The other day, I was sitting at my desk with a co-worker, calmly engaged in polite smalltalk about my pregnancy. Standard stuff: How am I feeling? Good, great, awesome. Do we know the sex? Nope - we love a surprise! Any cravings? Sadly, no - and I was really looking forward to that part.
Suddenly, another co-worker - a man I barely know - wandered by, turned and made a beeline for my desk. In the midst of our pleasantries, he stuck his face over my cubicle wall, looked me straight in the eye and stated "You know, I think women are sexiest when they're pregnant." Then he turned on his heel and quickly scurried off down the hall.
My office is ripe with perverts.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Gluttony and Guilt - My Love Affair With Sugar
As is apparent from earlier posts, I am – and always have been - a sugar fiend. It is known far and wide that my love of sweets far exceeds that of normal humans, that my tolerance for large quantities of sugar-laden pastries, thick layers of gooey buttercream and vast bags of sticky gummi candies rivals that of any wild-eyed eight-year-old. At work, I am the first of my co-workers to be altered if there happen to be treats about, and I can be counted on to spread the word, to rally the troops in search of dessert glory. I am unashamed to say that I possess remarkable abilities in this department: in my five-story office building, I am capable of sniffing out any rogue cookie, tracking down all errant cupcakes, and mercilessly capturing every last slice of pie.
Truth be told, I might owe my whole relationship to my love of sugar. Shortly after we began dating, my now-husband and I went to the grocery store to pick out a dessert to accompany our rental - an action-packed evening of fun. I found myself lamenting that no one in my circle of friends would share Ben and Jerry’s with me due to the fact that I inevitably eat out all the candy chunks and leave only the ice cream remaining.
Weeks passed. One night, as I lounged on his couch reading, I heard him in the kitchen. Hack-hack. Chop-chop-chop. Hmmm...an odd hour at which to make a stir-fry…I ignored it and continued with my magazine. Suddenly, to my surprise, he walked into the room bearing a container of my favorite flavor of Ben and Jerry’s. I opened it, only to behold a chunk-filled pint of ice cream beyond my wildest dreams. Amidst the frozen sweetness, I could make out Butterfingers, Snickers and Twix. There were bits of cookie, hunks of brownie and bites of mint. It was all mine, and it was beautiful. He beamed down at me, proud of his handiwork, and announced that he had chopped up seven candy bars and packed them in, creating a two-container chunk-filled, heavenly hodgepodge of dessert from one measly pint. At that moment, looking up at his pleased, impish grin, I knew I could never live without him. I would marry this man.
Shortly thereafter, the two of us began searching for the most delectable cupcake that Los Angeles has to offer. I’m not entirely certain how this mission was instigated, but I believe it had something to do with my utter horror that he was 1) remarkably fit, and sickeningly dedicated to regular hikes, runs, and other shameful displays of healthy living, and 2) not a sugar lover. Sure, he’d have the occasional indulgent bite now and then, but I was mostly left to own devices in the sugar-hoarding department. At first, this worked out nicely – never a good sharer, I was pleased to devour my goodies without question, judgement or fear of interruption and/or retaliation. However, after one too many date-night evenings spent cramming desserts down my throat between kisses, I realized that I had a clear responsibility. Not to cut down on the sweets – crazy talk! No, my destiny was clear: it was up to me to help this man. I must teach him the way of the sugar! He must learn to share my passion! In short - I would show him the love.
Thus began the Great Cupcake Quest of 2007. At this point, the Sex and the City-induced cupcake obsession had spread like wildfire throughout our great, obesity-prone nation. Cupcakeries were popping up on every corner, schlepping glorious confections to wide-eyed grade-schoolers, soccer moms and TV executives alike (trust me, I’ve seen it). Yes, you could scarcely toss a rock without having it land in someone’s frosting. I had my chosen favorite - a mom and pop shop just down the street from work, at which I was known for my demand for the thickest frosting possible. The teenage employees shuddered as the door swung open and in I strut, ready to point out precisely which treats I desired. “No – not that one – the one to the left. No, to the left – left! NO, not that one! Come on, you have eyes - does that LOOK like it has the most frosting?” Note: Dear reader, please know that I am prone to hyperbole, and do not, in fact, make it a habit to abuse pimply bakery workers. However, in the interest of full disclosure, it may have occurred on occasion, but only in a state of seriously low blood sugar.
Given the cupcake mania of the day, it was only natural that our journey begin with that treat. We decided that it was up to us to discover Los Angeles’s best and brightest, and so, one fine Saturday, I proudly introduced my future husband to the simple glories of Cupcake. Whether he was beguiled by my childlike enthusiasm for frosting or simply scared into submission still eludes me, but he took up the quest with great vigor and impressive dedication. Every weekend for months thereafter, we sampled different bakeries, hunting down and selecting our prospective targets throughout the week and happily stuffing ourselves each weekend. We were young, in love, and high on sugar. Anything was possible. After months of sampling, slightly rounder but no worse for wear, we arrived at our verdict – my mom n’ pop shop did indeed boast the best cupcakes in LA. Mission accomplished.
My love of sugar began as a child. My mother tells the story of a two-year-old me, bedecked in all my holiday finery and taken with my brothers to visit Santa Claus in my small-town plaza. As we approached his twinkling, festive shack, I caught sight of the jolly bearded fellow and panicked, dropping my mother’s hand and high-tailing it out of there as fast as my little legs could carry me. Legend has it that my mother called out “Paige – he has candy.” I froze in my tracks, spun around and make a beeline straight for Ole’ Saint Nick. Ah, young love.
My sugar fixation was likely the result of growing up in a mostly sugar-free household. My middle brother has Type 1 diabetes, so desserts at our place were generally low-sugar frozen yogurts with fruit, or “cookies” packed with wheat germ and applesauce. I longed for the Twinkies and Oreos in my friends’ cupboards, and shamelessly gorged myself at sleepovers, unapologetically cleaning their cupboards of desireable treats. How can so much crap fit into such a small person? their mothers wondered. Later I discovered that at least one friend’s mother had the good sense to replace her pricey Oreos with generic Hydrox when she heard I was on my way. I never knew, and frankly, wouldn’t have cared.
Though I’ve spent nearly 30 years loving sugar, I always knew that I would never, could never subject my sweet fetus to my gluttony. My addiction is mine and mine alone, and my unborn child must be spared. As a nonpregnant person in my early 20s, I silently passed judgement on the expectant moms that I witnessed overindulging, dreaming of the day when I would nourish my fetus with saint-like meals of organic kale, whole grains and lean proteins, snacking on juicy, locally-grown, nutrient-packed fruit and hormone-free, low-fat dairy. I would not be one of those women who uses pregnancy as an excuse to pack all manner of filth into their faces! The “eating for two” excuse wouldn’t jibe for me. I would do everything right! I would be the pregnancy SUPERMOM!
In my older and wiser years, I’ve realized something very simple – women simply do the best they can for their babies, and I am certainly not one to judge. Though I’m far from perfect, my love of nutrition – always in horrible conflict with my love of sugar – has won out, and I am proud to say that I have indeed eaten like a saint for 95% of my pregnancy. My favorite indulgence these days is a ripe organic orange, or perhaps a Trader Joe’s organic toaster pastry – a little piece of sweet, crunchy heaven perfect for a late-night snack. For the time being - for my baby - I’ve managed to kick the habit.
Until today. It went something like this: co-worker’s going-away party – hungry pregnant woman – massive tray of pastries. Muffins the size of soccer balls. Scones as big as my face. Willpower withering. Self-control slipping. Gluttony growing.
SLOBBER DROOL BLARGH
Sigh. You can't win 'em all.
Truth be told, I might owe my whole relationship to my love of sugar. Shortly after we began dating, my now-husband and I went to the grocery store to pick out a dessert to accompany our rental - an action-packed evening of fun. I found myself lamenting that no one in my circle of friends would share Ben and Jerry’s with me due to the fact that I inevitably eat out all the candy chunks and leave only the ice cream remaining.
Weeks passed. One night, as I lounged on his couch reading, I heard him in the kitchen. Hack-hack. Chop-chop-chop. Hmmm...an odd hour at which to make a stir-fry…I ignored it and continued with my magazine. Suddenly, to my surprise, he walked into the room bearing a container of my favorite flavor of Ben and Jerry’s. I opened it, only to behold a chunk-filled pint of ice cream beyond my wildest dreams. Amidst the frozen sweetness, I could make out Butterfingers, Snickers and Twix. There were bits of cookie, hunks of brownie and bites of mint. It was all mine, and it was beautiful. He beamed down at me, proud of his handiwork, and announced that he had chopped up seven candy bars and packed them in, creating a two-container chunk-filled, heavenly hodgepodge of dessert from one measly pint. At that moment, looking up at his pleased, impish grin, I knew I could never live without him. I would marry this man.
Shortly thereafter, the two of us began searching for the most delectable cupcake that Los Angeles has to offer. I’m not entirely certain how this mission was instigated, but I believe it had something to do with my utter horror that he was 1) remarkably fit, and sickeningly dedicated to regular hikes, runs, and other shameful displays of healthy living, and 2) not a sugar lover. Sure, he’d have the occasional indulgent bite now and then, but I was mostly left to own devices in the sugar-hoarding department. At first, this worked out nicely – never a good sharer, I was pleased to devour my goodies without question, judgement or fear of interruption and/or retaliation. However, after one too many date-night evenings spent cramming desserts down my throat between kisses, I realized that I had a clear responsibility. Not to cut down on the sweets – crazy talk! No, my destiny was clear: it was up to me to help this man. I must teach him the way of the sugar! He must learn to share my passion! In short - I would show him the love.
Thus began the Great Cupcake Quest of 2007. At this point, the Sex and the City-induced cupcake obsession had spread like wildfire throughout our great, obesity-prone nation. Cupcakeries were popping up on every corner, schlepping glorious confections to wide-eyed grade-schoolers, soccer moms and TV executives alike (trust me, I’ve seen it). Yes, you could scarcely toss a rock without having it land in someone’s frosting. I had my chosen favorite - a mom and pop shop just down the street from work, at which I was known for my demand for the thickest frosting possible. The teenage employees shuddered as the door swung open and in I strut, ready to point out precisely which treats I desired. “No – not that one – the one to the left. No, to the left – left! NO, not that one! Come on, you have eyes - does that LOOK like it has the most frosting?” Note: Dear reader, please know that I am prone to hyperbole, and do not, in fact, make it a habit to abuse pimply bakery workers. However, in the interest of full disclosure, it may have occurred on occasion, but only in a state of seriously low blood sugar.
Given the cupcake mania of the day, it was only natural that our journey begin with that treat. We decided that it was up to us to discover Los Angeles’s best and brightest, and so, one fine Saturday, I proudly introduced my future husband to the simple glories of Cupcake. Whether he was beguiled by my childlike enthusiasm for frosting or simply scared into submission still eludes me, but he took up the quest with great vigor and impressive dedication. Every weekend for months thereafter, we sampled different bakeries, hunting down and selecting our prospective targets throughout the week and happily stuffing ourselves each weekend. We were young, in love, and high on sugar. Anything was possible. After months of sampling, slightly rounder but no worse for wear, we arrived at our verdict – my mom n’ pop shop did indeed boast the best cupcakes in LA. Mission accomplished.
My love of sugar began as a child. My mother tells the story of a two-year-old me, bedecked in all my holiday finery and taken with my brothers to visit Santa Claus in my small-town plaza. As we approached his twinkling, festive shack, I caught sight of the jolly bearded fellow and panicked, dropping my mother’s hand and high-tailing it out of there as fast as my little legs could carry me. Legend has it that my mother called out “Paige – he has candy.” I froze in my tracks, spun around and make a beeline straight for Ole’ Saint Nick. Ah, young love.
My sugar fixation was likely the result of growing up in a mostly sugar-free household. My middle brother has Type 1 diabetes, so desserts at our place were generally low-sugar frozen yogurts with fruit, or “cookies” packed with wheat germ and applesauce. I longed for the Twinkies and Oreos in my friends’ cupboards, and shamelessly gorged myself at sleepovers, unapologetically cleaning their cupboards of desireable treats. How can so much crap fit into such a small person? their mothers wondered. Later I discovered that at least one friend’s mother had the good sense to replace her pricey Oreos with generic Hydrox when she heard I was on my way. I never knew, and frankly, wouldn’t have cared.
Though I’ve spent nearly 30 years loving sugar, I always knew that I would never, could never subject my sweet fetus to my gluttony. My addiction is mine and mine alone, and my unborn child must be spared. As a nonpregnant person in my early 20s, I silently passed judgement on the expectant moms that I witnessed overindulging, dreaming of the day when I would nourish my fetus with saint-like meals of organic kale, whole grains and lean proteins, snacking on juicy, locally-grown, nutrient-packed fruit and hormone-free, low-fat dairy. I would not be one of those women who uses pregnancy as an excuse to pack all manner of filth into their faces! The “eating for two” excuse wouldn’t jibe for me. I would do everything right! I would be the pregnancy SUPERMOM!
In my older and wiser years, I’ve realized something very simple – women simply do the best they can for their babies, and I am certainly not one to judge. Though I’m far from perfect, my love of nutrition – always in horrible conflict with my love of sugar – has won out, and I am proud to say that I have indeed eaten like a saint for 95% of my pregnancy. My favorite indulgence these days is a ripe organic orange, or perhaps a Trader Joe’s organic toaster pastry – a little piece of sweet, crunchy heaven perfect for a late-night snack. For the time being - for my baby - I’ve managed to kick the habit.
Until today. It went something like this: co-worker’s going-away party – hungry pregnant woman – massive tray of pastries. Muffins the size of soccer balls. Scones as big as my face. Willpower withering. Self-control slipping. Gluttony growing.
SLOBBER DROOL BLARGH
Sigh. You can't win 'em all.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Slowly but Surely
When my mother was pregnant with me, she was six months along before she told anyone. According to my ever-sensitive aunt, mom was dismayed to have gotten pregnant again so quickly after her two little boys (though we’re all well over two years apart) and therefore wasn’t eager to spread the word of Baby Number Three. To this day, my aunt still sounds incredulous when she recounts how, six months in, my mother looked perfectly unpregnant.
My mother and I are similar creatures in many ways. We share the same long, thin arms and legs, the lanky, delicate build of my grandfather. Though popular folklore maintains that my gazelle-like mother carried me magically tucked away under her ribs, fetus unbeknownst to all, I was always certain that I would carry like a wildebeest. After all, my mother has a long, lean torso and boyish shape, providing a baby with plenty of room to wiggle about, stealthily hiding behind organs and under various bony protrusions. Though I’ve never gained weight easily, I am slightly more compact and curvy, and therefore assumed (irrationally, some would say) that nature would play a cruel joke, causing me to blimp up to truly insane proportions during my pregnancy. Little children would stop in their tracks as I approached, running to hide behind their mother’s skirts. Grown men would gawk openly at my increasing girth. “Paige was such a pretty girl, before the baby came. What a shame.”
I wouldn’t mind, though. I would happily wander about, munching freely, with not a care in the world about my expanding ass and ballooning belly. I’m baking a baby. I’m creating life. To hell with you, fatty-haters!
So far, my pregnancy fantasy has only proven half true. I do wander, happily munching, but at just shy of five months pregnant, I remain remarkably small. Although I’ve gained a fairly impressive seven pounds so far, only in the past week or so has my belly begun to curve. I welcome the change, though I’m still in the Wow, Paige had better lay off the cupcakes… - DAMN! Lookit the beer belly on that one!! phase. To look at me, one wouldn’t immediately suspect that I am a Pregnant Person. With Child. Expecting. Knocked Up. Baby on Board. Glorious euphemisms abound for my current state, but still, it is not immediately apparent to the outside world.
I try not to mention this amongst my uncomfortably pregnant friends, those that packed it on in the first trimester and found themselves, as one expectant mother friend puts it, “covered in a layer of blubber from head to toe.” I know I should be thankful for my relatively small baby belly, but strangely, I find myself coveting the roundness of others. These women needn’t publicize their pregnancies – their tummies tell the tale for them. Their swollen abdomens shout it to the rooftops. “Is she or isn’t she?” is no longer applicable. I want this. People tell me to be patient – that soon enough I’ll grow big and round, and rue the day I aspired to weight gain. Perhaps they’re right - still, I covet the bellies.
I think about my mother, pregnant with me in ’79, when the flowing fashion of the day dictated caftans, muumuus and maxi dresses, perfect for concealing a burgeoning baby bump. Today, I live in the land of skinny jeans, sky-high heels and tank tops. Most of my pre-pregnancy clothes still fit, so I have chosen to spurn unflattering babydoll dresses and floaty, shapeless tops. My own little bump is proudly displayed to one and all.
And by month six, I’ll be good and round, with nothing to hide.
My mother and I are similar creatures in many ways. We share the same long, thin arms and legs, the lanky, delicate build of my grandfather. Though popular folklore maintains that my gazelle-like mother carried me magically tucked away under her ribs, fetus unbeknownst to all, I was always certain that I would carry like a wildebeest. After all, my mother has a long, lean torso and boyish shape, providing a baby with plenty of room to wiggle about, stealthily hiding behind organs and under various bony protrusions. Though I’ve never gained weight easily, I am slightly more compact and curvy, and therefore assumed (irrationally, some would say) that nature would play a cruel joke, causing me to blimp up to truly insane proportions during my pregnancy. Little children would stop in their tracks as I approached, running to hide behind their mother’s skirts. Grown men would gawk openly at my increasing girth. “Paige was such a pretty girl, before the baby came. What a shame.”
I wouldn’t mind, though. I would happily wander about, munching freely, with not a care in the world about my expanding ass and ballooning belly. I’m baking a baby. I’m creating life. To hell with you, fatty-haters!
So far, my pregnancy fantasy has only proven half true. I do wander, happily munching, but at just shy of five months pregnant, I remain remarkably small. Although I’ve gained a fairly impressive seven pounds so far, only in the past week or so has my belly begun to curve. I welcome the change, though I’m still in the Wow, Paige had better lay off the cupcakes… - DAMN! Lookit the beer belly on that one!! phase. To look at me, one wouldn’t immediately suspect that I am a Pregnant Person. With Child. Expecting. Knocked Up. Baby on Board. Glorious euphemisms abound for my current state, but still, it is not immediately apparent to the outside world.
I try not to mention this amongst my uncomfortably pregnant friends, those that packed it on in the first trimester and found themselves, as one expectant mother friend puts it, “covered in a layer of blubber from head to toe.” I know I should be thankful for my relatively small baby belly, but strangely, I find myself coveting the roundness of others. These women needn’t publicize their pregnancies – their tummies tell the tale for them. Their swollen abdomens shout it to the rooftops. “Is she or isn’t she?” is no longer applicable. I want this. People tell me to be patient – that soon enough I’ll grow big and round, and rue the day I aspired to weight gain. Perhaps they’re right - still, I covet the bellies.
I think about my mother, pregnant with me in ’79, when the flowing fashion of the day dictated caftans, muumuus and maxi dresses, perfect for concealing a burgeoning baby bump. Today, I live in the land of skinny jeans, sky-high heels and tank tops. Most of my pre-pregnancy clothes still fit, so I have chosen to spurn unflattering babydoll dresses and floaty, shapeless tops. My own little bump is proudly displayed to one and all.
And by month six, I’ll be good and round, with nothing to hide.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Baby Shower Culture Shock
Last weekend, I attended the baby shower of another first-time mom, the wife of one of my husband’s best friends. They are one of my favorite couples, although we see less of them than others in our immediate circle. As members of Los Angeles’s predominately Persian Baha’i community, their evenings and weekends are often occupied with events, making it difficult to get on their calendar. I was always intrigued by these mysterious gatherings - compared to their packed social schedule, my husband and I look like downright pariahs. With the arrival of this baby shower, I finally had my moment - at last, the time had come for me to infiltrate! What could I learn from this brave new world? What marvels lay in wait?
Lesson 1: Timeliness is not next to godliness. Evidently, this new world runs on Persian Time, which is in a completely different time zone than us silly Caucasians. The elegantly letterpressed “It’s a Girl!!” invitation clearly stated that festivities began at 1pm, so I arrived, eager and excited, at about eight 'til. I sat in my car on the street for exactly eight minutes, when I noticed that I hadn’t actually seen anyone arrive and enter the house. Odd. I decided to call my husband to make sure I was in the right place.
“Yes, that’s the right house, but why are you there so early?”
“What do you mean? It starts at one – I’m here right on time.”
“No – I told you, A (father-to-be) told me to tell you to get there late. He said if you got there at 1, you’d be the only one there. N (mom-to-be) isn’t getting there 'til 2pm.”
Evidently, my sweet husband was under the assumption that he had relayed this message to me. Indeed he had not. There I sat, sweltering in my car, surrounded by stately homes on a pristine Brentwood avenue, “early” for a party that somehow all other guests knew would never start on time. My husband suggested that I go wander around the neighborhood and partake of my usual favorite activities: cupcake-eating, Whole Foods-wandering, skincare-sampling. I pondered the time-killing possibilities briefly before arriving at the inevitable truth: I’m a WASP. It is simply not in my DNA to purposefully arrive late to an event.
Thus, I waited patiently in my car until 1:15pm, when I saw one solitary woman enter. Hallelujah! I seized my opportunity, grabbing my massive, bow-bedecked, rainbow-colored Infantino monkey play gym and following. The front door, a massive, rather intimidating wrought-iron creation, was slightly ajar. I gingerly poked my head in with a friendly “Helloooo?” As my eyes adjusted to my new surroundings, I immediately wanted to retreat. There, in this opulent mansion, sat two women. That’s it. Beyond the massive buffet, amidst pink “It’s a Girl!!” flourishes dangling from every spare inch of space, I could see caterers scurrying about setting up tables in the backyard and a DJ lugging equipment into the house.
The two women had been deep in conversation, and looked up at me like I was totally insane. I babbled, “Oh, am I early??” After a moment or two of silence, they seemed to realize that I was a legitimate party guest rather than, say, a wayward, toy-toting Mormon come to preach the good word. They welcomed me in, introducing themselves as N’s mom and - the woman I had followed - N’s cousin, and politely sat me down across the room. At this point, they continued chatting in rapid-fire Farsi and proceeded to totally ignore me. I imagined that part of the conversation had to entail the crazy blonde chick who had foolishly arrived on time.
I affixed a pleasant “This isn’t awkward at all” smile on my face and looked around, desperately attempting to seem engaged while studying the various paintings, sculptures, and anything else bedecking the walls which could possibly enable me to look busy and occupied.
One small eternity later, N’s sister wandered out, saw what was going on, and thankfully came over to sit and small-talk with me. At one point, she commiserated “It’s so silly how these things start so late – I’m always on time.” I knew she was totally full of shit and just trying to make me feel like less of an ass, and I loved her for it. Another ten slow minutes rolled by, during which time I saw the guest of honor, lovely and round with mommyhood, wander in through the back of the house, past the sweaty catering staff, with her HAIR IN CURLERS, as if to reiterate “What kind of moron would get here on time?” ME! I am that moron! Her husband had accompanied her, and he came over to give me a hug and kiss, asking what everyone else was doubtlessly wondering - “Why are you here so early?” Argh!
After about a half-hour (1:45pm by this time), my friend Heather - another punctual little blonde - arrived. Hooray! Come chat with me, non-Farsi speaker! Slowly but surely, by 2pm, women began to trickle in, bedazzled in all their Baha’i glory.
Lesson 2: Natural be damned. These Persian women were some of the most beautiful creatures in the world, if I could find their faces underneath the 87 pounds of eyeliner and twelve coats of lipstick. Apparently, they celebrate a completely different aesthetic of beauty than the fresh-faced American females of my acquaintance. Gazing around the room, I realized that Persian culture may be single-handedly keeping the US cosmetics industry afloat during the recession.
Lesson 3: Spare no expense. By 2:45pm, another two friends had arrived, as had about 70 more Farsi-speaking women, attired in colorful, perfectly tailored dresses and sporting a drool-inducing, envy-inspiring, Carrie Bradshaw-worthy collection of designer shoes. The DJ was pumping, the dance floor was packed with revelers, and the snacking had begun. We decided to brave the crowd and moved in a cautious little herd toward the buffet – a vast array of fresh fruits, nuts, dried things, and strange little sweets, very similar to the spread at A and N’s 350-person, 4-billion-dollar wedding in ’07.
We stuffed ourselves judiciously, and by the time the buffet-ing was done, several other friends had arrived – evidently, they have either operated in this group for long enough to know what to expect, or their husbands actually gave them the memo. Curses!
4pm: The shindig was now approximately 100 people thick, and it had become abundantly clear that this was no sit-around-and-watch-her-open-gifts kind of affair. The celebration showed no signs of slowing, and it was announced that lunch was served. ?!?! MORE food? How are these women not all morbidly obese? We dutifully lined up on the patio in the warm spring sunshine, filling our plates with salads, rice and various meaty Persian dishes. What I thought was a sautéed eggplant turned out to be stuffed with beef. Sneaky bastard.
Lesson 4: The big tease. At 5pm, my little circle had gossiped and small-talked ourselves out, and presumed that things were finally winding down. However, I had other plans. Sugar fiend that I am, I had spent most of the party eyeing the massive cake on the buffet table – baby pink, with girly little shoes, ribbons and bows carved out of enticingly thick fondant. I found myself desperately craving a big sugary slab, a reward for my timely arrival and hours of pleasant, dutiful socializing.
At their wedding, A and N had a glorious cake which I spent all evening salivating over in anticipation. However, by the time 2am rolled around (and I nearly nodded off at our table), it became apparent that their $2,000+ cake was just for show – after a ceremonial cutting and one bite each for bride and groom, the audience applauded joyfully and I watched in dismay as it was rolled back into the kitchen, never to be seen again. My husband saw the look on my face and decided that this was unacceptable – he had a cake-loving wife who needed a fix, by damn! He charged into the kitchen and demanded that the confused hotel staff cut a piece for me. My hero. To this day, I think I’m the only person who actually tasted that wedding cake.
I was determined not to repeat this torturous experience with the equally impressive baby shower cake. At that moment, a woman paraded into the main room and gleefully announced something in Farsi. I saw N sidle up behind her, whispering something about "English, too." The translation came: “And NOW we’re going to play some games!!” Games? Now? FOUR HOURS in? I couldn’t take it anymore. Almost all of my friends had left at this point (the lucky bastards managed to scurry out without having to bid farewell to N), leaving me and one other diligent, cake-loving gal sitting there expectantly. As the games were announced, I realized my mission was futile.
Lesson 5: Grab freely. At long last, we got up to leave. Turning to pick up my bag, I suddenly felt a hand paw my belly, now visibly bloated after the feasting (hey, with a baby in there, things fill up fast). I turned to face the culprit, a woman with whom I’d been idly chatting. Squeezing my rounded midsection, she gleefully inquired, “Are you PREGNANT??” I briefly considered responding “No, I’m just fat - but thanks so much!” Instead I nodded politely, then slipped quickly away amidst her congratulatory exclamations.
Lucky girl that I am, immediately N was there, her doe eyes sparkling as she inquired “Why are you leaving?” It took all my self-control and good breeding not to retort “Because I’ve been here for FOUR HOURS.” My friend and I nervously babbled something about having plans, and then we were free – blissfully liberated in the late afternoon West Side sun. But not quite: suddenly, A and his father pulled up in front of the house, decked to the nines and ready to join the party. He too demanded to know why we were leaving.
FOUR HOURS, people!!
I immediately drove to my friend Jen’s to share my tale of cakeless woe. Jen is married to a Persian man, so she felt my pain. She proceeded to tell me the story of her first Persian gathering, a wedding that started at 8pm – or so she thought. They arrived, diligently on time, only to find crickets chirping as the staff decorated the ballroom.
Lesson 6: Thou knowest no stamina like the Baha’i people. At last, it is clear to me why we rarely see A and N. After my day of revelry, their tight-knit community seems all the more magical. The simple truth is this: these people know how to party. With 12-hour events like these on their calendar, it hardly seems possible that they emerge to bathe and sleep, much less to socialize with outsiders. I am in awe at their endurance – I bow down to their fortitude. My own four-hour stint pales in comparison.
Before we all departed that day, I had promised my girlfriends that my own upcoming shower would be two hours – three, tops – and would start ON TIME.
Lesson 1: Timeliness is not next to godliness. Evidently, this new world runs on Persian Time, which is in a completely different time zone than us silly Caucasians. The elegantly letterpressed “It’s a Girl!!” invitation clearly stated that festivities began at 1pm, so I arrived, eager and excited, at about eight 'til. I sat in my car on the street for exactly eight minutes, when I noticed that I hadn’t actually seen anyone arrive and enter the house. Odd. I decided to call my husband to make sure I was in the right place.
“Yes, that’s the right house, but why are you there so early?”
“What do you mean? It starts at one – I’m here right on time.”
“No – I told you, A (father-to-be) told me to tell you to get there late. He said if you got there at 1, you’d be the only one there. N (mom-to-be) isn’t getting there 'til 2pm.”
Evidently, my sweet husband was under the assumption that he had relayed this message to me. Indeed he had not. There I sat, sweltering in my car, surrounded by stately homes on a pristine Brentwood avenue, “early” for a party that somehow all other guests knew would never start on time. My husband suggested that I go wander around the neighborhood and partake of my usual favorite activities: cupcake-eating, Whole Foods-wandering, skincare-sampling. I pondered the time-killing possibilities briefly before arriving at the inevitable truth: I’m a WASP. It is simply not in my DNA to purposefully arrive late to an event.
Thus, I waited patiently in my car until 1:15pm, when I saw one solitary woman enter. Hallelujah! I seized my opportunity, grabbing my massive, bow-bedecked, rainbow-colored Infantino monkey play gym and following. The front door, a massive, rather intimidating wrought-iron creation, was slightly ajar. I gingerly poked my head in with a friendly “Helloooo?” As my eyes adjusted to my new surroundings, I immediately wanted to retreat. There, in this opulent mansion, sat two women. That’s it. Beyond the massive buffet, amidst pink “It’s a Girl!!” flourishes dangling from every spare inch of space, I could see caterers scurrying about setting up tables in the backyard and a DJ lugging equipment into the house.
The two women had been deep in conversation, and looked up at me like I was totally insane. I babbled, “Oh, am I early??” After a moment or two of silence, they seemed to realize that I was a legitimate party guest rather than, say, a wayward, toy-toting Mormon come to preach the good word. They welcomed me in, introducing themselves as N’s mom and - the woman I had followed - N’s cousin, and politely sat me down across the room. At this point, they continued chatting in rapid-fire Farsi and proceeded to totally ignore me. I imagined that part of the conversation had to entail the crazy blonde chick who had foolishly arrived on time.
I affixed a pleasant “This isn’t awkward at all” smile on my face and looked around, desperately attempting to seem engaged while studying the various paintings, sculptures, and anything else bedecking the walls which could possibly enable me to look busy and occupied.
One small eternity later, N’s sister wandered out, saw what was going on, and thankfully came over to sit and small-talk with me. At one point, she commiserated “It’s so silly how these things start so late – I’m always on time.” I knew she was totally full of shit and just trying to make me feel like less of an ass, and I loved her for it. Another ten slow minutes rolled by, during which time I saw the guest of honor, lovely and round with mommyhood, wander in through the back of the house, past the sweaty catering staff, with her HAIR IN CURLERS, as if to reiterate “What kind of moron would get here on time?” ME! I am that moron! Her husband had accompanied her, and he came over to give me a hug and kiss, asking what everyone else was doubtlessly wondering - “Why are you here so early?” Argh!
After about a half-hour (1:45pm by this time), my friend Heather - another punctual little blonde - arrived. Hooray! Come chat with me, non-Farsi speaker! Slowly but surely, by 2pm, women began to trickle in, bedazzled in all their Baha’i glory.
Lesson 2: Natural be damned. These Persian women were some of the most beautiful creatures in the world, if I could find their faces underneath the 87 pounds of eyeliner and twelve coats of lipstick. Apparently, they celebrate a completely different aesthetic of beauty than the fresh-faced American females of my acquaintance. Gazing around the room, I realized that Persian culture may be single-handedly keeping the US cosmetics industry afloat during the recession.
Lesson 3: Spare no expense. By 2:45pm, another two friends had arrived, as had about 70 more Farsi-speaking women, attired in colorful, perfectly tailored dresses and sporting a drool-inducing, envy-inspiring, Carrie Bradshaw-worthy collection of designer shoes. The DJ was pumping, the dance floor was packed with revelers, and the snacking had begun. We decided to brave the crowd and moved in a cautious little herd toward the buffet – a vast array of fresh fruits, nuts, dried things, and strange little sweets, very similar to the spread at A and N’s 350-person, 4-billion-dollar wedding in ’07.
We stuffed ourselves judiciously, and by the time the buffet-ing was done, several other friends had arrived – evidently, they have either operated in this group for long enough to know what to expect, or their husbands actually gave them the memo. Curses!
4pm: The shindig was now approximately 100 people thick, and it had become abundantly clear that this was no sit-around-and-watch-her-open-gifts kind of affair. The celebration showed no signs of slowing, and it was announced that lunch was served. ?!?! MORE food? How are these women not all morbidly obese? We dutifully lined up on the patio in the warm spring sunshine, filling our plates with salads, rice and various meaty Persian dishes. What I thought was a sautéed eggplant turned out to be stuffed with beef. Sneaky bastard.
Lesson 4: The big tease. At 5pm, my little circle had gossiped and small-talked ourselves out, and presumed that things were finally winding down. However, I had other plans. Sugar fiend that I am, I had spent most of the party eyeing the massive cake on the buffet table – baby pink, with girly little shoes, ribbons and bows carved out of enticingly thick fondant. I found myself desperately craving a big sugary slab, a reward for my timely arrival and hours of pleasant, dutiful socializing.
At their wedding, A and N had a glorious cake which I spent all evening salivating over in anticipation. However, by the time 2am rolled around (and I nearly nodded off at our table), it became apparent that their $2,000+ cake was just for show – after a ceremonial cutting and one bite each for bride and groom, the audience applauded joyfully and I watched in dismay as it was rolled back into the kitchen, never to be seen again. My husband saw the look on my face and decided that this was unacceptable – he had a cake-loving wife who needed a fix, by damn! He charged into the kitchen and demanded that the confused hotel staff cut a piece for me. My hero. To this day, I think I’m the only person who actually tasted that wedding cake.
I was determined not to repeat this torturous experience with the equally impressive baby shower cake. At that moment, a woman paraded into the main room and gleefully announced something in Farsi. I saw N sidle up behind her, whispering something about "English, too." The translation came: “And NOW we’re going to play some games!!” Games? Now? FOUR HOURS in? I couldn’t take it anymore. Almost all of my friends had left at this point (the lucky bastards managed to scurry out without having to bid farewell to N), leaving me and one other diligent, cake-loving gal sitting there expectantly. As the games were announced, I realized my mission was futile.
Lesson 5: Grab freely. At long last, we got up to leave. Turning to pick up my bag, I suddenly felt a hand paw my belly, now visibly bloated after the feasting (hey, with a baby in there, things fill up fast). I turned to face the culprit, a woman with whom I’d been idly chatting. Squeezing my rounded midsection, she gleefully inquired, “Are you PREGNANT??” I briefly considered responding “No, I’m just fat - but thanks so much!” Instead I nodded politely, then slipped quickly away amidst her congratulatory exclamations.
Lucky girl that I am, immediately N was there, her doe eyes sparkling as she inquired “Why are you leaving?” It took all my self-control and good breeding not to retort “Because I’ve been here for FOUR HOURS.” My friend and I nervously babbled something about having plans, and then we were free – blissfully liberated in the late afternoon West Side sun. But not quite: suddenly, A and his father pulled up in front of the house, decked to the nines and ready to join the party. He too demanded to know why we were leaving.
FOUR HOURS, people!!
I immediately drove to my friend Jen’s to share my tale of cakeless woe. Jen is married to a Persian man, so she felt my pain. She proceeded to tell me the story of her first Persian gathering, a wedding that started at 8pm – or so she thought. They arrived, diligently on time, only to find crickets chirping as the staff decorated the ballroom.
Lesson 6: Thou knowest no stamina like the Baha’i people. At last, it is clear to me why we rarely see A and N. After my day of revelry, their tight-knit community seems all the more magical. The simple truth is this: these people know how to party. With 12-hour events like these on their calendar, it hardly seems possible that they emerge to bathe and sleep, much less to socialize with outsiders. I am in awe at their endurance – I bow down to their fortitude. My own four-hour stint pales in comparison.
Before we all departed that day, I had promised my girlfriends that my own upcoming shower would be two hours – three, tops – and would start ON TIME.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Dental Demons
When I was a little kid, I loved going to the dentist. I anticipated it with the glee normal children reserve only for Christmas morning.
Dr. Hodges the Tooth-Man had a waiting room full of glorious kid-sized interlocking plastic panels in bright primary colors.
They could be stuck together to form blocks, walls, or whatever fanciful creation could be dreamt up in the heads of eager grade-schoolers. Upon setting foot in the doors, they beckoned intoxicatingly to me, and I leapt upon them with a joyous fervor, shoving my competition out of the way as necessary (all right, all right - I exaggerate. Truth be told, I actually played well with others as a child) eager to erect my impenetrable rainbow fortress, to stake my claim on the dull blue carpet.
Better still were the goods received upon satisfying completion of my appointments - after sitting patiently while my teeth were cleaned, examined, and proclaimed excellent, I was presented with - joy of joys - a parachute man!
Perfect to toss off our roof at home and watch as it floated gracefully to earth. I adored them. My collection grew with each twice-yearly visit, until one day my impressive array of brave paratroopers fell to earth only to be eaten by the dog.
Yes, Dr. Hodges was good to me. He would beam proudly down, flashing his own impressive set of pearly whites (did I mention that he had been deemed immensely crushworthy by my 8-year-old fantasies?) and proclaiming that "everyone should have teeth like the Thompson kids."
Sigh.
Those days are long gone. I went to my local dentist yesterday, and was informed that I need two fillings. Only one is a cavity - the other is to replace a filling that was done preemptively six years ago to fill a deep groove in my back molar - evidently it's now worn down to almost nothing, and needs to be redone (likely the result of all the angst-ridden grinding and tooth gnashing I do in my sleep).
This infuriates me, because 1) I am militant about dental hygiene and 2) I have only had one cavity - ever - in my almost-30 years of life. I've been very careful about my sugar intake throughout my pregnancy, so I was told that it could be due to all the citrus I've been eating. Damn orange cravings! I knew that teeth are more vulnerable during pregnancy, so I went in for a cleaning four and a half months ago, right when we started trying to conceive. At that point, my teeth were perfectly fine, and now - this.
Given my crippling paranoia about doing anything whatsoever that could even remotely negatively affect the baby, I immediately decided that I wanted to wait to get the cavity filled after the birth. After all, I've had no pain or sensitivity in the tooth and, though I could feel some roughness on my tongue in recent weeks, had no reason to suspect that it was anything serious. However, Mr. DentistMan shook his head, proclaiming "in five months, that tooth could be a problem" and I should therefore get it done now, now, NOW!! (emphasis my own).
From what I've researched online (see ridiculously obsessive research below), fillings are safe to get during pregnancy, as long as they're not the evil mercury-containing amalgam kind, which these are certainly not. However, I was also informed that it will require "one small x-ray" in order to see how deep the cavity is. At that moment, a simply decision turned horrifying. Terror!
Now (ahem - insert rational, thorough, well-educated Me), from what I've read, the radiation from one dental x-ray is almost totally confined to the mouth area, and most dentists will put multiple lead aprons on pregnant women to reduce exposure (instead of just one, as they typically do). Thus, is it very unlikely that any potential scatter would reach the fetus (especially through the aprons). Supposedly, Novocaine or Lidocaine are safe to get as local anesthesia, and the second trimester is the safest time to get dental work (including x-rays) done.
Rational Brain realizes this, yet Mommy Brain is still utterly freaked out. A litany of horrific consequences runs through my head - birth defects, cancer, premature labor! However, after squandering a solid hour of company time over my oatmeal-flax-n'-blueberries breakfast (mmm - good for fetus!) this morning, I came to a logical conclusion: Shut the hell up and get the damn work done already. When I called to make the appointment, I confidently requested that I wear TWO (or, hell - why not three for good measure?!) lead aprons during the X-ray. The receptionist responded "Oh....actually, I think we might only have one."
WHAT?!? What kind of dental office worth their salt only has ONE lead apron? What if there are multiple patients hangin' out, waiting patiently for their teeth inspections? What then, dentist? Huh??
I immediately grew paranoid that the small, three-chair dental office I've been patronizing for the past year is in fact a slipshod operation run by a bunch of half-brains, their credentials dummied up on Photoshop, laughing manically while ripping teeth out of people's heads, not unlike Steve Martin's dentist in "Little Shop of Horrors." How could I trust my X-ray and subsequent cavity-filling to these one-lead-apron-possessing lowlifes?
That is what shot through my head in the span of the 4.2 seconds between her "...might only have one" and my "Oh - could you please check on that and call me back?" Sure, she'll get back to me tomorrow.
Thus, I wait, reminiscing fondly about the days of waiting room fortresses and parachute men, and wondering when things got so complicated.
Oh yes, when I became a mother.
Ridiculously Obsessive Research:
Dental care during pregnancy:
http://www.webmd.com/oral-health/dental-care-pregnancy
http://www.drspock.com/article/0,1510,5127,00.html
http://www.americanpregnancy.org/pregnancyhealth/dentalwork.html
http://www.pregnancy.org/article/pregnancy-and-dental-work
http://www.americanpregnancy.org/pregnancyhealth/xrays.html
X-rays during pregnancy:
http://www.healthgoods.com/education/Health_Information/Pregnancy/x_ray_and_pregnancy.htm
http://www.americanpregnancy.org/pregnancyhealth/xrays.html
http://www.aafp.org/afp/990401ap/1813.html
http://www.fda.gov/cdrh/consumer/xraypreg.html
http://www.hc-sc.gc.ca/hl-vs/iyh-vsv/med/xray-radiographie-eng.php
http://babymed.com/faq/content.aspx?13652
http://www.hps.org/hpspublications/articles/pregnancyandradiationexposureinfosheet.html:
Dr. Hodges the Tooth-Man had a waiting room full of glorious kid-sized interlocking plastic panels in bright primary colors.
They could be stuck together to form blocks, walls, or whatever fanciful creation could be dreamt up in the heads of eager grade-schoolers. Upon setting foot in the doors, they beckoned intoxicatingly to me, and I leapt upon them with a joyous fervor, shoving my competition out of the way as necessary (all right, all right - I exaggerate. Truth be told, I actually played well with others as a child) eager to erect my impenetrable rainbow fortress, to stake my claim on the dull blue carpet. Better still were the goods received upon satisfying completion of my appointments - after sitting patiently while my teeth were cleaned, examined, and proclaimed excellent, I was presented with - joy of joys - a parachute man!
Perfect to toss off our roof at home and watch as it floated gracefully to earth. I adored them. My collection grew with each twice-yearly visit, until one day my impressive array of brave paratroopers fell to earth only to be eaten by the dog.
Yes, Dr. Hodges was good to me. He would beam proudly down, flashing his own impressive set of pearly whites (did I mention that he had been deemed immensely crushworthy by my 8-year-old fantasies?) and proclaiming that "everyone should have teeth like the Thompson kids."
Sigh.
Those days are long gone. I went to my local dentist yesterday, and was informed that I need two fillings. Only one is a cavity - the other is to replace a filling that was done preemptively six years ago to fill a deep groove in my back molar - evidently it's now worn down to almost nothing, and needs to be redone (likely the result of all the angst-ridden grinding and tooth gnashing I do in my sleep).
This infuriates me, because 1) I am militant about dental hygiene and 2) I have only had one cavity - ever - in my almost-30 years of life. I've been very careful about my sugar intake throughout my pregnancy, so I was told that it could be due to all the citrus I've been eating. Damn orange cravings! I knew that teeth are more vulnerable during pregnancy, so I went in for a cleaning four and a half months ago, right when we started trying to conceive. At that point, my teeth were perfectly fine, and now - this.
Given my crippling paranoia about doing anything whatsoever that could even remotely negatively affect the baby, I immediately decided that I wanted to wait to get the cavity filled after the birth. After all, I've had no pain or sensitivity in the tooth and, though I could feel some roughness on my tongue in recent weeks, had no reason to suspect that it was anything serious. However, Mr. DentistMan shook his head, proclaiming "in five months, that tooth could be a problem" and I should therefore get it done now, now, NOW!! (emphasis my own).
From what I've researched online (see ridiculously obsessive research below), fillings are safe to get during pregnancy, as long as they're not the evil mercury-containing amalgam kind, which these are certainly not. However, I was also informed that it will require "one small x-ray" in order to see how deep the cavity is. At that moment, a simply decision turned horrifying. Terror!
Now (ahem - insert rational, thorough, well-educated Me), from what I've read, the radiation from one dental x-ray is almost totally confined to the mouth area, and most dentists will put multiple lead aprons on pregnant women to reduce exposure (instead of just one, as they typically do). Thus, is it very unlikely that any potential scatter would reach the fetus (especially through the aprons). Supposedly, Novocaine or Lidocaine are safe to get as local anesthesia, and the second trimester is the safest time to get dental work (including x-rays) done.
Rational Brain realizes this, yet Mommy Brain is still utterly freaked out. A litany of horrific consequences runs through my head - birth defects, cancer, premature labor! However, after squandering a solid hour of company time over my oatmeal-flax-n'-blueberries breakfast (mmm - good for fetus!) this morning, I came to a logical conclusion: Shut the hell up and get the damn work done already. When I called to make the appointment, I confidently requested that I wear TWO (or, hell - why not three for good measure?!) lead aprons during the X-ray. The receptionist responded "Oh....actually, I think we might only have one."
WHAT?!? What kind of dental office worth their salt only has ONE lead apron? What if there are multiple patients hangin' out, waiting patiently for their teeth inspections? What then, dentist? Huh??
I immediately grew paranoid that the small, three-chair dental office I've been patronizing for the past year is in fact a slipshod operation run by a bunch of half-brains, their credentials dummied up on Photoshop, laughing manically while ripping teeth out of people's heads, not unlike Steve Martin's dentist in "Little Shop of Horrors." How could I trust my X-ray and subsequent cavity-filling to these one-lead-apron-possessing lowlifes?
That is what shot through my head in the span of the 4.2 seconds between her "...might only have one" and my "Oh - could you please check on that and call me back?" Sure, she'll get back to me tomorrow.
Thus, I wait, reminiscing fondly about the days of waiting room fortresses and parachute men, and wondering when things got so complicated.
Oh yes, when I became a mother.
Ridiculously Obsessive Research:
Dental care during pregnancy:
http://www.webmd.com/oral-health/dental-care-pregnancy
http://www.drspock.com/article/0,1510,5127,00.html
http://www.americanpregnancy.org/pregnancyhealth/dentalwork.html
http://www.pregnancy.org/article/pregnancy-and-dental-work
http://www.americanpregnancy.org/pregnancyhealth/xrays.html
X-rays during pregnancy:
http://www.healthgoods.com/education/Health_Information/Pregnancy/x_ray_and_pregnancy.htm
http://www.americanpregnancy.org/pregnancyhealth/xrays.html
http://www.aafp.org/afp/990401ap/1813.html
http://www.fda.gov/cdrh/consumer/xraypreg.html
http://www.hc-sc.gc.ca/hl-vs/iyh-vsv/med/xray-radiographie-eng.php
http://babymed.com/faq/content.aspx?13652
http://www.hps.org/hpspublications/articles/pregnancyandradiationexposureinfosheet.html:
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
An Ode to Pregnancy
I always suspected I would enjoy pregnancy. I’d heard plenty of horror stories - uncontrollable vomiting, nonstop nausea, stretch marks criss-crossing bellies galore. My own mother points accusingly at the deceptively delicate-looking roadmap of spider veins running over her calves, my gift to her at birth.
Yes, I’d heard the tales of woe, but they never phased me. I wanted it all.
Bring on the bloating, the aches, the flatulence! Welcome, morning sickness, fatigue, constipation! Come one, come all! After all, at long last, this is what my body is meant to do. To hell with the countable ribs, jutting hipbones and dissatisfied sneers labeled as glamorous in the glossy pages of US Magazine. There is a greater goal for my own collection of lanky limbs - a mission that resists the siren song of the scale-worshippers and surpasses the cult of thinness. My parts are no longer the subject of residual scrutiny from my critical eye - the ghosts of eating disorders past, the small remnant of adolescent dysmorphia gone awry. Youthful insecurities pale in comparison to my current task.
I am making a person, and I have never felt so beautiful.
Yes, I’d heard the tales of woe, but they never phased me. I wanted it all.
Bring on the bloating, the aches, the flatulence! Welcome, morning sickness, fatigue, constipation! Come one, come all! After all, at long last, this is what my body is meant to do. To hell with the countable ribs, jutting hipbones and dissatisfied sneers labeled as glamorous in the glossy pages of US Magazine. There is a greater goal for my own collection of lanky limbs - a mission that resists the siren song of the scale-worshippers and surpasses the cult of thinness. My parts are no longer the subject of residual scrutiny from my critical eye - the ghosts of eating disorders past, the small remnant of adolescent dysmorphia gone awry. Youthful insecurities pale in comparison to my current task.
I am making a person, and I have never felt so beautiful.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Flash-forward
What a difference a year makes. When I dropped off the face of the blogosphere one year ago, I proceeded to busy myself with many things – writing projects, the social whirl, corporate toil and endless adventures in married life. This busy, happy, productive year culminated in the cultivation of countless articles, many lovely friends, a promotion, a joyous marriage, and…one little fetus.
As of today, I am exactly 17 weeks pregnant and relishing every moment. Thus far, I have thankfully managed to emerge unscathed from the typical pregnancy maladies – except for occasional bouts of fatigue, I feel utterly normal. My husband teases me that my blissfully boring pregnancy has caused me more anxiety than a more problematic one would – indeed, sometimes I think I would be more content were I to have bouts of nausea, vomiting, food aversions, etc. At least then I would be reassured that there IS a human growing inside me, rather than just the nagging paranoia that it’s all a beautiful dream from which I could awaken at any moment.
But the truth is, I am simply elated. Every day is brightened by the presence of this little person - every motivation clearer, every path open and beckoning. No task is too daunting, no dream is impossible, and nothing is out of reach. With my little family safe and well, my world is at peace.
As of today, I am exactly 17 weeks pregnant and relishing every moment. Thus far, I have thankfully managed to emerge unscathed from the typical pregnancy maladies – except for occasional bouts of fatigue, I feel utterly normal. My husband teases me that my blissfully boring pregnancy has caused me more anxiety than a more problematic one would – indeed, sometimes I think I would be more content were I to have bouts of nausea, vomiting, food aversions, etc. At least then I would be reassured that there IS a human growing inside me, rather than just the nagging paranoia that it’s all a beautiful dream from which I could awaken at any moment.
But the truth is, I am simply elated. Every day is brightened by the presence of this little person - every motivation clearer, every path open and beckoning. No task is too daunting, no dream is impossible, and nothing is out of reach. With my little family safe and well, my world is at peace.
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