JOKE.)
The following week, my brother, on tour in Afghanistan, called from an undisclosed location.
"Guess what?" I asked, swaying nauseously.
"You're pregnant!" he cried.
"Mom told you?"
"No," he said. "I dreamed it."
"That is NOT how people get pregnant," I told him. (Right?)
"I dreamed it!" he insisted. "I dreamed that you were pregnant, and it's a little girl!"
"I can't guarantee that."
"I know it," he said sagely. "It's a girl."
"Please, please," I begged, "You and mom have got to stop dreaming about my reproductive system. Please."
It was a girl.
'Uncomfortable' doesn't begin to cover the feelings that come with knowing your family is dreaming about your *ahem* 'lady parts'. More horrifying still is the moment when a friend asks, "How many weeks are you?" and you see them mentally counting backward, trying to pinpoint the moment of conception, and really hoping it wasn't while you were visiting them, and all the while you realize -
Now everyone knows you've had sex.
At a dear friend's wedding, sitting among the bridesmaids dishing out post-wedding advice, I added a tidbit of my own. There followed a shocked silence.
"I keep forgetting," one said, "that you're married. You've... ya know."
And I looked down at my enormous five-month bump. "Yes. Yes I have."
Privacy. You will have none. You won't have any after the kid either. It's just one of those things you have to give up for, say, twenty years. Be prepared.
It's important.
My daughter, currently three-going-on-fourteen, insists on shutting doors for herself and others in the name of 'piracy'. The ACLU is obsessed with it. You're used to having it.
But when you try to inform your relatives that you are PREGNANT you may be surprised to find that your middle isn't the only thing growing. The circle of people familiar with your temperature, constipation, and hormonal rants expands as well.
For example, if you confess to your mother that a series of hormone-based birth control has caused you to gain six pounds in two weeks while crying constantly, you think that is private information. But the public thinks that reproductive health is not only your concern, it is everyone's concern (insert national politics). So when my doctor recommended taking a break from the contraception that had turned me into a raving lunatic, my mother shared this information with a friend while standing in a hardware store. And they decided it would be a great thing to pray that God would give me a baby.
Now which would you suspect is more effective? Three forms of birth control? Or two women praying in a Lowe's?
You know the answer.
I was sitting in the doctor's office for my birth control shot two weeks later when the nurse came back smiling. "I ran two tests," she said. "They are both positive. Congratulations!"
Piracy - - I mean, privacy. It went right out the window.
I stammered, "But... but... HOW?!"
She winked at me. "You'd know better than I would, dear!"
The. Horror.
Soon, the post office employee was asking me, "Are you sure you know who the daddy is?" The random passerby would smile sweetly and say, "Awww!" Strange children would gape and say, "Do you have a BABY in there?"
"That's what I'm told."
Your middle becomes a public talking point. Where once people commented on your fabulous taste in shoes, they now speculated on your past sex life. And strangers in Target were happy to corner you near the yogurt to advise you on natural birth practices or the absolute need for an epidural the minute you set foot on hospital grounds. I have never discussed my nethers with so many people I didn't know.
Which brings me to the story of my second child. Since our first was eighteen months old, some insane instinct informed me that having more children couldn't be that much harder than having one (Note: There is no evidence to support this idea). My dear husband and I decided to 'think about it'.
A week later, my mother came to visit. She descended from the guest room for breakfast and announced, "You're pregnant."
"I'm not," I sighed between flipping pancakes and wiping juice off the chair legs. "I don't have time."
"You are," she informed me. "I dreamed that you are pregnant."
"I'll inform my biological clock," I answered.
Two weeks later, I called to inform her that she was correct. "Please, please don't dream about me having twins," I joked (NOT A JOKE.)
The following week, my brother, on tour in Afghanistan, called from an undisclosed location.
"Guess what?" I asked, swaying nauseously.
"You're pregnant!" he cried.
"Mom told you?"
"No," he said. "I dreamed it."
"That is NOT how people get pregnant," I told him. (Right?)
"I dreamed it!" he insisted. "I dreamed that you were pregnant, and it's a little girl!"
"I can't guarantee that."
"I know it," he said sagely. "It's a girl."
"Please, please," I begged, "You and mom have got to stop dreaming about my reproductive system. Please."
It was a girl.
'Uncomfortable' doesn't begin to cover the feelings that come with knowing your family is dreaming about your *ahem* 'lady parts'. More horrifying still is the moment when a friend asks, "How many weeks are you?" and you see them mentally counting backward, trying to pinpoint the moment of conception, and really hoping it wasn't while you were visiting them, and all the while you realize -
Now everyone knows you've had sex.
At a dear friend's wedding, sitting among the bridesmaids dishing out post-wedding advice, I added a tidbit of my own. There followed a shocked silence.
"I keep forgetting," one said, "that you're married. You've... ya know."
And I looked down at my enormous five-month bump. "Yes. Yes I have."
Privacy. You will have none. You won't have any after the kid either. It's just one of those things you have to give up for, say, twenty years. Be prepared.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Impression of a Mommy
This scene was recently enacted in the living room.
(Daughter enters stage left in a huff. She pounds the buttons of her toy cell phone with ferocity. ) "Hello? Yes? What. What."
Pause.
"Hurry, I need to go take my twelve-bath."
Pause.
"UGH." (She wanders, harried, searching through random bags.) "Hang on, hang on!"
(Retrieves a toy.)
"I will call you back in a minute!"'
(Slams phone. Hurries to the bathroom). "No, kitty, no! Do not use the toilet!"
The accuracy is a little unnerving.
(Daughter enters stage left in a huff. She pounds the buttons of her toy cell phone with ferocity. ) "Hello? Yes? What. What."
Pause.
"Hurry, I need to go take my twelve-bath."
Pause.
"UGH." (She wanders, harried, searching through random bags.) "Hang on, hang on!"
(Retrieves a toy.)
"I will call you back in a minute!"'
(Slams phone. Hurries to the bathroom). "No, kitty, no! Do not use the toilet!"
The accuracy is a little unnerving.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Introducing "Unca-Xander"
My daughter, the Princess-Who-Does-Not-Like-To-Wear-Crowns-and-Insists-She-Will-Grow-Up-To-Be-A-Gentleman, received a doll for Christmas from her great-grandparents. It was hard to tell which of us was more excited. My daughter was ecstatic because the doll came with a working umbrella and a bright red rain outfit. I was thrilled because I had been dying to buy a doll for her and just couldn't justify the expense of a certain name brand.
I asked her what she would name the doll. She looked thoughtful. "I don't know," she answered. Her face spoke of many agonizing hours to come, deep in thought.
The next day, as she carried the doll around the house, I asked again. "What is your doll's name?"
"Oh!" She spun about. "Unca-Xander."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"UNCA-" she said, "XANDER."
"Uncle Xander?" I asked. "You mean, like your Uncle Alexander? We call him Xan?"
"Yes," she said. "No," she went on. "Unca-Xander."
I meant to continue the conversation and attempt to salvage the moniker, but I had already fallen into a fit of laughter, so the child and doll moved on, unperturbed.
Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce our beloved Uncle Xan:
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I asked her what she would name the doll. She looked thoughtful. "I don't know," she answered. Her face spoke of many agonizing hours to come, deep in thought.
The next day, as she carried the doll around the house, I asked again. "What is your doll's name?"
"Oh!" She spun about. "Unca-Xander."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"UNCA-" she said, "XANDER."
"Uncle Xander?" I asked. "You mean, like your Uncle Alexander? We call him Xan?"
"Yes," she said. "No," she went on. "Unca-Xander."
I meant to continue the conversation and attempt to salvage the moniker, but I had already fallen into a fit of laughter, so the child and doll moved on, unperturbed.
Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce our beloved Uncle Xan:
and THIS, if Unca-Xander:
The resemblance is simply uncanny.
The Princess is simply in love.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren, Part II: Stranger Danger
"My goodness! How many you got in there?"
Blink. "Excuse me?"
"I said," the gentleman winked and continued in his authentic southern drawl, "how many you got in there?" He pointed at my mid-section with a grin.
"Uh..." I looked down at the rounded maternity shirt (which may or may not have had a small smudge of strawberry jam on it). "Just the one, so I'm told."
He whistled. "I woulda sworn you had three or four in there!"
I briefly compared our weight classes, wondering if I could take him, but thought better of brawling in Target. A fist fight would upset my long-suffering husband. I tried my cutest smile on for size and laughed, "Well, he'll be tall and handsome, just like his daddy!"
That worked. He said, "Awww", and I wasn't forced to punch him. Thus I escaped, dignity barely intact.
Just to be clear, I did not know this man. To this day, my memory has created him from an amalgam of several events, because I was stopped so many times by random individuals that I eventually crushed them all into a single memory in order to conserve space. Male, female, young, old, it mattered not - strangers thought themselves perfectly qualified to comment on my size and shape.
Stranger Danger.
This segment will offer stratagems for dealing with well-meaning strangers, but next week, I will include tips for acquaintances and family members. While this post could mislead you into thinking only the wandering sociopaths of Walmart are going to address your burgeoning middle, I cannot in good conscience allow you to proceed misinformed. Your mother won't warn you of Stranger Danger because she will consider it perfectly natural for her (and all her friends) to comment/offer advice/dictate your taste in layettes. But more on that later...
You will, of course, be thrilled when the bump is obvious. It's much nicer for random strangers to open doors for you, because it means you no longer just look pale and bloated. The early months can be distressing, for no one offers assistance when you are bent miserably over a shopping cart in the canned goods aisle and praying for relief from morning sickness.
Unfortunately, just because you are not sporting a bump doesn't mean that other symptoms won't fetch comment. I remember a particularly evil week of the first trimester, still reeling from the life-altering, nausea-inducing miracle that was my first pregnancy, when I crawled from the couch to our studio to teach a piano lesson. The precocious nine-year old scrambled through her first three scales, then spun about on the bench with the air of an interrogator. "Do you know," she demanded, "that your acne is all over your neck now too?"
"Yes, thank you," I answered. It was hard not to notice the constellations.
"Okay." She returned to the keys, satisfied.
But she was more curious as the months went on. As my due date neared, she would look more and more appalled when I welcomed her to her lesson. "You're enormous!" she would cry. Or, "Can you still drive?!"
That one brought out the irate-piano-teacher sigh. "Of course, I can still drive!" I said. "There's nothing wrong with my brain!" Which was a lie.
"But how do you fit behind the wheel?" she asked. The spirit of honest curiosity was too adorable to be infuriating. Cute nine-year-olds get away with everything.
"The truth is," I admitted, "I have to push the seat back a bit. But I can still drive. And I can still tell when you fake your left hand fingering - so let's try that scale again, shall we?"
Response Tactic #1: Gentle Distraction
One of the basic rules of good conversation is to ask questions about the other person. If at all possible, turn attention away from the bump and back to your questioner. A good friend once gave this gem of wisdom to me: If someone should happen to reach out and pat your belly, saying, "Oh! Aren't you adorable?!", you should feel free to respond by patting their belly, saying, "Aren't you the cutest flabby lady there ever was?"
Moving on from the well-meaning or clueless stranger, we address the randomly impertinent and malicious. I have heard from girlfriends again and again of strangers whispering everything from, "Babies are hard!" (Seriously? Duh.) to outright, "Ugh! My life was completely over once my kids showed up."
I also found that resentment can linger. While standing in a crafts store checkout, I was accosted from behind by two middle-aged ladies. After the obligatory comments, "You must be due yesterday!" and the response, "No... just six months in, thanks," they exchanged glances and leaned forward. "Kids are the worst," one began.
The other nodded. "It's true. My kids are monsters."
"Ungrateful little wretches."
My jaw may have dropped a little. "Oh?"
"Enjoy the little time left, honey," the first said, shaking her head. "They destroy your body."
"Oh, yes they do," her friend agreed. Her weathered face scowled. "You're never the same."
"As soon as that baby shows up, it's all over."
The cashier and I were staring in horror at this point, though she was trying to help me complete my transaction as quickly as possible. "Sign here," she whispered.
"Remember what I told you," the first crone cackled, which was when I realized she had to be a descendant of one of the Macbeth witches. "Babies are the worst!"
"Little monsters!" the other chimed in.
"Soon, you will look just like us!"
"Hideous - Like us! Like US!" they howled in wicked unison.
I fled as fast as my swollen feet would allow.
Response Tactic #2: Grateful Inquiry
When confronted with a doomsayer, try to appear both horrified and naive. After they declare, "Kids ruin your life!", respond with earnest sincerity, "Oh, no! I'm so glad you warned me! Is that what happened to you? Am I going to become cruel, inappropriate, and ugly too?"
Then run, or waddle, or duck behind a book display.
There is a line.
There is a line that shouldn't be crossed. According to the wise philosopher Bill Cosby, one should never ask a woman if she's pregnant. One may only assume the woman was pregnant if you are standing in the delivery room and see her birth a child. Then one may exclaim, "Oh! You were pregnant!" In no other circumstances is it entirely safe to ask. Mr. Cosby is a wise man.
But not everyone understands this. It is important to be kind and considerate to those who have not been trained. It is probably wrong to take advantage of them. But ---
Response Tactic #3: Play Dumb
Three weeks from my due date with my son, I was standing in a Starbucks. I want to say that I was there to get an organic green tea, but you and I both know that I was waiting for a Strawberries 'N Creme frappecino because it was July in North Carolina and I was melting. Anyway, while waiting for the barista, I moved to the end of the counter where I would block the least amount of traffic. A gentleman also awaiting his order looked up from his phone just long enough to smile and say, "Congratulations."
On sudden impulse, I played dumb. I stared at him, blankly. "For what?" I snapped.
His face went completely white. The jaw trembled and he gasped for air. "I-I..-I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"It's okay! I'm kidding!" I smiled reassuringly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I've wanted to do that for soooo long - you have no idea - I'm a terrible person. I'm sorry."
I wasn't, really.
Play Dumb has to go into the advice portion because it works. (A little too well.)
And I may be a horrible, terrible, vengeful goddess, but there comes a limit to what one can endure from the random public. At some point, you must defend yourself. I will back you up.
However, not all are vicious. Not every stranger is out to make you cry. I have other stories too, stories of kind gentlemen who hold the doors and insist on helping carry the groceries. Stories of kind ladies who murmur, "I remember those days. They are the best. Treasure every moment." In those cases, one should not answer, "You treasure it! I can't walk through a grocery store deli aisle without needing a Zofran tablet." One should respond --
Response Tactic #4: "Thank you".
"Thank you." Be gracious. Say, "Thank you", and move on.
If they try to touch the bump during flu season, put a hand gently to your cheek and say, "Dear me, I'm not feeling very well. You don't want to come near us", which isn't a lie, because you're not going to feel 100% yourself ever, because about 30% of you is busy becoming someone else.
But realize that some of the interference is just an attempt to reconnect to what is widely-remembered to be a glorious time of life. Most ladies don't recall the itchy skin and thinning hair. They remember the first flutters of baby feet. They remember the joy of growing hope and the tiny fuzzy baby socks.
So let them remember with rose-colored glasses and say, "Thank you."
Be sure to subscribe! In the next post, We'll discuss how to tell your family that you're bringing an addition to the next reunion!
Blink. "Excuse me?"
"I said," the gentleman winked and continued in his authentic southern drawl, "how many you got in there?" He pointed at my mid-section with a grin.
"Uh..." I looked down at the rounded maternity shirt (which may or may not have had a small smudge of strawberry jam on it). "Just the one, so I'm told."
He whistled. "I woulda sworn you had three or four in there!"
I briefly compared our weight classes, wondering if I could take him, but thought better of brawling in Target. A fist fight would upset my long-suffering husband. I tried my cutest smile on for size and laughed, "Well, he'll be tall and handsome, just like his daddy!"
That worked. He said, "Awww", and I wasn't forced to punch him. Thus I escaped, dignity barely intact.
Just to be clear, I did not know this man. To this day, my memory has created him from an amalgam of several events, because I was stopped so many times by random individuals that I eventually crushed them all into a single memory in order to conserve space. Male, female, young, old, it mattered not - strangers thought themselves perfectly qualified to comment on my size and shape.
Stranger Danger.
This segment will offer stratagems for dealing with well-meaning strangers, but next week, I will include tips for acquaintances and family members. While this post could mislead you into thinking only the wandering sociopaths of Walmart are going to address your burgeoning middle, I cannot in good conscience allow you to proceed misinformed. Your mother won't warn you of Stranger Danger because she will consider it perfectly natural for her (and all her friends) to comment/offer advice/dictate your taste in layettes. But more on that later...
You will, of course, be thrilled when the bump is obvious. It's much nicer for random strangers to open doors for you, because it means you no longer just look pale and bloated. The early months can be distressing, for no one offers assistance when you are bent miserably over a shopping cart in the canned goods aisle and praying for relief from morning sickness.
Unfortunately, just because you are not sporting a bump doesn't mean that other symptoms won't fetch comment. I remember a particularly evil week of the first trimester, still reeling from the life-altering, nausea-inducing miracle that was my first pregnancy, when I crawled from the couch to our studio to teach a piano lesson. The precocious nine-year old scrambled through her first three scales, then spun about on the bench with the air of an interrogator. "Do you know," she demanded, "that your acne is all over your neck now too?"
"Yes, thank you," I answered. It was hard not to notice the constellations.
"Okay." She returned to the keys, satisfied.
But she was more curious as the months went on. As my due date neared, she would look more and more appalled when I welcomed her to her lesson. "You're enormous!" she would cry. Or, "Can you still drive?!"
That one brought out the irate-piano-teacher sigh. "Of course, I can still drive!" I said. "There's nothing wrong with my brain!" Which was a lie.
"But how do you fit behind the wheel?" she asked. The spirit of honest curiosity was too adorable to be infuriating. Cute nine-year-olds get away with everything.
"The truth is," I admitted, "I have to push the seat back a bit. But I can still drive. And I can still tell when you fake your left hand fingering - so let's try that scale again, shall we?"
Response Tactic #1: Gentle Distraction
One of the basic rules of good conversation is to ask questions about the other person. If at all possible, turn attention away from the bump and back to your questioner. A good friend once gave this gem of wisdom to me: If someone should happen to reach out and pat your belly, saying, "Oh! Aren't you adorable?!", you should feel free to respond by patting their belly, saying, "Aren't you the cutest flabby lady there ever was?"
Moving on from the well-meaning or clueless stranger, we address the randomly impertinent and malicious. I have heard from girlfriends again and again of strangers whispering everything from, "Babies are hard!" (Seriously? Duh.) to outright, "Ugh! My life was completely over once my kids showed up."
I also found that resentment can linger. While standing in a crafts store checkout, I was accosted from behind by two middle-aged ladies. After the obligatory comments, "You must be due yesterday!" and the response, "No... just six months in, thanks," they exchanged glances and leaned forward. "Kids are the worst," one began.
The other nodded. "It's true. My kids are monsters."
"Ungrateful little wretches."
My jaw may have dropped a little. "Oh?"
"Enjoy the little time left, honey," the first said, shaking her head. "They destroy your body."
"Oh, yes they do," her friend agreed. Her weathered face scowled. "You're never the same."
"As soon as that baby shows up, it's all over."
The cashier and I were staring in horror at this point, though she was trying to help me complete my transaction as quickly as possible. "Sign here," she whispered.
"Remember what I told you," the first crone cackled, which was when I realized she had to be a descendant of one of the Macbeth witches. "Babies are the worst!"
"Little monsters!" the other chimed in.
"Soon, you will look just like us!"
"Hideous - Like us! Like US!" they howled in wicked unison.
I fled as fast as my swollen feet would allow.
Response Tactic #2: Grateful Inquiry
When confronted with a doomsayer, try to appear both horrified and naive. After they declare, "Kids ruin your life!", respond with earnest sincerity, "Oh, no! I'm so glad you warned me! Is that what happened to you? Am I going to become cruel, inappropriate, and ugly too?"
Then run, or waddle, or duck behind a book display.
There is a line.
There is a line that shouldn't be crossed. According to the wise philosopher Bill Cosby, one should never ask a woman if she's pregnant. One may only assume the woman was pregnant if you are standing in the delivery room and see her birth a child. Then one may exclaim, "Oh! You were pregnant!" In no other circumstances is it entirely safe to ask. Mr. Cosby is a wise man.
But not everyone understands this. It is important to be kind and considerate to those who have not been trained. It is probably wrong to take advantage of them. But ---
Response Tactic #3: Play Dumb
Three weeks from my due date with my son, I was standing in a Starbucks. I want to say that I was there to get an organic green tea, but you and I both know that I was waiting for a Strawberries 'N Creme frappecino because it was July in North Carolina and I was melting. Anyway, while waiting for the barista, I moved to the end of the counter where I would block the least amount of traffic. A gentleman also awaiting his order looked up from his phone just long enough to smile and say, "Congratulations."
On sudden impulse, I played dumb. I stared at him, blankly. "For what?" I snapped.
His face went completely white. The jaw trembled and he gasped for air. "I-I..-I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"It's okay! I'm kidding!" I smiled reassuringly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I've wanted to do that for soooo long - you have no idea - I'm a terrible person. I'm sorry."
I wasn't, really.
Play Dumb has to go into the advice portion because it works. (A little too well.)
And I may be a horrible, terrible, vengeful goddess, but there comes a limit to what one can endure from the random public. At some point, you must defend yourself. I will back you up.
However, not all are vicious. Not every stranger is out to make you cry. I have other stories too, stories of kind gentlemen who hold the doors and insist on helping carry the groceries. Stories of kind ladies who murmur, "I remember those days. They are the best. Treasure every moment." In those cases, one should not answer, "You treasure it! I can't walk through a grocery store deli aisle without needing a Zofran tablet." One should respond --
Response Tactic #4: "Thank you".
"Thank you." Be gracious. Say, "Thank you", and move on.
If they try to touch the bump during flu season, put a hand gently to your cheek and say, "Dear me, I'm not feeling very well. You don't want to come near us", which isn't a lie, because you're not going to feel 100% yourself ever, because about 30% of you is busy becoming someone else.
But realize that some of the interference is just an attempt to reconnect to what is widely-remembered to be a glorious time of life. Most ladies don't recall the itchy skin and thinning hair. They remember the first flutters of baby feet. They remember the joy of growing hope and the tiny fuzzy baby socks.
So let them remember with rose-colored glasses and say, "Thank you."
Be sure to subscribe! In the next post, We'll discuss how to tell your family that you're bringing an addition to the next reunion!
Monday, June 9, 2014
Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren: Part I 'Pregnancy Brain'
I am a walking GPS.
When we first moved to Greensboro, my husband made a wrong turn. I told him it wasn't a big deal as long we were heading north. With no maps, no knowledge of any of the street names, and no new-fangled smart phones, I navigated the snarl of back roads and we arrived unscathed at our new home. I brag because Greensboro is the sort of town that plans its major roads with only one aim in mind - to confuse anyone not local into accidentally driving to Virginia.
I also brag because the following story isn't very flattering.
Which leads me to the title of this series: Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren. There are many. I was one of the first of our friends to get pregnant, and while being a mammoth-sized guinea pig, I discovered that there are lots of things my mother didn't tell me - like, delivery doesn't happen in a 13 minutes window right after your water breaks. I don't really blame her for that one. I blame Hollywood.
Then there's 'What To Expect When You're Expecting', the book that prepared me for detecting a cerebral hemorrhage in my unborn child and helped me to recognize that I should worry about giving my child cancer in utero, but failed to include instructions for figuring out which of the 87 types of pacifier is best for baby's teeth and will actually be accepted by the baby - that is, if you're the sort of horrible parent who allows things like pacifiers.
And while sitcoms prepared me for the weird food cravings, and my research warned about mood swings, nobody told me that I would, overnight, become a completely incompetent moron. No kind OB/GYN patted my shoulder and said, "You know, you're usually capable of dressing yourself, but today you're going to put your shirt on inside out, spill yogurt down it, and not notice until you're standing in the checkout at Food Lion."
This is all very unfair. And since no one bothered to tell me that I might one day have a hairdresser say, "Oh! There's your little pregnancy bald spot!", I feel it is my duty to at least prepare my beloved friends and family who are considering this venture called Pregnancy & Parenthood.
Which brings us back to the fact that - up until my unexpected firstborn made me hate the smell of rotisserie chicken - I was ready for that Ranger test where they dump you in the desert and make you find your way home blindfolded. 'WTEWYE' (what kind of title is that for a book anyway?) warned me that some women experienced 'Pregnancy Brain'.
I experienced panic.
Why? Because I got lost. On an elevator. In a four story building.
A Four. Story. Building. Not the Mall of America. Not Super Target (who hasn't gotten turned around in one of those?). I was completely lost in a simple brick office building.
I'd had my prenatal appointment, where the midwife completely failed to mention anything about oncoming insanity, and was preparing to return to my car. When I stepped from the office, I paused. This hall looked unfamiliar. Was this the same hall I had entered by? Was that window always there?
I glanced over my shoulder. Doctor's office was still there. I had not fallen down the rabbit hole.
This is why they provide little signs with strangely engraved white letters in long, bland hallways. ELEVATOR. I followed the arrow. I had come in on an elevator. I was sure of it. From a parking garage. Yes. That was it.
I got onto the empty elevator and paused, finger frozen over the buttons. There were only four. But I couldn't decide. I hadn't come in on the first floor, surely. The third? I pressed.
Ding.
The doors opened. No. That couldn't be it. That wasn't familiar at all. It must have been the second floor. Silly me.
Ding.
Uh..., that isn't it either. Where was the doctor's office? Four. Right? Yes. Four. I think.
That was when I realized that I couldn't even remember which floor I had originally entered the elevator from. As in, 38 seconds previously. While I wasn't so far gone as to assume I'd been born, bred, and abandoned in this elevator, it did give me pause.
I had lost my mind.
I decided to try floor one. What could it hurt?
Ding.
That was definitely not where I had parked. It was an enormous lobby with windows and people. Two of the people got onto the elevator, an adorable couple who was obviously expecting a child. I was briefly jealous that this gentleman had had the foresight to accompany his wife, lest she go suddenly mad and be lost in an office complex. He didn't look the type that would be amenable to his child being born in an elevator.
They smiled at me and pressed the 4 button.
Since I hadn't gotten off, I realized I had to pick a destination. Any destination. I mashed the 2 and hoped they would believe that I had simply forgotten something and was returning to --
Ding.
Oh dear heaven, that was not the right floor. I didn't get off. They didn't get off.
We exchanged nervous smiles.
Three. Three. Please be Level 3 -
Ding.
I panicked and made a decision. "Oh! Here it is!" I laughed gaily and stepped off the elevator. "It's just so easy to get turned around in this place!"
They nodded and smiled as the door slid shut. The man may have put a protective arm around his wife - I couldn't be sure. But it didn't matter, because I wouldn't have been capable of stalking them if I'd wanted to. I had just jumped off the elevator onto a completely unfamiliar floor.
There was an exit into the parking deck, so I took it. But I was no fool - I knew that my car was lost forever and I was doomed with it. So I called my husband.
"I want you to know that if I'm not home for dinner, you have to come looking for me," I said in a perfectly reasonable voice.
"Uh.... where will you be?"
"I don't know for certain. I'm lost at the doctor's office."
"Oh! Are you at a new one?"
"No."
"Wait. What?"
"Would you please quit asking questions?" I cried. "I've just ridden an elevator up and down every floor of the building and I've lost our car and now I'm hiking up these obscenely steep concrete steps because our car must be here somewhere and if I go into labor you have to find me before I give birth to our child in a parking deck! We'd have to name it something weird like Garage... but with a sort of French accent - "
"Are you telling me," he interrupted gently, "that you got lost at that little office building where - "
"Nope!" I shrieked. "Not lost! Found it!"
"You found the car?"
"Yes. Obivously. Ha. Ha." I laughed. "It was right here. Where I knew it was. All along."
"So... you're going home now?"
"Yeah," I said casually, "where else? Those dishes won't wash themselves!"
"Uh-huh..."
"So - yeah - you know - you don't need to worry about me." I unlocked the door. "By the way, we still live in the apartment, right? The one on New Garden Road?"
"Yeeess...."
We got lost in Greensboro twice within the next few months, so we scraped the pennies together and bough a GPS for ourselves for Christmas. I think my husband preferred the soothing Garmin voice to the hysterical whimpering of his wife repeating, "I don't know, I don't know - is it that? Left? Wait - no - I don't know, I don't know...", and really, who can blame him?
So that's Part I, 'Pregnancy Brain', for my beloved friends and family and ladies (and men, because you need to know what's going to happen to the perfectly rational person you married). You are warned. 'Pregnancy Brain' is no laughing matter. It will substitute salt for sugar and leave you with only one shaved leg. It will make you lose track of time so that you arrive a day before your scheduled appointment and you will argue with the receptionist for ten minutes before she blinks sweetly and says, "But the fourteenth is TOMORROW". You should probably get a tracking device in case you wander off, and an automatic turn-off switch for your oven. Double check and triple check which burner you turn on before you cook a plastic bowl of pancake batter while wondering why the skillet is still so cold.
And expect the unexpected. (Hey! That's what that book should have been called. 'Expect the Unexpected'. I need to trademark that.) Take heart, for some of the brain will return. It will be older, wiser, able to calculate bulk diapers per unit and compile a list of vacation supplies while making dinner, (and talking your friend through a sewing project). But a lot of those useful things, like the Battle of Hastings and what that thingamabob at the end of shoelaces is called will sort of fade away. You better write those down. Tie a string around your finger to remind you of things.
It will remind you to look down and say, "Blast. What is that there for?"
When we first moved to Greensboro, my husband made a wrong turn. I told him it wasn't a big deal as long we were heading north. With no maps, no knowledge of any of the street names, and no new-fangled smart phones, I navigated the snarl of back roads and we arrived unscathed at our new home. I brag because Greensboro is the sort of town that plans its major roads with only one aim in mind - to confuse anyone not local into accidentally driving to Virginia.
I also brag because the following story isn't very flattering.
Which leads me to the title of this series: Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren. There are many. I was one of the first of our friends to get pregnant, and while being a mammoth-sized guinea pig, I discovered that there are lots of things my mother didn't tell me - like, delivery doesn't happen in a 13 minutes window right after your water breaks. I don't really blame her for that one. I blame Hollywood.
Then there's 'What To Expect When You're Expecting', the book that prepared me for detecting a cerebral hemorrhage in my unborn child and helped me to recognize that I should worry about giving my child cancer in utero, but failed to include instructions for figuring out which of the 87 types of pacifier is best for baby's teeth and will actually be accepted by the baby - that is, if you're the sort of horrible parent who allows things like pacifiers.
And while sitcoms prepared me for the weird food cravings, and my research warned about mood swings, nobody told me that I would, overnight, become a completely incompetent moron. No kind OB/GYN patted my shoulder and said, "You know, you're usually capable of dressing yourself, but today you're going to put your shirt on inside out, spill yogurt down it, and not notice until you're standing in the checkout at Food Lion."
This is all very unfair. And since no one bothered to tell me that I might one day have a hairdresser say, "Oh! There's your little pregnancy bald spot!", I feel it is my duty to at least prepare my beloved friends and family who are considering this venture called Pregnancy & Parenthood.
Which brings us back to the fact that - up until my unexpected firstborn made me hate the smell of rotisserie chicken - I was ready for that Ranger test where they dump you in the desert and make you find your way home blindfolded. 'WTEWYE' (what kind of title is that for a book anyway?) warned me that some women experienced 'Pregnancy Brain'.
I experienced panic.
Why? Because I got lost. On an elevator. In a four story building.
A Four. Story. Building. Not the Mall of America. Not Super Target (who hasn't gotten turned around in one of those?). I was completely lost in a simple brick office building.
I'd had my prenatal appointment, where the midwife completely failed to mention anything about oncoming insanity, and was preparing to return to my car. When I stepped from the office, I paused. This hall looked unfamiliar. Was this the same hall I had entered by? Was that window always there?
I glanced over my shoulder. Doctor's office was still there. I had not fallen down the rabbit hole.
This is why they provide little signs with strangely engraved white letters in long, bland hallways. ELEVATOR. I followed the arrow. I had come in on an elevator. I was sure of it. From a parking garage. Yes. That was it.
I got onto the empty elevator and paused, finger frozen over the buttons. There were only four. But I couldn't decide. I hadn't come in on the first floor, surely. The third? I pressed.
Ding.
The doors opened. No. That couldn't be it. That wasn't familiar at all. It must have been the second floor. Silly me.
Ding.
Uh..., that isn't it either. Where was the doctor's office? Four. Right? Yes. Four. I think.
That was when I realized that I couldn't even remember which floor I had originally entered the elevator from. As in, 38 seconds previously. While I wasn't so far gone as to assume I'd been born, bred, and abandoned in this elevator, it did give me pause.
I had lost my mind.
I decided to try floor one. What could it hurt?
Ding.
That was definitely not where I had parked. It was an enormous lobby with windows and people. Two of the people got onto the elevator, an adorable couple who was obviously expecting a child. I was briefly jealous that this gentleman had had the foresight to accompany his wife, lest she go suddenly mad and be lost in an office complex. He didn't look the type that would be amenable to his child being born in an elevator.
They smiled at me and pressed the 4 button.
Since I hadn't gotten off, I realized I had to pick a destination. Any destination. I mashed the 2 and hoped they would believe that I had simply forgotten something and was returning to --
Ding.
Oh dear heaven, that was not the right floor. I didn't get off. They didn't get off.
We exchanged nervous smiles.
Three. Three. Please be Level 3 -
Ding.
I panicked and made a decision. "Oh! Here it is!" I laughed gaily and stepped off the elevator. "It's just so easy to get turned around in this place!"
They nodded and smiled as the door slid shut. The man may have put a protective arm around his wife - I couldn't be sure. But it didn't matter, because I wouldn't have been capable of stalking them if I'd wanted to. I had just jumped off the elevator onto a completely unfamiliar floor.
There was an exit into the parking deck, so I took it. But I was no fool - I knew that my car was lost forever and I was doomed with it. So I called my husband.
"I want you to know that if I'm not home for dinner, you have to come looking for me," I said in a perfectly reasonable voice.
"Uh.... where will you be?"
"I don't know for certain. I'm lost at the doctor's office."
"Oh! Are you at a new one?"
"No."
"Wait. What?"
"Would you please quit asking questions?" I cried. "I've just ridden an elevator up and down every floor of the building and I've lost our car and now I'm hiking up these obscenely steep concrete steps because our car must be here somewhere and if I go into labor you have to find me before I give birth to our child in a parking deck! We'd have to name it something weird like Garage... but with a sort of French accent - "
"Are you telling me," he interrupted gently, "that you got lost at that little office building where - "
"Nope!" I shrieked. "Not lost! Found it!"
"You found the car?"
"Yes. Obivously. Ha. Ha." I laughed. "It was right here. Where I knew it was. All along."
"So... you're going home now?"
"Yeah," I said casually, "where else? Those dishes won't wash themselves!"
"Uh-huh..."
"So - yeah - you know - you don't need to worry about me." I unlocked the door. "By the way, we still live in the apartment, right? The one on New Garden Road?"
"Yeeess...."
We got lost in Greensboro twice within the next few months, so we scraped the pennies together and bough a GPS for ourselves for Christmas. I think my husband preferred the soothing Garmin voice to the hysterical whimpering of his wife repeating, "I don't know, I don't know - is it that? Left? Wait - no - I don't know, I don't know...", and really, who can blame him?
So that's Part I, 'Pregnancy Brain', for my beloved friends and family and ladies (and men, because you need to know what's going to happen to the perfectly rational person you married). You are warned. 'Pregnancy Brain' is no laughing matter. It will substitute salt for sugar and leave you with only one shaved leg. It will make you lose track of time so that you arrive a day before your scheduled appointment and you will argue with the receptionist for ten minutes before she blinks sweetly and says, "But the fourteenth is TOMORROW". You should probably get a tracking device in case you wander off, and an automatic turn-off switch for your oven. Double check and triple check which burner you turn on before you cook a plastic bowl of pancake batter while wondering why the skillet is still so cold.
And expect the unexpected. (Hey! That's what that book should have been called. 'Expect the Unexpected'. I need to trademark that.) Take heart, for some of the brain will return. It will be older, wiser, able to calculate bulk diapers per unit and compile a list of vacation supplies while making dinner, (and talking your friend through a sewing project). But a lot of those useful things, like the Battle of Hastings and what that thingamabob at the end of shoelaces is called will sort of fade away. You better write those down. Tie a string around your finger to remind you of things.
It will remind you to look down and say, "Blast. What is that there for?"
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