Ah. Now I know why I spill my guts. Your words--all of them--are a balm to my worry-wortin', mind-contortin' soul. Thank you for that.
I also walked around our muggy, spring-clad town and bought a very, very small little shot of Ben and Jerry's (Chocolate Fudge Brownie, in case you're wondering). And I sang with some friends who were also having a nerve-wracking day.
On another note, I have been tagged by the lovely JellyBelly with an auspicious octo-centric meme. A great distraction--just in time.
8 things I'm looking forward to:
1. October 22nd
2. Finishing my dissertation
3. Getting our damn house organized (especially the Pit of Despair, aka the garage)
4. Garden tomatoes and potatoes
5. The aforementioned ice cream
6. Not working so much
7. Rebuilding our savings to a good, solid level, post IF, home reno and refi (I know, I'm a Capricorn)
8. Using these savings to get a fly farm started in the next 4 years or so
8 things I did yesterday:
1. Gave lecture about Mongolian hip hop (seriously)
2. Ate mighty fine burrito
3. Dawdled on the internet at other university job (shhhh)
4. Ate amazing almond and chocolate croissants (hey, it was 2-for-1 day at my favorite bakery!)
5. Learned more about highland games and the bands who play at them
6. Admired our garden and pulled some weeds
7. Ate some really good salmon that my husband made (can you see where my mind is of late?)
8. Tried to find a good medieval German song to sing at a friend's wedding
8 things I wish I could do:
1. Have health insurance I didn't have to pay an arm and a leg for
2. Spend a year in Mongolia
3. Read Chinese
4. Make really good Japanese and Indian food
5. Work as a farmer and not have to worry about other jobs on the side
6. Buy a Thomas M0ser bed
7. Get fertiles to stop saying stupid shit to my IF sisters and brothers
8. Wave my magic wand and have everyone in the blogosphere have their dream baby, as well as an inheritance from a mysterious relation that somehow is exactly what they've already spent on treatment and heartache.
8 shows I watch...
Uh, I don't have a TV (you have to have cable in our town to get any reception, and we refuse to pay for it). I guess I could just type Battlestar Galactica eight times? I also like Top Chef and the Colbert Report, which I watch online sometimes.
See? I do know something about pop culture!
8 favorite fruits
1. Blueberries
2. Sour cherries
3. Strawberries
4. Raspberries
5. Blackberries
6. Persimmons
7. Pawpaws
8. Good funky apples from old stock
8 places I'd like to travel
1. India
2. Bhutan
3. Transylvania
4. Wales
5. Labrador
6. Greenland
7. Brazil
8. I'd love to go back to Germany and hike around with my guy drinking ridiculous amonts of beer. Is that a place? Beerland?
8 places I've lived
1. New York City
2. Portland, OR
3. Helsinki, Finland
4. Moscow, Russia
5. Stuttgart, Germany
6. A certain college town I'm very coy about in the Midwest
7. New Haven, CT (Awful, don't ever live there. Ever.)
8. A very small town in Missouri with four houses that I am also coy about.
Anyone else feel like a good meme to get over that midweek hump?
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Crazy
Sure, we're never gonna survive unless... etc. But I hate the way ob appointments always manage to make me completely and utterly psychotic for no discernible logical reason.
I should be happy: Bruiser's beating away at 144 or something bpm, my uterus is a good size, my cervix is closed and long, I've gained a bit of weight but not too terribly much, and everything's just hunky dory. It's our anniversary today.
But I'm wrapped in a web of anxiety, a delayed reaction to the pelvic exam today, methinks. I'm worried about my various test results. I'm worried about a fellowship I applied for. I'm worried because my in-laws bought us a lovely antique cradle and it's sitting in our living room, staring back at me. I'm worried about insurance next semester. I'm just worried, with that gut-knotting free-range anxiety that has no clear anchor or cause.
For the first time in months, I wish I could have a glass of red wine.
I should be happy: Bruiser's beating away at 144 or something bpm, my uterus is a good size, my cervix is closed and long, I've gained a bit of weight but not too terribly much, and everything's just hunky dory. It's our anniversary today.
But I'm wrapped in a web of anxiety, a delayed reaction to the pelvic exam today, methinks. I'm worried about my various test results. I'm worried about a fellowship I applied for. I'm worried because my in-laws bought us a lovely antique cradle and it's sitting in our living room, staring back at me. I'm worried about insurance next semester. I'm just worried, with that gut-knotting free-range anxiety that has no clear anchor or cause.
For the first time in months, I wish I could have a glass of red wine.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Theoretical Children
Um, clearly, children mentioned (the imaginary kind, that is)
At the kind suggestion of The Misfit, I've decided to share something that will likely expose me for what I truly am: one of those.
I'll explain. For about a year in my life, I was deeply committed to a yoga practice. I would do 30-60 minutes of practice a day, including 15 minutes or so of meditation and breathing exercises. This came during a very confused and confusing part of my late 20s, when I was still attempting to put my life together after divorce, unraveling in a very strange and complicated love affair, and drinking more than I should (but less than I had the year previous).
One day, during my meditation, I saw something, all in a flash, unwilled: I saw what I thought was a young boy, about three years old, with blondish, shoulder-length hair. He had dark eyes, and looked somewhat petulant but basically happy. He stood in front of a dark green row of bushes and trees, the kind of treeline you have at the back of some yards or some fields. I felt this was my future child.
Oddly enough, when I saw baby pictures of my guy, he looked a hell of a lot like this kid in my yoga-induced mental image.
Other than my hippy delusions, I haven't had really distinct images what what I hoped my child/ren would be like. I hope s/he loves nature like I do, and is curious. I hope s/he learns to do something that gives them joy and maybe even helps them earn a living. If everything goes well and genetics have their say, chances are this kid will have lots of energy, like to move, like to talk, and enjoy being right (characteristics my guy and I share).
My ideal is a bit odd: I'd like to be surprised by the unexpected, happy path this person forges for him/herself (damn, English pronouns are so fucking irritating when you're trying to be non-gender-specific!). I'd like to wake up twenty or thirty years from now, marveling at how the heck this person figured out such a wacky, beautiful way to get from Point A to the Point B they hoped for.
I'm going to reiterate Misfit's questions: Do you have a theorectical child? An ideal you wish and long for?
At the kind suggestion of The Misfit, I've decided to share something that will likely expose me for what I truly am: one of those.
I'll explain. For about a year in my life, I was deeply committed to a yoga practice. I would do 30-60 minutes of practice a day, including 15 minutes or so of meditation and breathing exercises. This came during a very confused and confusing part of my late 20s, when I was still attempting to put my life together after divorce, unraveling in a very strange and complicated love affair, and drinking more than I should (but less than I had the year previous).
One day, during my meditation, I saw something, all in a flash, unwilled: I saw what I thought was a young boy, about three years old, with blondish, shoulder-length hair. He had dark eyes, and looked somewhat petulant but basically happy. He stood in front of a dark green row of bushes and trees, the kind of treeline you have at the back of some yards or some fields. I felt this was my future child.
Oddly enough, when I saw baby pictures of my guy, he looked a hell of a lot like this kid in my yoga-induced mental image.
Other than my hippy delusions, I haven't had really distinct images what what I hoped my child/ren would be like. I hope s/he loves nature like I do, and is curious. I hope s/he learns to do something that gives them joy and maybe even helps them earn a living. If everything goes well and genetics have their say, chances are this kid will have lots of energy, like to move, like to talk, and enjoy being right (characteristics my guy and I share).
My ideal is a bit odd: I'd like to be surprised by the unexpected, happy path this person forges for him/herself (damn, English pronouns are so fucking irritating when you're trying to be non-gender-specific!). I'd like to wake up twenty or thirty years from now, marveling at how the heck this person figured out such a wacky, beautiful way to get from Point A to the Point B they hoped for.
I'm going to reiterate Misfit's questions: Do you have a theorectical child? An ideal you wish and long for?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Mulch
Not that I'm posting merely to cover the bare earth of an updated blog.
No, I'm thinking about mulch and what's called the Fukuoka method of farming. My man showed me some truly inspiring videos of this no-till, no-compost (except to start seeds), minimal soil disturbance approach. Basically, you establish good conditions in various ways--back to the mulch here--and let the plants pursue their own ends of growing, reproducing, dying. You leave their roots in the ground and lop off any parts you don't use to replenish the mulch.
I nearly burst into tears when I heard one particularly accomplished gardner/farmer mention that plants use only about 2% of the microelements and other soil nutrients to create their bodies. The rest is all light and air.
And they do this without knowing. Without trying. I started there... like any embryo, creating myself from two cells. At what point did I turn away from this and begin to doubt?
Shit. I have so much to learn from lettuce and leeks.
No, I'm thinking about mulch and what's called the Fukuoka method of farming. My man showed me some truly inspiring videos of this no-till, no-compost (except to start seeds), minimal soil disturbance approach. Basically, you establish good conditions in various ways--back to the mulch here--and let the plants pursue their own ends of growing, reproducing, dying. You leave their roots in the ground and lop off any parts you don't use to replenish the mulch.
I nearly burst into tears when I heard one particularly accomplished gardner/farmer mention that plants use only about 2% of the microelements and other soil nutrients to create their bodies. The rest is all light and air.
And they do this without knowing. Without trying. I started there... like any embryo, creating myself from two cells. At what point did I turn away from this and begin to doubt?
Shit. I have so much to learn from lettuce and leeks.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
13 weeks
Looks like I'm in my 2nd trimester. Holy smokes.
My pledge to you:
My pledge to you:
- No creepy tickers with mutant floating pixel fetus (no offense to others who enjoy them)
- No complaining about how "fat" I am, etc.
- No belly pics (I will post pictures of my cat's tummies, if asked, however)
- No lengthy discussion of fancy baby crap (I may crow if I find some cool junk used)
- No self-righteous shit about birth plans, attachment parenting, breastfeeding, whatever.
Friday, April 10, 2009
A funny thing happened on the way to my midterm...
(Pregnancy, theorectical children mentioned.)
I had to give a midterm yesterday (for my intensive 8-week class). While I was rushing to find an unoccupied ladies room, my advisor, whom I had been bugging about various things over email, appeared and insisted we talk.
We discussed various options for me next year, and had a good chat, as usual. He recalled his own grad student days, when he was expecting his kids. Like many grad students, his family was on Medicaid and WIC. He recommended I get the apple juice concentrate from WIC, which he said was pretty good straight.
Perhaps we need to change the name: Not WIC, but WICSCGS (Women, Infant Children, and Sugar-Crazed Grad Students).
It's crazy to think the guy running our department at a Research One major university, not all that long ago, was getting government support. And funny enough, he's a Republican.
I will likely also be on WIC and our child will hopefully qualify for insurance under the state children's health insurance plan. It's that, or pay $6500 a year through the university, or around $400 through my guy's job. That's a big chunk of his take home pay, at a time when that will basically be all we have (though my guy's already got two other part-time jobs cooking, bless his hardworking heart).
Which is why we are going to have the thriftiest damn layette in existance. I mean, we won't be using a cardboard box as a basinet, but we'll be close. Thank goodness for a bevy of psyched grandparents and incredibly supportive (and better earning) friends with toddlers and left-over baby loot.
I say this not to complain, but to get the word out: It's totally possible to have a good life on the cheap, with a little help from the community, and even state and federal government if need be. It really does take a village, when you're on a shoestring.
I had to give a midterm yesterday (for my intensive 8-week class). While I was rushing to find an unoccupied ladies room, my advisor, whom I had been bugging about various things over email, appeared and insisted we talk.
We discussed various options for me next year, and had a good chat, as usual. He recalled his own grad student days, when he was expecting his kids. Like many grad students, his family was on Medicaid and WIC. He recommended I get the apple juice concentrate from WIC, which he said was pretty good straight.
Perhaps we need to change the name: Not WIC, but WICSCGS (Women, Infant Children, and Sugar-Crazed Grad Students).
It's crazy to think the guy running our department at a Research One major university, not all that long ago, was getting government support. And funny enough, he's a Republican.
I will likely also be on WIC and our child will hopefully qualify for insurance under the state children's health insurance plan. It's that, or pay $6500 a year through the university, or around $400 through my guy's job. That's a big chunk of his take home pay, at a time when that will basically be all we have (though my guy's already got two other part-time jobs cooking, bless his hardworking heart).
Which is why we are going to have the thriftiest damn layette in existance. I mean, we won't be using a cardboard box as a basinet, but we'll be close. Thank goodness for a bevy of psyched grandparents and incredibly supportive (and better earning) friends with toddlers and left-over baby loot.
I say this not to complain, but to get the word out: It's totally possible to have a good life on the cheap, with a little help from the community, and even state and federal government if need be. It really does take a village, when you're on a shoestring.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Dreams, Old and Fresh
Last night, I dreamed I was in Moscow. It was a younger me, free of obligations or directions, unmarried and short-haired, but somehow still mysteriously pregnant. It was the very end of twilight, and the old winding streets of the heart of the city were deep in shadows, broad, leafy pools of darkness from the trees above. It was a dream Russia: everything was so well cared for and neat and calm. I walked without fear.
Suddenly, from around a corner, a young man stepped out of the shadows. He walked up to me and unexpectedly but very softly kissed me on the lips. Then he stood back from me and looked me deep in the eyes. I was not afraid. I was instantly in love.
I remember my dreams every night now, and they are usually jumbled messes of images stolen from the previous day's experiences. But this one somehow came from some other part of my psyche. It echoed with promise: that somehow, my other life that unfolded half a world away was still possible, relevant, a source of inspiration and creativity. My animus, my male muse had emerged, bearing a still unclear gift.
I don't know why, but it reminds me of another dream I had, several years ago, when still deep in the dark pit of IF despair. I think I've already discussed it here, but I'll repeat myself... I had somehow sneaked into Russia without meaning to, without a visa. Somehow, I was forced to confront a whole bad guys club (a la The Manchurian Candidate) who unleashed a dragon on an innocent man, woman, and their children. To save the family, I flung myself in front of them and somehow defeated the dragon. It became part of me, curled up in disturbing miniature on my cheek as a painful, permanent scar. Yet no one else could see it, and no one seemed to care that I had just done the impossible and survived.
That, friends, is the essence of the IF experience: We bear mysterious marks we can't erase, and once we've found our release, no one recognizes our secret yet astonishing heroism.
Suddenly, from around a corner, a young man stepped out of the shadows. He walked up to me and unexpectedly but very softly kissed me on the lips. Then he stood back from me and looked me deep in the eyes. I was not afraid. I was instantly in love.
I remember my dreams every night now, and they are usually jumbled messes of images stolen from the previous day's experiences. But this one somehow came from some other part of my psyche. It echoed with promise: that somehow, my other life that unfolded half a world away was still possible, relevant, a source of inspiration and creativity. My animus, my male muse had emerged, bearing a still unclear gift.
I don't know why, but it reminds me of another dream I had, several years ago, when still deep in the dark pit of IF despair. I think I've already discussed it here, but I'll repeat myself... I had somehow sneaked into Russia without meaning to, without a visa. Somehow, I was forced to confront a whole bad guys club (a la The Manchurian Candidate) who unleashed a dragon on an innocent man, woman, and their children. To save the family, I flung myself in front of them and somehow defeated the dragon. It became part of me, curled up in disturbing miniature on my cheek as a painful, permanent scar. Yet no one else could see it, and no one seemed to care that I had just done the impossible and survived.
That, friends, is the essence of the IF experience: We bear mysterious marks we can't erase, and once we've found our release, no one recognizes our secret yet astonishing heroism.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Even my appointments are boring now
Note: Stupid pregnancy wanderings ahead.
Unless it turns out that I have mysteriously acquired HIV or Hep B, I think this had to be one of the dullest appointments ever. Not that I miss the drama; it's just strange to have it suddenly exit, stage right, end Act I.
First, I asked if there was any way we could confirm that Bruiser was still among us. The nurse-midwife did a Doppler scan of my belly and voila. The swish swish that falls somewhere between crickets on Red Bull and a very aggressive washing machine. Way to live, Bruiser!
Then, the medical history. It was dull. Random relatives with random ailments, most of which were related to lifestyle. Or, in more distant relatives, insanity.
The most gut-clenching part was thinking about testing. Do I do the quad screen or the level II ultrasound? Would we abort a special needs child, if in the off chance we had one? Terror gripped me, and irritation. I'm at that ridiculous point, right on the cusp of 35, but not officially in the Advanced Maternal Age category. That means, no insurance coverage for any of this. The thought of paying out of pocket for something that would merely tell me I might need more testing frustrates me. The good ol' no guarantees, lots of cash bs we IFers know so well.
I think we might just opt out of the whole affair and take whoever we get, be s/he regular or unleaded. We have a wonderful program locally that helps disabled folks create amazing art and find useful, compassionate employment. When I thought of that, of the people I had met there, I realized that it didn't really matter. I only hope my child will have capacity for joy and creativity. The rest will be as it will be.
And now, the next appointment is in a month. When they'll do a pap and feel my uterus and likely give me another chance to hear the Doppler. It's all so easy and low key and stress-free.
I'm just baffled.
The only sour note: I've gained 15 pounds since, oh, some time last year. I know I had packed on a few pounds during Ectoporama '08--what a festive time!--but damn. I mean, my clothes all fit until about two weeks ago. Except my brief dalliance with bacon, I haven't been eating all that many sweets.
The nurse encouraged me to avoid gaining more than about five pounds between now and Week 20. But I'm always, always hungry. She suggested protein, but the cheapest veggie source--beans and lentils--have been inflating me like the Macy's Parade Snoopy balloon. Sigh.
Speaking of which, it's lunch time...
Unless it turns out that I have mysteriously acquired HIV or Hep B, I think this had to be one of the dullest appointments ever. Not that I miss the drama; it's just strange to have it suddenly exit, stage right, end Act I.
First, I asked if there was any way we could confirm that Bruiser was still among us. The nurse-midwife did a Doppler scan of my belly and voila. The swish swish that falls somewhere between crickets on Red Bull and a very aggressive washing machine. Way to live, Bruiser!
Then, the medical history. It was dull. Random relatives with random ailments, most of which were related to lifestyle. Or, in more distant relatives, insanity.
The most gut-clenching part was thinking about testing. Do I do the quad screen or the level II ultrasound? Would we abort a special needs child, if in the off chance we had one? Terror gripped me, and irritation. I'm at that ridiculous point, right on the cusp of 35, but not officially in the Advanced Maternal Age category. That means, no insurance coverage for any of this. The thought of paying out of pocket for something that would merely tell me I might need more testing frustrates me. The good ol' no guarantees, lots of cash bs we IFers know so well.
I think we might just opt out of the whole affair and take whoever we get, be s/he regular or unleaded. We have a wonderful program locally that helps disabled folks create amazing art and find useful, compassionate employment. When I thought of that, of the people I had met there, I realized that it didn't really matter. I only hope my child will have capacity for joy and creativity. The rest will be as it will be.
And now, the next appointment is in a month. When they'll do a pap and feel my uterus and likely give me another chance to hear the Doppler. It's all so easy and low key and stress-free.
I'm just baffled.
The only sour note: I've gained 15 pounds since, oh, some time last year. I know I had packed on a few pounds during Ectoporama '08--what a festive time!--but damn. I mean, my clothes all fit until about two weeks ago. Except my brief dalliance with bacon, I haven't been eating all that many sweets.
The nurse encouraged me to avoid gaining more than about five pounds between now and Week 20. But I'm always, always hungry. She suggested protein, but the cheapest veggie source--beans and lentils--have been inflating me like the Macy's Parade Snoopy balloon. Sigh.
Speaking of which, it's lunch time...
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