This one is long overdue...thanks, Definingfamily for the reminder.
Nicole, I accidentally went out of order on this one, but I promise I am not ignoring you!
So, um, yes, I am that crazy person who makes her own pet food. It has been duly pointed out to me that this activity may slow or cease altogether when I have to meet the demands of a baby, but for now, this is how it is. If we have to adjust things in the future, well, we'll see what we have to do.
I have to say that we have very good reasons (8 of them) for doing so. And since Speedy is a vet and witnessed first-hand the deaths of animals who were poisoned by the melamine disaster a few years ago, it also makes us slightly less paranoid about inadvertently killing our much beloved animals. Also: when Sophie (the 120-lb great dane/lab mix) came to us, she was very, very sick with hemolytic anemia-- she had a 50-50 shot of living. The first thing that the specialist vet told us to do was to get her off commercial food (which can cause all sorts of trouble, from digestive issues to maladaptive immune responses) and put her on homemade with herbal supplements. It just made sense that since we were doing it for her, we would put everyone on the same diet.
But for all our lofty reasons for making homemade food, we do cheat. We have too many animals to be able to afford hormone-free, grass-fed local beef, which we should grind with a meat grinder, bones and all, as the basis of their food. (Which ideally should not be cooked at all.) Instead, we do a compromise: we buy 30 lbs a week of $1/lb. frozen ground beef or chicken from a local butcher (which is sold as "dog food meat"), throw about 6 pre-cut chunks of it (about 2-3 pounds) with about an equal amount (by weight) of sliced sweet potatoes into the crock pot, then add about 1-2 handfuls of whatever* green veggies we have on hand (or veggie stalks, stems and unwanted remains that we keep in a bag in the freezer for this very purpose). (We don't compost because we have nothing to grow, but we do recycle as much of our food waste as we can-- we often add apple cores and other bits that break down in the cooking process.) Fill the crockpot up with water to about 1-2 inches below the top (fill it too high and it will bubble over while cooking and leave a gross, greasy mess on your countertop and in the bottom of the heating element) and leave it on "low" over night. In the morning, we stir in about 1-2 cups of barley and let it cook up while we walk the dogs (about an hour). Then we turn it off and mix in one 400 IU vitamin E pill (I snip off the tip with scissors and squeeze in the oil), 10,000 IU of vitamin A (I crush the pills between two teaspoons and sprinkle in the powder), about four tablespoons of calcium powder (which I make in a coffee grinder from recycled egg shells), some vegetable oil if the meat looks lean, a teaspoon or two of table salt, and about 6 Tablespoons of the magical vitamin supplement:
Healthy Powder (straight from Dr. Pitcairn's Natural Health for Pets book):
2 cups nutritional yeast
1 cup lecithin granules
1/4 cup kelp powder
1/4 cup calcium powder
1,000 mg vitamin C crystals (sodium ascorbate)
Mix all ingredients together and store in a big container at room temp.
We mix this all together, and stick the whole thing in the fridge to cool. I try to have at least 1 full meal made ahead (for four dogs, this equals about 1/2 the crock pot) so I can feed them without making them wait for the food to cool.
That was the dogs...
For cat food, since I don't have to make it every. single. stinkin'. day. I don't mind dirtying a pot and standing over it while it cooks. Theoretically you are supposed to vary their diet, but again, we compromise-- this is a hell of a lot better than most commercial foods, and they do get variety in a sense when we run out of beef and use our back-up canned food. They also get tons of snacky goodness when we have anchovies or leftover fish bits from going out to eat. But for their every day fare, it is simple: Take a cup of cornmeal (or polenta) and add 4 cups of water in a large pot. Bring it to a boil, turn heat low, cover and simmer 15-20 minutes. Turn heat OFF. Add two eggs, stir. Add 2 lbs. of ground beef (which we get in the fridge case from the same butcher who supplies the dog food meat), combine. Add 4 tablespoons of healthy powder, 2 teaspoons of calcium powder, 10,000 IU of vitamin A, 100-200 IU of vitamin E, and 500 mg taurine supplement. (Taurine is an essential supplement for cats.) Mix it all up, and-- voila! I put it is recycled plastic quart containers, leave one container in the fridge and store the rest (1-2 more quarts) in the freezer. If you have fewer cats (we have four, 3 of them large males), maybe keep a smaller amount in the fridge since it will spoil within 3-4 days.
If you are switching to this diet with your animals, remember to gradually phase it in to avoid instant stomach distress. The switch was very easy with the dogs, because they will eat anything, and they love their food, but our cats will still take canned food any day over their homemade food. Speedy and I are convinced that manufacturers put kitty crack in canned cat food because of how crazy the cats get when it's around. But they WILL eventually eat the homemade stuff (and happily) if that is all they are offered. We give them "treats" of little kibbles of commercial dry food. They LOVE it and always come running when we shake the box. In small quantities, it's ok, but the dry food, if fed exclusively, can cause serious kidney problems over time especially with older cats.
While the initial investment for all the vitamins and supplements is a bit steep, those things last forever-- we really only have to re-stock one item at a time and every few months, so homemade food is much cheaper (the way we do it) than any commercial food we can buy in Brooklyn. It is a bit more work, and there are definitely days that I wish I could go to bed without chopping up potatoes for the dog food, but ultimately it is much better. Gone are the days of spending $200 every month (or every other week, sometimes) at the pet store and waiting for deliveries of 40-lb. bags of possibly poisonous kibble. Plus, I just like being the one to make their food. It makes me feel like I am going the extra mile for them, and they are so, so worth it.
*Avoid acidic veggies (peppers, tomatoes), onions, things like eggplant and mushrooms because they can have ill effects.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
DSNY: Nothin' says lovin' like something in the oven
Now I've gone and spoiled the punchline, but let me set the stage: Early in the morning. Pre-tea. Pre-shower. It is rainy and hot-- so when I am preparing to walk the dogs, I am already hot but I want to stay dry, and therefore I unwisely don my oversized raincoat that I stole from Ex and leave, hoping for the best. Immediately upon going outside, I generate some toxic sticky sweat slurry from the combined humidity of the air and the humidity of my pregnant lady portliness, causing me to adhere to the inside of the coat-- so, after several long minutes, I take off said coat and make peace with the cooling drizzle, focusing instead on the blister slowly rising on my left heel under my nice new shiny Bogs boots and their HOLY HOT FEET! insulated neoprene-ness. After the dogs have a short run in the park, I make my damp, wretched return trip, tank top barely covering my big belly, but by this time I really don't care.
It is thus that I stumble upon a small scrum of garbage men, hovering over some crazy-heavy industrial steel something-or-other trying to figure out how to lift it into the truck. Since I have large dogs, one of whom wears a scary looking muzzle, I instinctively reassure them that they can keep all their body parts-- I keep the dogs close to me and murmur "Good morning" as we sidle by.
As I walk on, loosening the dogs' leashes and setting my grateful eyes upon the steep stoop that leads to our building-- and the chance to take off those boots and have a shower-- one of the garbage guys yells to my retreating back: "Nothin' says lovin' like something in the oven!"
....
Thank you, Mr. Garbageman for almost making me giggle if I didn't want so badly to knock you out for being an ignorant ass! But, ew, the implication that this belly-- and the THOUSANDS OF FREAKING DOLLARS and COUNTLESS HOURS in the RE's waiting room spent, not to mention the stirrups, the dildocams, the unholy degradations that I have suffered for it-- was somehow the result of a steamy night with an man? Ugh, ugh....UGH! And grr!
But still, kind of funny. If I didn't want to knock you out.
It is thus that I stumble upon a small scrum of garbage men, hovering over some crazy-heavy industrial steel something-or-other trying to figure out how to lift it into the truck. Since I have large dogs, one of whom wears a scary looking muzzle, I instinctively reassure them that they can keep all their body parts-- I keep the dogs close to me and murmur "Good morning" as we sidle by.
As I walk on, loosening the dogs' leashes and setting my grateful eyes upon the steep stoop that leads to our building-- and the chance to take off those boots and have a shower-- one of the garbage guys yells to my retreating back: "Nothin' says lovin' like something in the oven!"
....
Thank you, Mr. Garbageman for almost making me giggle if I didn't want so badly to knock you out for being an ignorant ass! But, ew, the implication that this belly-- and the THOUSANDS OF FREAKING DOLLARS and COUNTLESS HOURS in the RE's waiting room spent, not to mention the stirrups, the dildocams, the unholy degradations that I have suffered for it-- was somehow the result of a steamy night with an man? Ugh, ugh....UGH! And grr!
But still, kind of funny. If I didn't want to knock you out.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Wordpress Dis
For all y'all on Wordpress, for some reason I am unable to comment at work (which is, let's face it, where most blogging happens.) So please don't think I am giving you the cold (...?) finger if you haven't heard from me! I am hoping that the problem resolves itself as mysteriously as it appears to have arisen-- and soon. In the meantime, I will try to remember to comment from home when I can.
Oh, and I haven't forgotten that tere are more questions. I will get to them asap, promise!
Oh, and I haven't forgotten that tere are more questions. I will get to them asap, promise!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
More questions...
I will get to the how we met/fell in "lurve" story in a bit (thanks, Nutella, for making me blush!)...so I am skipping that part for now and moving on...e asked...
I guess I have the "it gets better" videos on my brain, but I always do love a
good coming-out story (especially if it is blush-worth)...I feel incredibly lucky to
have a very supportive family and to have grown-up in the bay area so never
experienced any bullying (I started dating girls in high school), but what was your
experience?
Since I've been digging into the memories, this is a good place to continue. So, clearly I "dated" lots of boys in high school in college. I had a good amount of lusty action with girls, too... but only straight friends-- or, at least friends who were very invested in their straight identities-- so dating (as in sustaining some kind of romantic relationship) them was never really on the table. This mostly mental separation did not stop me from falling hopelessly in love (though I could not have named it) with my (decidedly straight) best friend in high school, and having a long-standing on-and-off fling with a friend of mine in college, which lasted well beyond the college years.
The boys I was with were never quite suitable. Some were sadistic, some were just weird, and all were sort of... random... I now think that is because I didn't really have strong preferences with boys because at the end I didn't really like them that much, so it was all kind of...meh. Sex was a tool I used to get and maintain relationships that were somehow validating, but I don't recall actually enjoying it very much. The boys themselves were irritating or embarrassing or appalling in their own ways and never lasted very long. Three months, most of them, though there was a three-year (I accidentally wrote "tear"-- but there were many more than three of those) thing in college that was just awful from the get-go.
I was 26, in grad school #3, and just beginning to venture into lesbian cafes and bars, and go out to clubs with a lesbian friend from the program (never actually admitting aloud or to myself that I, too, maybe had a little of the gay), when I met the woman who became my first girlfriend. And I fell promptly, madly, un-self-consciously, in heart-on-the-floor, bleeding-out-my-soul-for-her love. And then, of course, was equally swiftly and unceremoniously dumped and left heart-broken and crying out my left-over love for her on the kitchen floor, where I remained for months. (Incidentally, we are friendly these days.)
But in between the epiphany of falling in love with a woman and getting dumped by the same, I managed to make a number of intemperate phones calls to my family and friends announcing my new-found sexuality (it was Pride Month, after all), much to their unblinking unsurprise. "Yeah, and..?" was the usual response. I did not lose a single friend in the process, and while my parents, I think, still struggle with it (my father 100 times more than my mother) it is not a huge issue. I thank their godless ways for that.
So, no I was never bullied unless you count my internalized homophobia that probably cost me a decade if not more of relationships and wanton lusty teenage sex with the right gender. But I do want to make an "It Gets Better" video because I know there are those out there who are not out, who are not bullied, who are nonetheless steeped in self-doubt and self-reproach, not knowing that a fully realized life is entirely possible.
I guess I have the "it gets better" videos on my brain, but I always do love a
good coming-out story (especially if it is blush-worth)...I feel incredibly lucky to
have a very supportive family and to have grown-up in the bay area so never
experienced any bullying (I started dating girls in high school), but what was your
experience?
Since I've been digging into the memories, this is a good place to continue. So, clearly I "dated" lots of boys in high school in college. I had a good amount of lusty action with girls, too... but only straight friends-- or, at least friends who were very invested in their straight identities-- so dating (as in sustaining some kind of romantic relationship) them was never really on the table. This mostly mental separation did not stop me from falling hopelessly in love (though I could not have named it) with my (decidedly straight) best friend in high school, and having a long-standing on-and-off fling with a friend of mine in college, which lasted well beyond the college years.
The boys I was with were never quite suitable. Some were sadistic, some were just weird, and all were sort of... random... I now think that is because I didn't really have strong preferences with boys because at the end I didn't really like them that much, so it was all kind of...meh. Sex was a tool I used to get and maintain relationships that were somehow validating, but I don't recall actually enjoying it very much. The boys themselves were irritating or embarrassing or appalling in their own ways and never lasted very long. Three months, most of them, though there was a three-year (I accidentally wrote "tear"-- but there were many more than three of those) thing in college that was just awful from the get-go.
I was 26, in grad school #3, and just beginning to venture into lesbian cafes and bars, and go out to clubs with a lesbian friend from the program (never actually admitting aloud or to myself that I, too, maybe had a little of the gay), when I met the woman who became my first girlfriend. And I fell promptly, madly, un-self-consciously, in heart-on-the-floor, bleeding-out-my-soul-for-her love. And then, of course, was equally swiftly and unceremoniously dumped and left heart-broken and crying out my left-over love for her on the kitchen floor, where I remained for months. (Incidentally, we are friendly these days.)
But in between the epiphany of falling in love with a woman and getting dumped by the same, I managed to make a number of intemperate phones calls to my family and friends announcing my new-found sexuality (it was Pride Month, after all), much to their unblinking unsurprise. "Yeah, and..?" was the usual response. I did not lose a single friend in the process, and while my parents, I think, still struggle with it (my father 100 times more than my mother) it is not a huge issue. I thank their godless ways for that.
So, no I was never bullied unless you count my internalized homophobia that probably cost me a decade if not more of relationships and wanton lusty teenage sex with the right gender. But I do want to make an "It Gets Better" video because I know there are those out there who are not out, who are not bullied, who are nonetheless steeped in self-doubt and self-reproach, not knowing that a fully realized life is entirely possible.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Where did I grow up? What is my favorite _________?
CD and SP asked where did you grow up?
You're right-- I grew up in New England, with all its fantastic seasons (plus the extra one! Mud season, anyone?), stodgy colonial houses, prep schools, sailors, and whale watchers. I was born in Vermont, but my parents moved to suburban Rhode Island when I was two, so my first memories were of feeding the raccoons that lived under our porch dog biscuits (which I did get on trouble for-- probably why I remember it). When I was four my parents moved to a more rural area, bought a horse, then another...by the time I was in junior high we had three horses and I essentially raised myself in the woods behind the barn. It was a good deal for everyone.
I went to college in Vermont, spent a year chasing monkeys in rain forests around the world, moved to NYC for grad school, dropped out of grad school, moved to San Francisco, where I found out I really *am* an east coaster at heart, moved to Boston for grad school #2, where I realized that I was maybe not THAT much of a yankee, moved to NYC again for grad school #3, where I have remained. Meanwhile my parents have moved to northern Vermont where they have started collecting llamas.
Speedy and I do intend to move to Western Mass (Hampshire county) in the next year or so, so we can stop working so damn much and have a yard bigger than the 12' x 20' glorified patio that we currently have.
2 Chicks 1 Hatchling asked about favorites:
Favorite book?
Yikes! Just one?? I will give you a range: The Flight of the Iguana (David Quammen); Middlesex (Jeffrey Eugenides); Anna Karenina (Tolstoy); Native Speaker (Chang-Rae Lee)
Favorite musician?
I do not have a favorite musician. If you were to peer into my iPod you would find that a) I do not update my music nearly as often as I do my food and news podcasts and b) I stopped paying attention somewhere around 1996, with rare exceptions.
I like your standard girl-with-a-guitar stuff (Ani Difranco, Melissa Ferrick, etc.) Then there's Leonard Cohen, who I absolutely adore. Then there's the whole anti-folk genre (Mouldy Peaches, etc.) that makes me terribly happy. And jazz/blues. Even a little country. Punk. Feminist hip hop.
Favorite food?
Spicy Thai or Korean are my favorite don't-try-this-at-home genres. But at home, my favorite fall/winter recipe is kale simmered in veggie both served over garlic-rubbed baguette with a soft-cooked sunny-side up egg on top, sprinkled with fresh parmegiano and red pepper flakes.
On the sweet side, I will take lemon, lime, mango, passionfruit, and berry desserts over chocolate any day. I don't believe in "too sweet" or "too rich". I think people who say those things are secretly trying to claim some kind of taste-bud embedded moral superiority.
Favorite trip (location)?
I went to Bhutan for a trek with my family before Bhutan had TV or the internet, when tourists were closely regulated and only a handful were allowed at a given time. It was magical. The glacial rivers, the mountainous terrain, the prayer flags festooning every ridge, and prayer wheels chiming in every stream. There was no noticeable trash or pollution. It was as close to pristine as anything I have ever seen. If I believed in a god, then I would believe it resided here.
Or in the Thai or Indonesian rain forest, at dawn, when the night sounds slowly cease and there is a moment of silence before the daytime cacophony breaks loose. The gibbons duetting overhead every morning was my absolute favorite part of the day- before they noticed me and I spent the rest of the hours crashing through the thorny and often poisonous understory trying to keep up with them. There is so much life there, and every living thing is stridently, brilliantly asserting itself. If it weren't for the leeches I would still be there, chasing those damn gibbons...
You're right-- I grew up in New England, with all its fantastic seasons (plus the extra one! Mud season, anyone?), stodgy colonial houses, prep schools, sailors, and whale watchers. I was born in Vermont, but my parents moved to suburban Rhode Island when I was two, so my first memories were of feeding the raccoons that lived under our porch dog biscuits (which I did get on trouble for-- probably why I remember it). When I was four my parents moved to a more rural area, bought a horse, then another...by the time I was in junior high we had three horses and I essentially raised myself in the woods behind the barn. It was a good deal for everyone.
I went to college in Vermont, spent a year chasing monkeys in rain forests around the world, moved to NYC for grad school, dropped out of grad school, moved to San Francisco, where I found out I really *am* an east coaster at heart, moved to Boston for grad school #2, where I realized that I was maybe not THAT much of a yankee, moved to NYC again for grad school #3, where I have remained. Meanwhile my parents have moved to northern Vermont where they have started collecting llamas.
Speedy and I do intend to move to Western Mass (Hampshire county) in the next year or so, so we can stop working so damn much and have a yard bigger than the 12' x 20' glorified patio that we currently have.
2 Chicks 1 Hatchling asked about favorites:
Favorite book?
Yikes! Just one?? I will give you a range: The Flight of the Iguana (David Quammen); Middlesex (Jeffrey Eugenides); Anna Karenina (Tolstoy); Native Speaker (Chang-Rae Lee)
Favorite musician?
I do not have a favorite musician. If you were to peer into my iPod you would find that a) I do not update my music nearly as often as I do my food and news podcasts and b) I stopped paying attention somewhere around 1996, with rare exceptions.
I like your standard girl-with-a-guitar stuff (Ani Difranco, Melissa Ferrick, etc.) Then there's Leonard Cohen, who I absolutely adore. Then there's the whole anti-folk genre (Mouldy Peaches, etc.) that makes me terribly happy. And jazz/blues. Even a little country. Punk. Feminist hip hop.
Favorite food?
Spicy Thai or Korean are my favorite don't-try-this-at-home genres. But at home, my favorite fall/winter recipe is kale simmered in veggie both served over garlic-rubbed baguette with a soft-cooked sunny-side up egg on top, sprinkled with fresh parmegiano and red pepper flakes.
On the sweet side, I will take lemon, lime, mango, passionfruit, and berry desserts over chocolate any day. I don't believe in "too sweet" or "too rich". I think people who say those things are secretly trying to claim some kind of taste-bud embedded moral superiority.
Favorite trip (location)?
I went to Bhutan for a trek with my family before Bhutan had TV or the internet, when tourists were closely regulated and only a handful were allowed at a given time. It was magical. The glacial rivers, the mountainous terrain, the prayer flags festooning every ridge, and prayer wheels chiming in every stream. There was no noticeable trash or pollution. It was as close to pristine as anything I have ever seen. If I believed in a god, then I would believe it resided here.
Or in the Thai or Indonesian rain forest, at dawn, when the night sounds slowly cease and there is a moment of silence before the daytime cacophony breaks loose. The gibbons duetting overhead every morning was my absolute favorite part of the day- before they noticed me and I spent the rest of the hours crashing through the thorny and often poisonous understory trying to keep up with them. There is so much life there, and every living thing is stridently, brilliantly asserting itself. If it weren't for the leeches I would still be there, chasing those damn gibbons...
Friday, October 22, 2010
Part One: Who were you in HS and College?
Thanks for all the great questions! I'm taking them one at a time...
Pomegranate asked What were you like in high school? College?
This is a funny question for me. Let’s just say I was a late bloomer in a lot of ways. And I think it took me longer than average to figure out who the hell I was.
I hated the rich private high school my parents sent me to, but looking back, I actually had a lot of fun in those years. I played with different identities each year—the skinny, shy blonde girl in freshman year became the funky goth glam girl of sophomore year (when I fell in love with my best friend, who later left school to move in with her boyfriend, and left me a complete heartbroken wreck.) Junior year I ping-ponged into a bizarre hippy phase, of which there are very few photographic reminders, a fact that I have to say I am grateful for. Then senior year, I was half-hippy/half goth (sorta), hanging with the witchcraft crowd, getting stoned off campus between classes.
I mostly hung with the theater crowd, because that was my temperament, though most decidedly not my talent (I was always cast as the slut or prostitute in every fall play—that’s as high as my acting abilities could take me. For musicals, I was cast in the way far back of the chorus because I lack any musical talent at all.) The rich kids, the jocks, the popular kids—I hated them all.
But when my best friend dropped out, I had a bit of a meltdown, and I stopped hanging out so much with my friends in school, preferring the company of the stoners and ex-cons who hung out at the local witchcraft store. (Seriously? Yep-- you asked…) I had a lot of sex with both boys and girls, though I never identified as lesbian or bi.
Mostly I couldn’t wait to get out of that town, even though by the end of my senior year I had made some fast-and-true friends that I still have today. They have seen the good, the bad, and the really, really ugly and somehow we have all stuck together, and even now we are the same incongruous group of misfits that we were back then—just now with mortgages and jobs.
I spent my first year in college drunk. All the time. I wanted to lose myself—after the pain and drama of HS and finally finding something of a groove before I graduated, I just did NOT know how to make a new adjustment. I also didn’t really know who I was but I was pretty unhappy about whatever I did know. I had artistic aspirations, but little talent. I loved literature and poetry, but hated lit crit and those stuffy classes and self-important professors. I wanted to be liked, but I didn’t know how.
I remember just miserable flashes of that first year, but thankfully soon after I decided I had to stop drinking myself into oblivion, and I transferred to another small (student body: 250) liberal college on a idyllic little hill in southern Vermont. I started doing poetry workshops and taking rock climbing and river kayaking courses, which was fantastic. The college itself was a tiny progressive utopia, where profs went by their first names and ate with us in the dining hall. There were no grades, and concetrations were designed by each individual student. Our library was so small we had to be bussed to a university an hour away to do serious research. But I am grateful for having the memories there of walking in the woods, the old Yankee clapboard buildings, the quirky dorms.
Unfortunately, in my last two years there, I dated a guy who was unhealthy for me in every way. Every insecurity I had (and there were plenty), he preyed upon. He was extremely intelligent, manipulative and actually quite malevolent. Dating him discolored my experience of my last two years because every day he found some way to knock me off balance—So, ultimately I didn’t end up making or keeping many friends from college, largely because I think I was so isolated and off-balance in that relationship. There are a couple of people who I still am friends with, who saw me through that wretched relationship and forgave me for all the flailing (and failing) it brought out in me. But I am still somewhat ashamed of it, because I feel that I really squandered the time I had at college trying to be someone I thought the boy wanted me to be, and once again, losing myself in the process.
This is a bit of a downer answer, but I don’t mean it to be like that—I just want to be honest about who I was. I really didn’t begin to be an adult until after college, when that relationship ended (oh THAT drama: think: Bangkok, underage prostitute and my denial finally breaking) and I started doing fieldwork—chasing monkeys in various jungles around the world, and getting accustomed to trusting my feet, just thrilled to be a part of the jungle, grateful for every glimpse of the fantastic life of the rainforest. I miss that, but monkey chasing does not pay.
Pomegranate asked What were you like in high school? College?
This is a funny question for me. Let’s just say I was a late bloomer in a lot of ways. And I think it took me longer than average to figure out who the hell I was.
I hated the rich private high school my parents sent me to, but looking back, I actually had a lot of fun in those years. I played with different identities each year—the skinny, shy blonde girl in freshman year became the funky goth glam girl of sophomore year (when I fell in love with my best friend, who later left school to move in with her boyfriend, and left me a complete heartbroken wreck.) Junior year I ping-ponged into a bizarre hippy phase, of which there are very few photographic reminders, a fact that I have to say I am grateful for. Then senior year, I was half-hippy/half goth (sorta), hanging with the witchcraft crowd, getting stoned off campus between classes.
I mostly hung with the theater crowd, because that was my temperament, though most decidedly not my talent (I was always cast as the slut or prostitute in every fall play—that’s as high as my acting abilities could take me. For musicals, I was cast in the way far back of the chorus because I lack any musical talent at all.) The rich kids, the jocks, the popular kids—I hated them all.
But when my best friend dropped out, I had a bit of a meltdown, and I stopped hanging out so much with my friends in school, preferring the company of the stoners and ex-cons who hung out at the local witchcraft store. (Seriously? Yep-- you asked…) I had a lot of sex with both boys and girls, though I never identified as lesbian or bi.
Mostly I couldn’t wait to get out of that town, even though by the end of my senior year I had made some fast-and-true friends that I still have today. They have seen the good, the bad, and the really, really ugly and somehow we have all stuck together, and even now we are the same incongruous group of misfits that we were back then—just now with mortgages and jobs.
I spent my first year in college drunk. All the time. I wanted to lose myself—after the pain and drama of HS and finally finding something of a groove before I graduated, I just did NOT know how to make a new adjustment. I also didn’t really know who I was but I was pretty unhappy about whatever I did know. I had artistic aspirations, but little talent. I loved literature and poetry, but hated lit crit and those stuffy classes and self-important professors. I wanted to be liked, but I didn’t know how.
I remember just miserable flashes of that first year, but thankfully soon after I decided I had to stop drinking myself into oblivion, and I transferred to another small (student body: 250) liberal college on a idyllic little hill in southern Vermont. I started doing poetry workshops and taking rock climbing and river kayaking courses, which was fantastic. The college itself was a tiny progressive utopia, where profs went by their first names and ate with us in the dining hall. There were no grades, and concetrations were designed by each individual student. Our library was so small we had to be bussed to a university an hour away to do serious research. But I am grateful for having the memories there of walking in the woods, the old Yankee clapboard buildings, the quirky dorms.
Unfortunately, in my last two years there, I dated a guy who was unhealthy for me in every way. Every insecurity I had (and there were plenty), he preyed upon. He was extremely intelligent, manipulative and actually quite malevolent. Dating him discolored my experience of my last two years because every day he found some way to knock me off balance—So, ultimately I didn’t end up making or keeping many friends from college, largely because I think I was so isolated and off-balance in that relationship. There are a couple of people who I still am friends with, who saw me through that wretched relationship and forgave me for all the flailing (and failing) it brought out in me. But I am still somewhat ashamed of it, because I feel that I really squandered the time I had at college trying to be someone I thought the boy wanted me to be, and once again, losing myself in the process.
This is a bit of a downer answer, but I don’t mean it to be like that—I just want to be honest about who I was. I really didn’t begin to be an adult until after college, when that relationship ended (oh THAT drama: think: Bangkok, underage prostitute and my denial finally breaking) and I started doing fieldwork—chasing monkeys in various jungles around the world, and getting accustomed to trusting my feet, just thrilled to be a part of the jungle, grateful for every glimpse of the fantastic life of the rainforest. I miss that, but monkey chasing does not pay.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Just ask...
It IS good (in life) to be boring, but not for blogging.
I am taking my cue from many other bloggers, and filling the lull in news with what I hope will be lots of questions and answers.
So go ahead, ask me anything. What have I not covered? What have I obliquely referenced and failed to fill in? What promised information slipped through the cracks?
Extra points if you make me blush (which is admittedly not too hard to do!)
And, who knew... turns out new moms' brains actually grow, contrary to common belief!
I am taking my cue from many other bloggers, and filling the lull in news with what I hope will be lots of questions and answers.
So go ahead, ask me anything. What have I not covered? What have I obliquely referenced and failed to fill in? What promised information slipped through the cracks?
Extra points if you make me blush (which is admittedly not too hard to do!)
And, who knew... turns out new moms' brains actually grow, contrary to common belief!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Ho-hum...
Nothing to see here folks, at 32w5d...everything is just fine. Fine. FINE!!
Seriously, no drama, and I realized, through following ttc and early pregnancy blogs, how much drama is an inherent-- and addictive-- part of this blogging cycle, and now that things are kind of a little bit, well...just pluggin' along...I don't have a whole lot to report on the pregnancy front. I mean, Speetus seems to be good & happy. My glucose test came back fine, BP is fine, weight unremarkable (+20-23 lbs., depending on how you count) and no depraved symptoms to speak of (aside from upper back pain, OMG. I had the prenatal massage last night and the therapist started in on the muscular wings that attach the scapulae, and there was audible crunching. She actually said, "Oh my!!" which I am pretty sure is a massage faux pas, but whatever.) Speedy & I have recovered from the birthday debacle (note to self: be more verbal-- hints do not cut it with my ever-so-subtle Speedy. Next time think sledgehammer.)
There has been NO, I mean, ZERO progress on the "nursery" front-- the quotes because really it is the Room Where We Store Stuff Speetus Might Need. Tonight we are picking up a used glider to add to the pile. I am going to enlist some friends to get the room into shape before the arrival, but they have to come one at a time, because it is too small for more than that. And there will be no murals because we just don't have that kind of time. Wall hangings we can handle-- I hope, because we have, like, 5.
Next weekend is our shower, which will only add to the mountain of Baby Stuff, though hopefully-- HOPEFULLY-- people will find it in their hearts to bring diaper creams and burp cloths over mobiles and other cute things that we don't actually need right now.
Other than that, the only pressing need we have is to find a pediatrician. Does anyone have any suggestions as far as questions to ask when doing the prenatal visit? What else should I be doing NOW that I will be kicking myself in eight weeks for not thinking about?
Seriously, no drama, and I realized, through following ttc and early pregnancy blogs, how much drama is an inherent-- and addictive-- part of this blogging cycle, and now that things are kind of a little bit, well...just pluggin' along...I don't have a whole lot to report on the pregnancy front. I mean, Speetus seems to be good & happy. My glucose test came back fine, BP is fine, weight unremarkable (+20-23 lbs., depending on how you count) and no depraved symptoms to speak of (aside from upper back pain, OMG. I had the prenatal massage last night and the therapist started in on the muscular wings that attach the scapulae, and there was audible crunching. She actually said, "Oh my!!" which I am pretty sure is a massage faux pas, but whatever.) Speedy & I have recovered from the birthday debacle (note to self: be more verbal-- hints do not cut it with my ever-so-subtle Speedy. Next time think sledgehammer.)
There has been NO, I mean, ZERO progress on the "nursery" front-- the quotes because really it is the Room Where We Store Stuff Speetus Might Need. Tonight we are picking up a used glider to add to the pile. I am going to enlist some friends to get the room into shape before the arrival, but they have to come one at a time, because it is too small for more than that. And there will be no murals because we just don't have that kind of time. Wall hangings we can handle-- I hope, because we have, like, 5.
Next weekend is our shower, which will only add to the mountain of Baby Stuff, though hopefully-- HOPEFULLY-- people will find it in their hearts to bring diaper creams and burp cloths over mobiles and other cute things that we don't actually need right now.
Other than that, the only pressing need we have is to find a pediatrician. Does anyone have any suggestions as far as questions to ask when doing the prenatal visit? What else should I be doing NOW that I will be kicking myself in eight weeks for not thinking about?
Friday, October 15, 2010
Reductio ad absurdum & random asides
I want to start a movement to replace the "In God We Trust" (what "we"??) on this country's currency with "Reductio ad Absurdum". I think it reflects the position of this nation much more accurately. It also reflects the state of things around here.
As I last blogged, Speedy's family drama is one part of that. (Incidentally, after my last post, she climbed into bed at about 1 a.m.-- after returning from her late shift night-- and whispered, "Slouchy and Grouchy, huh?" After we laughed for several minutes, she said, "But you didn't explain about my tyrannical father." So, yes-- there's more where that came from, but I tried to stick with what was directly relevant to the issue at hand.)
My own issues are another part of it. Poor Speedy often feels pathologized for her family's obvious dysfunction and the long-lasting effects that it has had on her and those around her. In that context, my boring, WASPy family without any overt issues doesn't hold as much drama, and my scars are less visible. But they are there, and this pregnancy has brought them into the light as much as the underlying vasculature of my chest now stands out in stark blue against my pale skin. It was always there, but holy sh-t! You can really see it now!
My issue, in a nutshell: I don't trust other people to take care of things (me, or anything) and so I try to do everything myself. This goes by a lot of names: controlling, perfectionism, domineering. Conversely, it is, at its heart, a real fear that no one will love me/care for me/nurture me when I need it. So I go into overdrive asserting my independence from such needs, and maintaining everything in my life just so. Obviously, in a relationship, this has its pros and cons: I always do the dishes, but I can be extremely critical when things are done by other people and not done my way.
Cut to... my birthday early this week. The one day a year when I, deep down, really, really want to be taken care of. Don't get me wrong: I am not a diva about it. I don't need breakfast in bed and flowers sent to my work. I abhor expensive gifts and things I don't want and can't use....but I do want to feel...nurtured and loved. But because of aforementioned insecurities I have a hard time expressing that, and an even harder time trusting someone (namely, Speedy) to do it. So I say nothing, pretend it's no big deal. I say, "Just get me a passionfruit tartlette (my favorite pastry on earth) and a card." And a prenatal massage, which Speedy did send me a certificate for last week, thank you!
But on the actual day of my birthday, I went to work as usual and Speedy worked the 10-10 shift, meaning I left and came home before her. In the morning, she had no card, but that was ok. She said "happy birthday" and handed me a scrap of paper declaring her love and apologizing for not having a card.** Then she walked the dogs and made me lunch and sent me off with a kiss. But at work I started to worry. With each hour that I got no phone call, no card, no surprise e-mail, no sweet text, I was feeling more and more precarious. I got some sweet calls and emails from friends, all of whom noted that "This is the last birthday you have that will be all about YOU!" causing me to scoff miserably over my keyboard. When Speedy called at 4 p.m. not to tell me "I love you. Happy birthday." But- "I didn't have time to clean the kitchen before I left for work, sorry." I nearly lost it at my desk. When I got home to still no card, no note, and nothing but a dirty kitchen, I walked the dogs, took out the trash, made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, all while crying in the dark. By the time Speedy came home with a hastily-purchased card, and, belatedly exclaimed, "Oh, sweets, I forgot your tartlette!" I TOTALLY FREAKIN' LOST IT.
I sulk, I reproach, and I go to bed actually sobbing by now. (Oh my goodness, you guys have no idea, and I am not helping-- but I am SO Not That Person.) Reductio ad absurdum.
Anyway, suffice it to say, we have recovered. Speedy got me not one, but a dozen passionfruit tartlettes the next day and vowed to make the next 364 days "my birthday every day" since my real birthday was a bummer. But oh, how these pregnancy hormones have made me into a raging emotional basketcase of a person that I barely recognize. In some ways, though, it is good, because it's not like I didn't have these emotions before. I just never would have copped to them. Wow.
**In an earlier version of this post, I failed to mention this part, giving the misleading impression that Speedy did not acknowledge my birthday at all, which is not what I meant to imply.
.....
Anyway, thank you for your concern & compassion and all your comments about Mama S. It turns out she will be going to the baby shower. I have mixed feelings about this, because I am afraid of what she will say or do to hurt Speedy & me. But at least the effort is being made, anyway. It is one of those things that is a lose-lose proposition: either she doesn't come and we both feel hurt, or she does come and we worry and stress about what she will say or do to make us miserable. For as much as I adore my mother, my family is just not that close, and so we don't have these tangled, emotional games to play with each other. This is altogether new territory to me.
I hope Speetus will shift some things, but I have no expectation of that actually happening. The other grandkids are spoiled according to their position on a very clear hierarchy (as decreed by Mama S) and I suspect that Speetus will fall to the bottom of that pecking order upon arrival. But I guess that is something we will have to face when we get there. As many of you noted, there is still room for surprise!
.....
And HOLY EARLY BABY DAY!! Congratulations to Cindy and Joey and Aiden & Seth!
....
Oh, and because I sometimes feel like a Grinchy freak for hating the October pinkathon of corporate-sponsored-breast-cancer-awareness-so-you-must-buy-our-swag month of consumerism dressed up in fashionable fuschia-tinged-faux-philanthropy, I bring you Twisty.
As I last blogged, Speedy's family drama is one part of that. (Incidentally, after my last post, she climbed into bed at about 1 a.m.-- after returning from her late shift night-- and whispered, "Slouchy and Grouchy, huh?" After we laughed for several minutes, she said, "But you didn't explain about my tyrannical father." So, yes-- there's more where that came from, but I tried to stick with what was directly relevant to the issue at hand.)
My own issues are another part of it. Poor Speedy often feels pathologized for her family's obvious dysfunction and the long-lasting effects that it has had on her and those around her. In that context, my boring, WASPy family without any overt issues doesn't hold as much drama, and my scars are less visible. But they are there, and this pregnancy has brought them into the light as much as the underlying vasculature of my chest now stands out in stark blue against my pale skin. It was always there, but holy sh-t! You can really see it now!
My issue, in a nutshell: I don't trust other people to take care of things (me, or anything) and so I try to do everything myself. This goes by a lot of names: controlling, perfectionism, domineering. Conversely, it is, at its heart, a real fear that no one will love me/care for me/nurture me when I need it. So I go into overdrive asserting my independence from such needs, and maintaining everything in my life just so. Obviously, in a relationship, this has its pros and cons: I always do the dishes, but I can be extremely critical when things are done by other people and not done my way.
Cut to... my birthday early this week. The one day a year when I, deep down, really, really want to be taken care of. Don't get me wrong: I am not a diva about it. I don't need breakfast in bed and flowers sent to my work. I abhor expensive gifts and things I don't want and can't use....but I do want to feel...nurtured and loved. But because of aforementioned insecurities I have a hard time expressing that, and an even harder time trusting someone (namely, Speedy) to do it. So I say nothing, pretend it's no big deal. I say, "Just get me a passionfruit tartlette (my favorite pastry on earth) and a card." And a prenatal massage, which Speedy did send me a certificate for last week, thank you!
But on the actual day of my birthday, I went to work as usual and Speedy worked the 10-10 shift, meaning I left and came home before her. In the morning, she had no card, but that was ok. She said "happy birthday" and handed me a scrap of paper declaring her love and apologizing for not having a card.** Then she walked the dogs and made me lunch and sent me off with a kiss. But at work I started to worry. With each hour that I got no phone call, no card, no surprise e-mail, no sweet text, I was feeling more and more precarious. I got some sweet calls and emails from friends, all of whom noted that "This is the last birthday you have that will be all about YOU!" causing me to scoff miserably over my keyboard. When Speedy called at 4 p.m. not to tell me "I love you. Happy birthday." But- "I didn't have time to clean the kitchen before I left for work, sorry." I nearly lost it at my desk. When I got home to still no card, no note, and nothing but a dirty kitchen, I walked the dogs, took out the trash, made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, all while crying in the dark. By the time Speedy came home with a hastily-purchased card, and, belatedly exclaimed, "Oh, sweets, I forgot your tartlette!" I TOTALLY FREAKIN' LOST IT.
I sulk, I reproach, and I go to bed actually sobbing by now. (Oh my goodness, you guys have no idea, and I am not helping-- but I am SO Not That Person.) Reductio ad absurdum.
Anyway, suffice it to say, we have recovered. Speedy got me not one, but a dozen passionfruit tartlettes the next day and vowed to make the next 364 days "my birthday every day" since my real birthday was a bummer. But oh, how these pregnancy hormones have made me into a raging emotional basketcase of a person that I barely recognize. In some ways, though, it is good, because it's not like I didn't have these emotions before. I just never would have copped to them. Wow.
**In an earlier version of this post, I failed to mention this part, giving the misleading impression that Speedy did not acknowledge my birthday at all, which is not what I meant to imply.
.....
Anyway, thank you for your concern & compassion and all your comments about Mama S. It turns out she will be going to the baby shower. I have mixed feelings about this, because I am afraid of what she will say or do to hurt Speedy & me. But at least the effort is being made, anyway. It is one of those things that is a lose-lose proposition: either she doesn't come and we both feel hurt, or she does come and we worry and stress about what she will say or do to make us miserable. For as much as I adore my mother, my family is just not that close, and so we don't have these tangled, emotional games to play with each other. This is altogether new territory to me.
I hope Speetus will shift some things, but I have no expectation of that actually happening. The other grandkids are spoiled according to their position on a very clear hierarchy (as decreed by Mama S) and I suspect that Speetus will fall to the bottom of that pecking order upon arrival. But I guess that is something we will have to face when we get there. As many of you noted, there is still room for surprise!
.....
And HOLY EARLY BABY DAY!! Congratulations to Cindy and Joey and Aiden & Seth!
....
Oh, and because I sometimes feel like a Grinchy freak for hating the October pinkathon of corporate-sponsored-breast-cancer-awareness-so-you-must-buy-our-swag month of consumerism dressed up in fashionable fuschia-tinged-faux-philanthropy, I bring you Twisty.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Mama Drama
I have been walking around for days now, trying to figure out how to succinctly convey the upsetting disparity between the way that my (also dysfunctional, but very different) family is embracing this pregnancy (in a word, "YAY!!") and Speedy's family (specifically, her mother) is.
There is no simple way of describing the dysfunctional dynamics in Speedy's family, but I am going to try to break it down to the primary elements at play here. I should say that this is MY interpretation, and that Speedy may or may not agree with all of these assessments. I will happily make note of it if she reads this and feels I have mischaracterized any of the dynamics I am about to describe.
1) Speedy is and always has been Mama S's sole emotional support.
Mama S immigrated from North Korea, met Speedy's father, a Polish Holocaust survivor, abandoned her promising career as an OB/Gyn to marry him, move to Whitey White Whitebreadtown, NJ where she did not drive, had no local community or family support, and raised Speedy, then her twin sisters, Slouchy and Grouchy*, essentially all by herself. Because Papa S was, at best, emotionally stunted and not present, Speedy, Slouchy and Grouchy were their own island in Whitey White Whitebreadtown, just trying to survive. Mama S clung to Speedy as the eldest child and her sole means of support.
2) Love is finite and perilously conditional.
Mama S believes that love is a fixed quantity; therefore if Speedy loves me, there is less love for Mama S.
3) Speedy's gayness is a source of shame.
She would never, ever admit it, but Mama S is ashamed of Speedy's gayness. Never was this clearer than when we visited the other week. When Speedy's uncle saw me, he gestured at my belly and said, "What happened to you?!" Mama S invented a boyfriend for me on the spot. While Speedy's uncle actually called her on the bald-faced lie (triggering an angry outburst by Mama S in Korean), it was a watershed moment in my understanding of the Family S.
Despite all of this, Mama S is an extraordinary person. She is smart, wickedly funny (in a literal sense), and amazingly on top of life, especially given that she is 83. Speedy loves her, but Mama S's attitude toward us and Speetus is hurtful. To Mama S, Speetus is 1) a new and even more dangerous threat to her relationship with Speedy; 2) less love for her; and 3) not really Speedy's child, but an embarrassing and outwardly undeniable reminder of Speedy's gayness. So instead of being happy for Speedy and sharing in Speedy's joy, she reacts to all talk of the baby with denial (the Uncle Incident), dismissal ("So what? Everybody's pregnant!") or delusion ("I wish it were you," said to Speedy, who is 46.)
She is refusing to commit to coming to the shower, even though she's retired and has literally nothing else to do. Speedy and I would pick her up and bring her back home, and all she would have to do is agree to come. But all she says is, "Why you have shower? Slouchy and Grouchy didn't." My family is flying in from VT and trying to make a weekend of it, but without Mama S's commitment, Speedy and I can't make other plans, because we don't know whether and when we will be driving Mama S back and forth from Whitey White Whitebreadtown. To further complicate things, Speedy's mother, I suspect, is jealous of the time that Speedy and I spend with my family, as it takes away from the time we would otherwise theoretically be spending with her, so I believe part of the obstructionism is because of that.
Anyway, I realize that this drama is minimal compared to what others have endured, but it hurts me to see Speedy hurt by her mother, and to see the different ways we are already being treated because of the gestational circumstances of this baby. Had it been 10 years ago, it would have been Speedy carrying, and maybe I would be facing the same tepid response from my family as she is getting from hers. Maybe, though, Mama S would be able to feel real joy on her daughter's behalf, and maybe Speedy would feel what it is like to have a happy mother. Maybe. But it is not 10 years ago, and this is what we've got. The complicated, tangled, sticky reality of our families and their dysfunctions multiplied and twisted over generations and across different countries and cultures. And as I feel Speetus thump in my belly, I think, "One day, this will all be yours!**"
* I should say that despite the pejorative nicknames I have given them, I like Speedy's sisters a lot, possibly more than Speedy does, even though they are easy to caricature.
** But of course, Speedy and I will do it right, and raise a child free of any emotional scars in our own perfectly happy and balanced cocoon of family functionality.
There is no simple way of describing the dysfunctional dynamics in Speedy's family, but I am going to try to break it down to the primary elements at play here. I should say that this is MY interpretation, and that Speedy may or may not agree with all of these assessments. I will happily make note of it if she reads this and feels I have mischaracterized any of the dynamics I am about to describe.
1) Speedy is and always has been Mama S's sole emotional support.
Mama S immigrated from North Korea, met Speedy's father, a Polish Holocaust survivor, abandoned her promising career as an OB/Gyn to marry him, move to Whitey White Whitebreadtown, NJ where she did not drive, had no local community or family support, and raised Speedy, then her twin sisters, Slouchy and Grouchy*, essentially all by herself. Because Papa S was, at best, emotionally stunted and not present, Speedy, Slouchy and Grouchy were their own island in Whitey White Whitebreadtown, just trying to survive. Mama S clung to Speedy as the eldest child and her sole means of support.
2) Love is finite and perilously conditional.
Mama S believes that love is a fixed quantity; therefore if Speedy loves me, there is less love for Mama S.
3) Speedy's gayness is a source of shame.
She would never, ever admit it, but Mama S is ashamed of Speedy's gayness. Never was this clearer than when we visited the other week. When Speedy's uncle saw me, he gestured at my belly and said, "What happened to you?!" Mama S invented a boyfriend for me on the spot. While Speedy's uncle actually called her on the bald-faced lie (triggering an angry outburst by Mama S in Korean), it was a watershed moment in my understanding of the Family S.
Despite all of this, Mama S is an extraordinary person. She is smart, wickedly funny (in a literal sense), and amazingly on top of life, especially given that she is 83. Speedy loves her, but Mama S's attitude toward us and Speetus is hurtful. To Mama S, Speetus is 1) a new and even more dangerous threat to her relationship with Speedy; 2) less love for her; and 3) not really Speedy's child, but an embarrassing and outwardly undeniable reminder of Speedy's gayness. So instead of being happy for Speedy and sharing in Speedy's joy, she reacts to all talk of the baby with denial (the Uncle Incident), dismissal ("So what? Everybody's pregnant!") or delusion ("I wish it were you," said to Speedy, who is 46.)
She is refusing to commit to coming to the shower, even though she's retired and has literally nothing else to do. Speedy and I would pick her up and bring her back home, and all she would have to do is agree to come. But all she says is, "Why you have shower? Slouchy and Grouchy didn't." My family is flying in from VT and trying to make a weekend of it, but without Mama S's commitment, Speedy and I can't make other plans, because we don't know whether and when we will be driving Mama S back and forth from Whitey White Whitebreadtown. To further complicate things, Speedy's mother, I suspect, is jealous of the time that Speedy and I spend with my family, as it takes away from the time we would otherwise theoretically be spending with her, so I believe part of the obstructionism is because of that.
Anyway, I realize that this drama is minimal compared to what others have endured, but it hurts me to see Speedy hurt by her mother, and to see the different ways we are already being treated because of the gestational circumstances of this baby. Had it been 10 years ago, it would have been Speedy carrying, and maybe I would be facing the same tepid response from my family as she is getting from hers. Maybe, though, Mama S would be able to feel real joy on her daughter's behalf, and maybe Speedy would feel what it is like to have a happy mother. Maybe. But it is not 10 years ago, and this is what we've got. The complicated, tangled, sticky reality of our families and their dysfunctions multiplied and twisted over generations and across different countries and cultures. And as I feel Speetus thump in my belly, I think, "One day, this will all be yours!**"
* I should say that despite the pejorative nicknames I have given them, I like Speedy's sisters a lot, possibly more than Speedy does, even though they are easy to caricature.
** But of course, Speedy and I will do it right, and raise a child free of any emotional scars in our own perfectly happy and balanced cocoon of family functionality.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Monday, Monday-- Updated with belly shot!
Thirty weeks and a few days, and I am getting quite "lusciously round" as one of my friends put it. I'm more apt to describe it as walrus-like. I am constantly slamming my belly into things-- doors, the corners of counters, the side of the shower--I have a mottling of bruises and scrapes along the most protuberant axis, and my back aches from compensating for the extra weight and volume.
My birthday is coming up and I am hinting VERY LOUDLY for a prenatal massage-- or maybe even a series! Even though Speedy & I merged money a long time ago, this is just not a purchase I feel I can make for myself. A stiff-upper-lip, thrifty Yankee I am at heart-- then dipped in a chocolately layer of self-indulgence and rolled in coconutty consumerism.
Speetus moves frequently now, and I am convinced s/he is lying transversely, as one of his/her favorite bedtime tricks is to simultaneously wallop each side of my uterus, a double wham-WHAM. I picture Speetus as an ornery little gnome in there, getting all irate when the bedtime routine is complete and I settle into bed, putting an end to the day's action. Wham-WHAM! "Wake up! Whaddya think I'm doing in here?!" I always put Speedy's hand on my belly so she can feel the craziness. It's like Alien vs. Monster in there.
Last night I dreamed that I went to the hospital in labor and women were lining the halls on cots and gurneys, moaning, naked, birthing, while a few scattered attendants ran about trying to keep on top of things. I was having triplets-- surprise!-- and quietly slipped them out with barely a push, one by one into my own hand , but they were tiny, the size of chicken wings, with waxen little faces. At one point as I realized no one would be attending to me, I said, "I knew I shouldn't have gone to the hospital!" This was my first birth anxiety dream.
I think it was brought on by 2C1H because here I was, feeling so proud of myself & Speedy for accomplishing so much this weekend: picking up and organizing a ton of donated baby clothes, putting together a crib and some drawers, a bassinet, and generally making the nursery look more like a nursery and less like a storage space...and here comes 2C1H with their gorgeous little mural and a photo of a nursery straight out of Pottery Barn Kids! (I love it, btw-- just envious of your progress!) So much for progress-- looks like I am wayyyy behind in the game!
But Speedy and I are going for a functional nursery, and given the space is about 6 x 10 feet, that's going to be a major feat in and of itself! And we do LOVE our corner crib, donated by a good friend, even if all the fancy eyelet skirtings and canopy will stay in their little bag for the next person who has more patience for such things and fewer animals to shed on them.
In other Speetus news, our shower is at the end of this month. I will have to post about the drama surrounding this, but it's not all fun. There is a sad disparity in the way our families are embracing this pregnancy, and it hurts us both to see that Speedy's family is lukewarm at best, and at times almost hostile, to any talk of the baby, much less any baby-related event (e.g. the shower). But more on that later...Right now getting through the rest of this Monday is about all I can manage.
I have a 30 week belly shot, but because we have changed around our living room, it is inconsistent. (The horror!)I will post later today, though-- you can see for yourselves the luscious roundness that has descended upon me.
My birthday is coming up and I am hinting VERY LOUDLY for a prenatal massage-- or maybe even a series! Even though Speedy & I merged money a long time ago, this is just not a purchase I feel I can make for myself. A stiff-upper-lip, thrifty Yankee I am at heart-- then dipped in a chocolately layer of self-indulgence and rolled in coconutty consumerism.
Speetus moves frequently now, and I am convinced s/he is lying transversely, as one of his/her favorite bedtime tricks is to simultaneously wallop each side of my uterus, a double wham-WHAM. I picture Speetus as an ornery little gnome in there, getting all irate when the bedtime routine is complete and I settle into bed, putting an end to the day's action. Wham-WHAM! "Wake up! Whaddya think I'm doing in here?!" I always put Speedy's hand on my belly so she can feel the craziness. It's like Alien vs. Monster in there.
Last night I dreamed that I went to the hospital in labor and women were lining the halls on cots and gurneys, moaning, naked, birthing, while a few scattered attendants ran about trying to keep on top of things. I was having triplets-- surprise!-- and quietly slipped them out with barely a push, one by one into my own hand , but they were tiny, the size of chicken wings, with waxen little faces. At one point as I realized no one would be attending to me, I said, "I knew I shouldn't have gone to the hospital!" This was my first birth anxiety dream.
I think it was brought on by 2C1H because here I was, feeling so proud of myself & Speedy for accomplishing so much this weekend: picking up and organizing a ton of donated baby clothes, putting together a crib and some drawers, a bassinet, and generally making the nursery look more like a nursery and less like a storage space...and here comes 2C1H with their gorgeous little mural and a photo of a nursery straight out of Pottery Barn Kids! (I love it, btw-- just envious of your progress!) So much for progress-- looks like I am wayyyy behind in the game!
But Speedy and I are going for a functional nursery, and given the space is about 6 x 10 feet, that's going to be a major feat in and of itself! And we do LOVE our corner crib, donated by a good friend, even if all the fancy eyelet skirtings and canopy will stay in their little bag for the next person who has more patience for such things and fewer animals to shed on them.
In other Speetus news, our shower is at the end of this month. I will have to post about the drama surrounding this, but it's not all fun. There is a sad disparity in the way our families are embracing this pregnancy, and it hurts us both to see that Speedy's family is lukewarm at best, and at times almost hostile, to any talk of the baby, much less any baby-related event (e.g. the shower). But more on that later...Right now getting through the rest of this Monday is about all I can manage.
I have a 30 week belly shot, but because we have changed around our living room, it is inconsistent. (The horror!)
Friday, October 1, 2010
New PSA: lesbian co-parents of color wanted for PBS show
Pardon me and my 30-week fatigue. I will do a real post this weekend. But for now-- I wanted to pass this along...
CASTING CALL:
The upcoming PBS documentary Out in America slated to air nationally on PBS stations in 2011, is seeking women to appear on-camera to speak about their personal experiences with coming out, falling in love, parenthood, homophobia and more. The documentary film will take a positive look at the diversity within the various LGBT communities across America. The production is specifically looking for lesbian or bisexual women of color with school-age children to address LGBT issues from the perspective of minority same-sex parents. Interested women should contact Julia right away at [email protected] or 212-929-2085.
CASTING CALL:
The upcoming PBS documentary Out in America slated to air nationally on PBS stations in 2011, is seeking women to appear on-camera to speak about their personal experiences with coming out, falling in love, parenthood, homophobia and more. The documentary film will take a positive look at the diversity within the various LGBT communities across America. The production is specifically looking for lesbian or bisexual women of color with school-age children to address LGBT issues from the perspective of minority same-sex parents. Interested women should contact Julia right away at [email protected] or 212-929-2085.
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