After eleven years of living together and almost nine of marriage, it's finally happened: we've merged our book collections. I am thrilled about this. We merged the CDs long ago, but now I finally feel completely married. Phew.
The merger is a result of having to consolidate Mr. K's study into mine so that his can become the baby's room. Even though we've been working like dogs for a couple of weeks now, remarkably little has happened in what will be the nursery; it's all been going on in my room and the master bedroom.
Mr. K has complained for years that he's tired of having IVAR shelves. I've lost count of how many times I'd suggested Billy, only to have him veto those as well. So we've lived with IVAR for more than a decade, and it has served us well. Last weekend, however, I suggested getting an IVAR desk, and that seemed to push him over the edge. On Sunday he phoned from IKEA and said, "How about some Billy shelves?"
I am proud to report that I didn't climb through the telephone wire and hit him.
So now we have Billy shelving in the study we will share. Installing it involved taking all the books off the old shelves, disassembling the old shelves, assembling the new shelves, and putting most of the books back onto them. They have somewhat less capacity than the old ones, so there've been piles of books sitting on the floor quietly awaiting new homes.
Some of the IVAR has gone into our bedroom closet, which is (thank you, idiot architects and idiot builder) too shallow to hang clothes in. (We had to spend a large chunk of money six years ago to get a wardrobe and drawers installed along one wall of the bedroom.) All the trade paperbacks went in there, as did my collection of film books.* That closet is now done, yay.
* A great interest in silent film a few years ago resulted in the accumulation of a decent little library about it. My changing interests are reflected in my books: I have collections about not only silent film but representations of the female body, knitting, writing, teaching ESL, weightlifting and triathlon training, and Shakespeare. And that doesn't touch the novels.
Because Mr. K was out of town for the weekend helping his parents get their place ready for their 50th anniversary festivities in a couple of weeks, K. and J. came over today to help me move the five-foot solid pine table out of the study and assemble the new computer desk, which is considerably more complicated to put together than the Billy shelves were. Despite some very frustrating moments resulting from our not having read the directions carefully enough, we all managed to maintain remarkable equanimity and good humour. Hooray for us. I now have a new, fully assembled desk.
Left to do: take down the other wall shelf so that the printer can go on top of the desk. Plaster over the holes in the wall, and sand, prime, and paint them. Empty the contents of the large pine dresser (a ridiculous quantity of yarn and an embarrassing number of unfinished knitting projects) into big plastic tubs (yet to be bought) that will go into the linen closet. Move the dresser out of the study. Put my computer desk into place and reassemble the computer. Move Mr. K's computer desk into the study. Buy a four-drawer filing cabinet and fill it with the contents of both two-drawer filing cabinets. Dispose of the two-drawer filing cabinets. Sell the large pine table. Sell the big queen-sized futon that used to be our couch. (Snif. So many guest-based adventures happened on that futon. I'll be sorry to see it go.) Get a smaller pullout sofa to go into the study so that we still have room to put up guests. Paint the baby's room. Move the dresser into the baby's room. Get a changing table and a crib, preferably one that can be converted into a bed.
I get slightly dizzy thinking about all of it. And I don't stop working until the middle of September, and my parents arrive on August 23 to stay for two weeks. I still don't know where we're going to put them.
Best student error I think I've ever received, in a short essay about earthworms: "For instance, earthworms destroy the soil cover by taking neutrinos from pants."
Memo to my students: do NOT trust the spell checker. Just don't.
(Beware the pants neutrinos!)
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Monday, July 31, 2006
Seven months
The nesting instinct has kicked in and we are trying to (a) excavate space in my study and (b) consolidate the contents of Mr. K's so that we can turn his into the nursery and move his stuff in with mine. There is a large, slowly disintegrating pine dresser (from IKEA, hence the disintegration) in my study that is full of yarn and unfinished knitting projects. There are also a half dozen large shopping bags around the house full of same. The knitting muse, once so much with me that I could hardly put my needles down, has been mostly absent for the past few years. She'd gone on holiday before, but never for this long.
I had at least half a dozen projects so close to completion that all they needed were a few hours' work. To wit: this duck suit needed some ends darned in, and the eyes and buttons sewn on. The nesting instinct is so powerful that it yanked the knitting muse back from vacation and forced her to sit with me as I went ahead and finished this damn thing. Hooray! One project out of a shopping bag and into... um... I guess, another shopping bag that will eventually fill up with things for the baby. We'll keep that new bag in the bedroom so I can at least feel like I've accomplished something in the study.
I also finished a child's sweater (but can't yet figure out how to blog more than one picture at a time, so you'll have to check my Flickr stream to see it). That one is going into the mail, so at least that's something out of the house.
Then there was the sock that just needed the toe stitches grafted together. I'm working on the mate for that one right now. Should have it done in a couple of days, and then I can make a baby blanket. I'm thinking a much shorter version of Alice Starmore's "Little Rivers" wrap, in bright red superwash sock yarn.
Knitting in sock weight yarn is not going to make much of a dent in the stash. Sigh. But at least the return of the muse seems to mean that I can stop with the compulsive Sudoku-ing.
The pregnancy continues and the baby is moving a lot. I am still coughing (after twelve weeks), with no sign of infection; the new theory is that the cough is somehow connected with the unbelievable heartburn. Thursday night and again last night, the cough woke me up in the wee hours and got so bad that it sent me flying to the washroom to puke. I guess the baby doesn't like Betty's black bean burritos. Alas.
At least coughing this much is making my abdominal muscles stronger for the birth. I really am feeling mostly positive about all this, even if my navel is disappearing.
I had at least half a dozen projects so close to completion that all they needed were a few hours' work. To wit: this duck suit needed some ends darned in, and the eyes and buttons sewn on. The nesting instinct is so powerful that it yanked the knitting muse back from vacation and forced her to sit with me as I went ahead and finished this damn thing. Hooray! One project out of a shopping bag and into... um... I guess, another shopping bag that will eventually fill up with things for the baby. We'll keep that new bag in the bedroom so I can at least feel like I've accomplished something in the study.
I also finished a child's sweater (but can't yet figure out how to blog more than one picture at a time, so you'll have to check my Flickr stream to see it). That one is going into the mail, so at least that's something out of the house.
Then there was the sock that just needed the toe stitches grafted together. I'm working on the mate for that one right now. Should have it done in a couple of days, and then I can make a baby blanket. I'm thinking a much shorter version of Alice Starmore's "Little Rivers" wrap, in bright red superwash sock yarn.
Knitting in sock weight yarn is not going to make much of a dent in the stash. Sigh. But at least the return of the muse seems to mean that I can stop with the compulsive Sudoku-ing.
The pregnancy continues and the baby is moving a lot. I am still coughing (after twelve weeks), with no sign of infection; the new theory is that the cough is somehow connected with the unbelievable heartburn. Thursday night and again last night, the cough woke me up in the wee hours and got so bad that it sent me flying to the washroom to puke. I guess the baby doesn't like Betty's black bean burritos. Alas.
At least coughing this much is making my abdominal muscles stronger for the birth. I really am feeling mostly positive about all this, even if my navel is disappearing.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Backup midwife
Met the backup midwife today, and really liked her. She said that my glucose tolerance test came back fine (yay!) and that the baby's head is already down. She also pointed out that the baby had a foot up under my ribcage on the right. Yes, thank you (oof), I had figured out that (oof) a pretty powerful limb was there (oof). So far, all seems to continue to go well. Thursday is the 29-week mark.
We will meet the spare emergency auxiliary backup midwife in two weeks.
Still having trouble grokking the idea that there's going to be an actual baby. People keep asking whether we've bought anything or registered anywhere. We have bought one thing: a dark blue onesie with the name of my alma mater on it. My fitness instructor says you really need only two things when the baby arrives: diapers and nipple cream. I'm down with that. (Although a good friend also recommends lots of soft washcloths plus ass cream. Makes sense.)
The post about home birth may have to wait for a couple of weeks. I accidentally left the sheaf of photocopies from the student midwife at the in-laws' house, and today I finally returned the copy of Ina May Gaskin's Spiritual Midwifery to the midwives' library. I'm waiting for my own copy to arrive from Amazon (haven't been able to find one in a bookstore). It's worth quoting. So far it's my favourite book about pregnancy and childbirth by a long shot. It was published in 1977, so all the pictures are of hardcore hippies and lots of the birth stories are full of words like "psychedelic" and "tantric" and "heavy." The mellow vibe is bringing me great joy. Ina May and her colleagues at the Farm Midwifery Center attended 186 births before anyone had to have a Caesarean; between 1970 and 2000, the Farm's Caesarean rate was 1.4%. (The US average in 2001 was 24.4%.) These women know what they're doing.
Outside babyland: Spent the weekend with the in-laws. Slept in their RV, and took the cat in with us. He spent most of the night on my pillow, crammed up next to my face. He is large and orange. I approve of him.
Also, a new student started in my TOEFL class this morning. He's from Russia, and he looks about 15. His mother brought him in this morning and warned the staff that he was shy. Well, yeah, I'd be shy too if my mother were shepherding me everywhere. Poor kid.
Time for the bed. I love the bed.
We will meet the spare emergency auxiliary backup midwife in two weeks.
Still having trouble grokking the idea that there's going to be an actual baby. People keep asking whether we've bought anything or registered anywhere. We have bought one thing: a dark blue onesie with the name of my alma mater on it. My fitness instructor says you really need only two things when the baby arrives: diapers and nipple cream. I'm down with that. (Although a good friend also recommends lots of soft washcloths plus ass cream. Makes sense.)
The post about home birth may have to wait for a couple of weeks. I accidentally left the sheaf of photocopies from the student midwife at the in-laws' house, and today I finally returned the copy of Ina May Gaskin's Spiritual Midwifery to the midwives' library. I'm waiting for my own copy to arrive from Amazon (haven't been able to find one in a bookstore). It's worth quoting. So far it's my favourite book about pregnancy and childbirth by a long shot. It was published in 1977, so all the pictures are of hardcore hippies and lots of the birth stories are full of words like "psychedelic" and "tantric" and "heavy." The mellow vibe is bringing me great joy. Ina May and her colleagues at the Farm Midwifery Center attended 186 births before anyone had to have a Caesarean; between 1970 and 2000, the Farm's Caesarean rate was 1.4%. (The US average in 2001 was 24.4%.) These women know what they're doing.
Outside babyland: Spent the weekend with the in-laws. Slept in their RV, and took the cat in with us. He spent most of the night on my pillow, crammed up next to my face. He is large and orange. I approve of him.
Also, a new student started in my TOEFL class this morning. He's from Russia, and he looks about 15. His mother brought him in this morning and warned the staff that he was shy. Well, yeah, I'd be shy too if my mother were shepherding me everywhere. Poor kid.
Time for the bed. I love the bed.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Filler
I'm working on a post about the safety of home birth as compared with hospital birth for low-risk pregnancies, but my attention span is so short this morning that I'm going to have to come back to it later. In the meantime, I thought I'd post a little bit of filler. Here are some links to my favourite websites these days.
- Cute Overload, which manages to be insanely cute and yet not cutesy. I know everyone already knows about it, but I link it anyway because it makes me so happy.
- Waiter Rant, written by a forty-something former seminarian who manages to be both deeply compassionate and bone-wearily cynical. Compelling snapshots of everyday drama plus trenchant little character studies: it's a great read.
- Working America's Bad Boss contest, with thousands of entries submitted by people who have had to endure incompetent, criminal, and even psychotic managers. (Why, yes. I do still have some unresolved anger toward my old boss, who made it impossible for me to continue in the best job I've ever had. Somehow it's comforting to read about people who are even worse.)
- Mimi Smartypants. I still love Mimi Smartypants.
- Ask Moxie, sensible and sensitive advice about raising kids.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Insert amusing title here
My belly continues to get bigger. The placenta's in the front, so most of the sensations from the baby are somewhat dulled, but Mr. K finally did feel the kicking for the first time two weeks ago today, a few hours after it had awakened me at 3am. So far that's the only time that the baby's movement has interfered with my sleep.
Oh: sing ho for the comically large body pillow. I'm sleeping so much better with it between my knees and under my belly.
Today I put my hand on my belly at lunchtime, and felt something that resembled kicking, except that it came at very regular intervals. Hiccups!
In (somewhat) non-pregnancy-related news, last week I had (halal) pizza with two former students, one from Sudan and one from Iraq. F., the former, is a force of nature, big and beautiful and outspoken and funny. "How is your baby girl?" she asked. I asked her what made her think it's a girl. She said, "I already told you this one would be a girl." Oh. Heh. Okay, then.
S., a very smart woman of humour, dignity, and good will, was telling me about her brother's being kidnapped in Iraq and brutally beaten for four days. Amazingly, when the four kidnappers -- who took him at gunpoint in broad daylight as he went to buy stock for his grocery store -- realized that his family couldn't afford ransom, they let him go, just dropped him off on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere. He was so badly hurt he could barely walk, but somehow got himself to a police station. After his family came to get him and bring him back to their town, word went out on a PA system that he was home safely. Fifteen hundred people showed up to the impromptu lunchtime celebration. S. said that out of forty-one people kidnapped that day, he was the only one to come home. For a few months afterwards he tried to readjust, but finally realized that he couldn't stay there and get over the trauma. Late last week he left Iraq for good, to move to Syria.
Ayup, destroying the country's infrastructure and leaving it open for mercenaries to abduct and beat civilians at will sure was the morally correct thing to do.
Can't think about it too much. It makes me too angry. Saddam Hussein was a despicable tyrant, but what's happening in his country in the name of the United States of America is far, far worse. Americans were supposed to be the good guys.
I hope we're doing the right thing by bringing a child into this fucked-up world.
Oh: sing ho for the comically large body pillow. I'm sleeping so much better with it between my knees and under my belly.
Today I put my hand on my belly at lunchtime, and felt something that resembled kicking, except that it came at very regular intervals. Hiccups!
In (somewhat) non-pregnancy-related news, last week I had (halal) pizza with two former students, one from Sudan and one from Iraq. F., the former, is a force of nature, big and beautiful and outspoken and funny. "How is your baby girl?" she asked. I asked her what made her think it's a girl. She said, "I already told you this one would be a girl." Oh. Heh. Okay, then.
S., a very smart woman of humour, dignity, and good will, was telling me about her brother's being kidnapped in Iraq and brutally beaten for four days. Amazingly, when the four kidnappers -- who took him at gunpoint in broad daylight as he went to buy stock for his grocery store -- realized that his family couldn't afford ransom, they let him go, just dropped him off on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere. He was so badly hurt he could barely walk, but somehow got himself to a police station. After his family came to get him and bring him back to their town, word went out on a PA system that he was home safely. Fifteen hundred people showed up to the impromptu lunchtime celebration. S. said that out of forty-one people kidnapped that day, he was the only one to come home. For a few months afterwards he tried to readjust, but finally realized that he couldn't stay there and get over the trauma. Late last week he left Iraq for good, to move to Syria.
Ayup, destroying the country's infrastructure and leaving it open for mercenaries to abduct and beat civilians at will sure was the morally correct thing to do.
Can't think about it too much. It makes me too angry. Saddam Hussein was a despicable tyrant, but what's happening in his country in the name of the United States of America is far, far worse. Americans were supposed to be the good guys.
I hope we're doing the right thing by bringing a child into this fucked-up world.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The third trimester looms
Lots happening but I'm too tired to write much. My feet and ankles have started swelling and it's getting harder to sleep. Mr. K bought me a body pillow. Hooray for the body pillow.
Evidently post-nasal drip happens to some women during pregnancy because the body is making so much extra mucus. I'm one of those women, and I've been coughing for seven weeks now. Sick. Of. Coughing.
I don't have anything serious to complain about, though. The baby is active and everything seems to be going well. I've found a great chiropractor who specializes in treating pregnant women, and I've hired a doula who comes very, very highly recommended. Tried prenatal yoga yesterday: didn't love it, but should probably stick with it. My balance for the tree pose is somewhat lacking.
I've discovered a marvellous Thai restaurant half a block from work. Gotten lunch from there three times in the past week. Today's lunch (with one of my colleagues, who is leaving in a week or two because he's about to burn out, alas): fish cakes, mango salad, and coconut rice. Yum, yum.
Some guy tried to pick me up as I was walking down Eglinton yesterday. I'm not used to having people try to pick me up, so the whole experience was strange and slightly unsettling. He stopped me to comment on my dangly moonstone necklace, asked several questions I didn't readily understand ("Are they your moonstones?" and "What are you doing?" at the top of the list) (and no, Mr. Friendly, my necklace did not come from the moon), and then said he hoped I'd join him for a beer. Guess he must've missed the wedding ring and the six-months-pregnant belly. Flattering but weird.
C., another colleague who is leaving soon (she's going back to school, and I'm taking over her job for a week starting next Monday until the new guy can get trained), told me today that her sister-in-law just lost her baby at eleven weeks. It's hard to talk about miscarriage: hearing about other people's experiences just dredges up so much pain and sadness. People mean well when they say things like "At least you know you can get pregnant" and "It's for the best," but dammit, all the hopes and dreams that were starting to take root are suddenly devastated, and for a long time every passing pregnant woman or tiny baby is like a knife to the heart. C. and I talked for quite a while; I think she's going to go visit her sister-in-law this weekend to help her grieve.
The Esquivalient One (to whom I wish peace and happiness as she tries to sort out her career and her relationship with her sweetie -- been through the rough patches myself, and yea, verily do they suck) mentions that she is careful about her blogging in order to maintain a narrative flow. A noble, considerate goal, that: makes reading her stuff more than worthwhile. All I have energy for right now, though, is brief little snapsnots such as this one.
Evidently post-nasal drip happens to some women during pregnancy because the body is making so much extra mucus. I'm one of those women, and I've been coughing for seven weeks now. Sick. Of. Coughing.
I don't have anything serious to complain about, though. The baby is active and everything seems to be going well. I've found a great chiropractor who specializes in treating pregnant women, and I've hired a doula who comes very, very highly recommended. Tried prenatal yoga yesterday: didn't love it, but should probably stick with it. My balance for the tree pose is somewhat lacking.
I've discovered a marvellous Thai restaurant half a block from work. Gotten lunch from there three times in the past week. Today's lunch (with one of my colleagues, who is leaving in a week or two because he's about to burn out, alas): fish cakes, mango salad, and coconut rice. Yum, yum.
Some guy tried to pick me up as I was walking down Eglinton yesterday. I'm not used to having people try to pick me up, so the whole experience was strange and slightly unsettling. He stopped me to comment on my dangly moonstone necklace, asked several questions I didn't readily understand ("Are they your moonstones?" and "What are you doing?" at the top of the list) (and no, Mr. Friendly, my necklace did not come from the moon), and then said he hoped I'd join him for a beer. Guess he must've missed the wedding ring and the six-months-pregnant belly. Flattering but weird.
C., another colleague who is leaving soon (she's going back to school, and I'm taking over her job for a week starting next Monday until the new guy can get trained), told me today that her sister-in-law just lost her baby at eleven weeks. It's hard to talk about miscarriage: hearing about other people's experiences just dredges up so much pain and sadness. People mean well when they say things like "At least you know you can get pregnant" and "It's for the best," but dammit, all the hopes and dreams that were starting to take root are suddenly devastated, and for a long time every passing pregnant woman or tiny baby is like a knife to the heart. C. and I talked for quite a while; I think she's going to go visit her sister-in-law this weekend to help her grieve.
The Esquivalient One (to whom I wish peace and happiness as she tries to sort out her career and her relationship with her sweetie -- been through the rough patches myself, and yea, verily do they suck) mentions that she is careful about her blogging in order to maintain a narrative flow. A noble, considerate goal, that: makes reading her stuff more than worthwhile. All I have energy for right now, though, is brief little snapsnots such as this one.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
I can stop whenever I want to
We were on our way out of the building earlier to do a bit of shopping, and a guy in the elevator noticed me staring at a Sudoku puzzle. "Now when you have to do one of those in the elevator, that's addiction."
So I hit him.
(Not really.)
Pet peeve: the word "soduku," both written and spoken. "Su" means digit in Japanese, and "doku" means "single." I was reading somewhere that people are stupid.
Reunion was marvellous. Started it by working out at the Sports Center (whose selection of free weights sucks, alas: there's not even a squat cage or a proper bench press setup). Watched myself doing sets of 95-pound deadlifts in the mirror, looked at the pregnant belly and the muscular shoulders, and thought, "Yes. Perhaps it is possible that I don't suck as much as I once thought I did."
That moment alone was worth the trip.
So I hit him.
(Not really.)
Pet peeve: the word "soduku," both written and spoken. "Su" means digit in Japanese, and "doku" means "single." I was reading somewhere that people are stupid.
Reunion was marvellous. Started it by working out at the Sports Center (whose selection of free weights sucks, alas: there's not even a squat cage or a proper bench press setup). Watched myself doing sets of 95-pound deadlifts in the mirror, looked at the pregnant belly and the muscular shoulders, and thought, "Yes. Perhaps it is possible that I don't suck as much as I once thought I did."
That moment alone was worth the trip.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Update
1. My grandmother died at about five after one Denver time this afternoon, when all the family members were out of the room and the nurses were getting ready to give her a bath. I knew this was how it was going to happen, that she wasn't going to die with family near her. She held on for more than 72 hours after they stopped giving her fluids. Stubborn as anything, right to the end.
2. Mr. Krapsnart is officially a citizen of Ireland: the certificate arrived this morning. The application process was long and expensive and worrisome, because we were afraid the papers wouldn't come through until after the baby came. But because they did, the baby is now eligible for Irish citizenship as well, and therefore for an EU passport. Mr. K was so happy this morning that there were tears in his eyes. Kiss him: he's Irish.
I might just have a half pint of Guinness this weekend to celebrate. So there.
2. Mr. Krapsnart is officially a citizen of Ireland: the certificate arrived this morning. The application process was long and expensive and worrisome, because we were afraid the papers wouldn't come through until after the baby came. But because they did, the baby is now eligible for Irish citizenship as well, and therefore for an EU passport. Mr. K was so happy this morning that there were tears in his eyes. Kiss him: he's Irish.
I might just have a half pint of Guinness this weekend to celebrate. So there.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Absolution
Mimi has not died yet. She is septic and has had a heart attack, and the doctors have given her nothing except morphine for 36 hours, and yet she continues to hang on by her fingernails. Nobody is surprised.
My mother (who has not slept in those same 36 hours) told me in no uncertain terms not even to think about going to Denver. She told me to go to Reunion and take care of this baby. So that's exactly what I'm going to do. Bless my mother.
Saw the midwives today and heard the baby's heartbeat again. I don't get tired of that sound.
My mother (who has not slept in those same 36 hours) told me in no uncertain terms not even to think about going to Denver. She told me to go to Reunion and take care of this baby. So that's exactly what I'm going to do. Bless my mother.
Saw the midwives today and heard the baby's heartbeat again. I don't get tired of that sound.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
I am nearly out of grandparents
1. My classmate's baby did not survive.
2. My 92-year-old grandmother, whom I as a child adored beyond words, will probably not make it through the night.
The years have mitigated my adoration. Oh, the stories that abound about her manipulative nature, her narcissism, even her cruelty toward the people she was supposed to love. Her expectations that unfathomably rude behaviour was, from her, completely acceptable, because she was a Lovely Lady, wasn't she?
Neither my mother nor her sister knows where the will is. Word came out recently that one does exist, and that it disinherits all five of us grandchildren by name. Why is it, then, that she asked one of these grandchildren (the only male) to hold her medical power of attorney? To prompt one last pointless, malignant rift in the family? To show one last time that dammit, she still has control?
I have so many fond memories of being a small child and visiting my grandmother's house. My mother's doll Gary still rests in his pram in the basement, exactly where I'd leave him 30 years ago. I remember how special I felt when I was in that house, how loved I was, how much I enjoyed the little rituals -- the big red chair coming upstairs so that I could be tall enough at the dinner table, the old bellows organ in her living room moaning below the pumping of my feet as I picked out a melody on the keyboard, the giant music box in the room where I'd sleep being cranked into life so that it could play its big steel discs of old, old songs.
The visits became infrequent after we moved east, two thousand miles away, when I was four. My parents tell me I lamented moving so far away because it meant that I couldn't live in the house next door to Mimi and take care of her when she got old. For years the letters and presents came, and Mimi's telephone number and the melody it made when I called it are still burned into my brain.
It wasn't until years later that I understood why we'd moved.
The tales of the machinations, the snubs, the cutting remarks, the moments of high and manufactured drama: these aren't really mine to tell, as she was only ever sweet and gentle to me. But the effects of her carefully concealed, vicious nature poisoned my upbringing something fierce. My grandmother, Iago.
Next weekend is my fifteen-year university reunion. I've registered and paid, and we cashed in a pile of frequent flier miles in order to go. I was already girding for an emotionally draining experience -- being back in the area where I went to university always makes me sob unpredictably and uncontrollably, for reasons I don't yet completely understand -- but I need to go. I need to see the campus that I still dream about, I need to see my dear friend AM (she is a couple of weeks more pregnant than I am, and she did so much to help me get through my time there), and I need to show the place to my baby, even if my baby is still in utero.
I am terribly conflicted, though, about not going to Mimi's funeral. The major reason I'd want to go is to support my mother, who was and is so damaged by her own mother. But I know that the politicking (now there's a charitable word) among the extended family is going to be nearly unbearable. The financial reasons not to go are not inconsiderable, either. Everyone I've talked to tells me to skip the funeral, go to Reunion, and get my mother up here in a month or two, when the initial shock has worn off and the real, far more solitary mourning has begun.
But the little, innocent, loving four-year-old Emily would never understand in a million years.
I don't know what to do.
2. My 92-year-old grandmother, whom I as a child adored beyond words, will probably not make it through the night.
The years have mitigated my adoration. Oh, the stories that abound about her manipulative nature, her narcissism, even her cruelty toward the people she was supposed to love. Her expectations that unfathomably rude behaviour was, from her, completely acceptable, because she was a Lovely Lady, wasn't she?
Neither my mother nor her sister knows where the will is. Word came out recently that one does exist, and that it disinherits all five of us grandchildren by name. Why is it, then, that she asked one of these grandchildren (the only male) to hold her medical power of attorney? To prompt one last pointless, malignant rift in the family? To show one last time that dammit, she still has control?
I have so many fond memories of being a small child and visiting my grandmother's house. My mother's doll Gary still rests in his pram in the basement, exactly where I'd leave him 30 years ago. I remember how special I felt when I was in that house, how loved I was, how much I enjoyed the little rituals -- the big red chair coming upstairs so that I could be tall enough at the dinner table, the old bellows organ in her living room moaning below the pumping of my feet as I picked out a melody on the keyboard, the giant music box in the room where I'd sleep being cranked into life so that it could play its big steel discs of old, old songs.
The visits became infrequent after we moved east, two thousand miles away, when I was four. My parents tell me I lamented moving so far away because it meant that I couldn't live in the house next door to Mimi and take care of her when she got old. For years the letters and presents came, and Mimi's telephone number and the melody it made when I called it are still burned into my brain.
It wasn't until years later that I understood why we'd moved.
The tales of the machinations, the snubs, the cutting remarks, the moments of high and manufactured drama: these aren't really mine to tell, as she was only ever sweet and gentle to me. But the effects of her carefully concealed, vicious nature poisoned my upbringing something fierce. My grandmother, Iago.
Next weekend is my fifteen-year university reunion. I've registered and paid, and we cashed in a pile of frequent flier miles in order to go. I was already girding for an emotionally draining experience -- being back in the area where I went to university always makes me sob unpredictably and uncontrollably, for reasons I don't yet completely understand -- but I need to go. I need to see the campus that I still dream about, I need to see my dear friend AM (she is a couple of weeks more pregnant than I am, and she did so much to help me get through my time there), and I need to show the place to my baby, even if my baby is still in utero.
I am terribly conflicted, though, about not going to Mimi's funeral. The major reason I'd want to go is to support my mother, who was and is so damaged by her own mother. But I know that the politicking (now there's a charitable word) among the extended family is going to be nearly unbearable. The financial reasons not to go are not inconsiderable, either. Everyone I've talked to tells me to skip the funeral, go to Reunion, and get my mother up here in a month or two, when the initial shock has worn off and the real, far more solitary mourning has begun.
But the little, innocent, loving four-year-old Emily would never understand in a million years.
I don't know what to do.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Wow.
Last week David Bowie showed up for the encore of a David Gilmour show at the Royal Albert Hall, and helped out with the vocals on "Comfortably Numb."
The thought of hearing Bowie's voice singing "Hello... is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me..." makes me weak. I think if I'd been there I might have passed out.
Update: yes. Oh, yes, oh, yes.
P. S. I am very amused to note that mentioning my nipples on Fark resulted in a whole bunch of hits on this site yesterday and today.
The thought of hearing Bowie's voice singing "Hello... is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me..." makes me weak. I think if I'd been there I might have passed out.
Update: yes. Oh, yes, oh, yes.
P. S. I am very amused to note that mentioning my nipples on Fark resulted in a whole bunch of hits on this site yesterday and today.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Twenty-two weeks
Today brought an e-mail from the instructor of the fitness class, reporting that one of the classmates gave birth last Saturday. At twenty-three weeks. The baby weighs about a pound and has a brain hemhorrage from which he may or may not recover.
Various people are organizing to drop off food at the parents' house. I'm hoping to make a quiche or lasagna or something tomorrow evening after I get home from work so that we can drop it off on Saturday morning. I don't even remember which woman this is and I still spent a bit of the afternoon alone in the teachers' room sobbing. (Evidently pregnant women are sensitive. 'Cause, you know, I wasn't nearly sensitive enough before.) Jefus Chrift.
Dear our baby: please stay in the oven a while longer. You're not ready to come out yet.
Various people are organizing to drop off food at the parents' house. I'm hoping to make a quiche or lasagna or something tomorrow evening after I get home from work so that we can drop it off on Saturday morning. I don't even remember which woman this is and I still spent a bit of the afternoon alone in the teachers' room sobbing. (Evidently pregnant women are sensitive. 'Cause, you know, I wasn't nearly sensitive enough before.) Jefus Chrift.
Dear our baby: please stay in the oven a while longer. You're not ready to come out yet.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Today's breakfast
Two eggs scrambled with a bit of milk, one thick slice of marble cheese chopped into small squares, and some sauteed mushrooms, topped with some homemade chipotle sauce and wrapped in a whole wheat tortilla.
Yum. I had a bit of a craving.
The chipotle sauce is from Deborah Madison's The Savory Way, which is about my favourite cookbook ever. It includes a can of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, blended with boiling water, brown sugar, tomato paste, and balsamic vinegar. It's yummy. Our friend Steve eats it as soup.
Yum. I had a bit of a craving.
The chipotle sauce is from Deborah Madison's The Savory Way, which is about my favourite cookbook ever. It includes a can of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, blended with boiling water, brown sugar, tomato paste, and balsamic vinegar. It's yummy. Our friend Steve eats it as soup.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Making lemonade from the TTC strike
The Toronto Transit Commission was on strike for part of the day, and nearly 800,000 people (including me) had to make alternative arrangements to get to work. This on the first smog day of the year, and the first day it's been above 30˚C.
You can imagine that there were a lot of cranky people on the streets today. Fortunately, Mr. K was able to drive me and the beloved bike to my day job. Two of my co-workers couldn't make it in, but there were so few students there that the boss and I were able to handle the tiny little classes by ourselves.
One of my GRE students called in the morning to remind me that I'd scheduled a makeup class this afternoon for the one she missed last Thursday. (Bless her for calling. I always tell them to, because my pregnancy-addled brain is more than likely to forget, as it had this time.) So I hopped on the bike and rode to midtown, threading my way along signed bicycle routes through Forest Hill. It was a beautiful ride. There certainly are a lot of gorgeous, ludicrously expensive houses in this city. I arrived without incident and even managed to find an unoccupied post-and-ring stand to which to lock the bike. Taught the makeup class and then biked home along Rosedale Valley Road, averaging 30kph on that stretch. I love the Rosedale Valley Road: a surprisingly long stretch of beautiful greenery in the middle of the city, with a bike path well away from traffic. Mmm.
Unfortunately the southernmost part of the bike path along the Don River itself is closed for the next three years while they do minor work such as rerouting the river, cleaning up all the contaminated soil, and building an entire new neighbourhood. So I had to get most of the rest of the way home along Bayview Avenue, where people drive scarily fast and carry passengers who wave the finger out the window as they whip past bicyclists who are minding their own business. On the first day of Bike Week, and on a day when there's a smog alert and a transit strike. At a pregnant woman. Classy. If the car hadn't been going so fast I'd have blown a kiss.
So that was 15km today, a nice little jaunt that would have seemed gargantuan five years ago. Yay.
Strike's over now, but I have plans with Mr. K for a nice long ride up the Don Valley tomorrow.
I still like Toronto.
P. S. We did make it to some Doors Open places yesterday; pictures on my Flickr stream.
You can imagine that there were a lot of cranky people on the streets today. Fortunately, Mr. K was able to drive me and the beloved bike to my day job. Two of my co-workers couldn't make it in, but there were so few students there that the boss and I were able to handle the tiny little classes by ourselves.
One of my GRE students called in the morning to remind me that I'd scheduled a makeup class this afternoon for the one she missed last Thursday. (Bless her for calling. I always tell them to, because my pregnancy-addled brain is more than likely to forget, as it had this time.) So I hopped on the bike and rode to midtown, threading my way along signed bicycle routes through Forest Hill. It was a beautiful ride. There certainly are a lot of gorgeous, ludicrously expensive houses in this city. I arrived without incident and even managed to find an unoccupied post-and-ring stand to which to lock the bike. Taught the makeup class and then biked home along Rosedale Valley Road, averaging 30kph on that stretch. I love the Rosedale Valley Road: a surprisingly long stretch of beautiful greenery in the middle of the city, with a bike path well away from traffic. Mmm.
Unfortunately the southernmost part of the bike path along the Don River itself is closed for the next three years while they do minor work such as rerouting the river, cleaning up all the contaminated soil, and building an entire new neighbourhood. So I had to get most of the rest of the way home along Bayview Avenue, where people drive scarily fast and carry passengers who wave the finger out the window as they whip past bicyclists who are minding their own business. On the first day of Bike Week, and on a day when there's a smog alert and a transit strike. At a pregnant woman. Classy. If the car hadn't been going so fast I'd have blown a kiss.
So that was 15km today, a nice little jaunt that would have seemed gargantuan five years ago. Yay.
Strike's over now, but I have plans with Mr. K for a nice long ride up the Don Valley tomorrow.
I still like Toronto.
P. S. We did make it to some Doors Open places yesterday; pictures on my Flickr stream.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Still got it
Went out biking today. Made it from the Distillery to past the Humber River (read: from one end of Toronto to the other). Total distance for the day: 35km (nearly 22 miles).
We'd wanted to go to some of the Doors Open buildings (hi Maria!), but a late start (as seems to happen every dratted year) plus an emergency trip to a maternity store to get me some shorts plus a flat tire meant that we arrived at the first place we'd wanted to visit at 4pm, just minutes after it had closed. Dammit.
It was six years ago this weekend that I wrecked my knee. The long white scar seems to have faded as much as it's going to. I kinda like it: it reminds me of learning to find joy in small things (like getting on a bus by myself with crutches for the first time), and of discovering that regular physical activity can actually make a very big difference for me. I remember the first time I tried to stand on my wasted leg, six weeks after the surgery that repaired it, and discovering that it wouldn't support me. Months of physio enabled it to work again without even a slight limp, and now when I'm at my best I can do sets of leg presses at 410 pounds.
Three years ago I did the 25km Ride for Heart and was thrilled to finish. Two years ago I did the 50km, and last year I finished the 75. I'll never set any speed records, and my cardiovascular endurance still isn't great, but I'm strong. Today's 35km made me think I can do the 50km ride again next weekend, even at five months pregnant.
I doubt I'll ride all the way up to the end of the pregnancy, but right now my centre of balance is still familiar to me and it's very enjoyable to be out on the bike. I love the bike.
Hoping we'll do some Doors Open stuff tomorrow.
We'd wanted to go to some of the Doors Open buildings (hi Maria!), but a late start (as seems to happen every dratted year) plus an emergency trip to a maternity store to get me some shorts plus a flat tire meant that we arrived at the first place we'd wanted to visit at 4pm, just minutes after it had closed. Dammit.
It was six years ago this weekend that I wrecked my knee. The long white scar seems to have faded as much as it's going to. I kinda like it: it reminds me of learning to find joy in small things (like getting on a bus by myself with crutches for the first time), and of discovering that regular physical activity can actually make a very big difference for me. I remember the first time I tried to stand on my wasted leg, six weeks after the surgery that repaired it, and discovering that it wouldn't support me. Months of physio enabled it to work again without even a slight limp, and now when I'm at my best I can do sets of leg presses at 410 pounds.
Three years ago I did the 25km Ride for Heart and was thrilled to finish. Two years ago I did the 50km, and last year I finished the 75. I'll never set any speed records, and my cardiovascular endurance still isn't great, but I'm strong. Today's 35km made me think I can do the 50km ride again next weekend, even at five months pregnant.
I doubt I'll ride all the way up to the end of the pregnancy, but right now my centre of balance is still familiar to me and it's very enjoyable to be out on the bike. I love the bike.
Hoping we'll do some Doors Open stuff tomorrow.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Five years in a nutshell
My fifteen-year university reunion is coming up soon, and we've all been asked to write up something for the record book. So I sent this:
I write from Toronto, the city where I've lived for the past fourteen years, in a country I've grown to love very much. I married [Mr. Krapsnart] in 1997, and became a permanent resident of Canada in 1998, and a citizen in 2003.
What kicked off the past five years for me was having to learn to walk again in 2001 after knee surgery, having torn the anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) in a stupid late-night accident the previous year. The months of physiotherapy after the surgery forced me to think about what I wanted to do with myself, and I finally decided to leave technical writing and the computer industry for good, and to become a teacher.
After I went back to school for the better part of 2002 and gained certification as a teacher of English as a second language, I spent two and a half years teaching English to immigrant and refugee women at a nonprofit agency in a program funded entirely by the Canadian government. Never have I loved a job so much. I taught women from 38 countries, and helped see them through culture shock, difficulties in settling in a new country, pregnancy, miscarriage, career woes, health issues, domestic violence, divorce, widowhood, and of course, the frustrations and joys of starting life in a new language. In return they gave me immeasurable amounts of love and support. They showed me their cultures and taught me about what is truly universal. There was so much warmth and respect and just plain fun at the school's occasional parties -- I knew I was in the right place when I was watching a Sri Lankan Hindu Tamil woman dance to salsa music at the party for Eid ul-Fitr, the holiday that ends the Muslim month of Ramadan.
Deciding to leave the agency was one of the hardest things I've ever done, especially when I was faced with the outpouring of emotion from the students when I made it clear I had to go. But it was the agency's management that in the end left me no choice. The agency has a staff of a little more than a dozen, and in three years more than twice that many people have left.
I still miss the place a lot, though, and hope to return to education in the social service sector someday, I hope in a place that values emotional connection as much as it does numbers on spreadsheets.
I am now working at a small company (five people) that teaches international students how to take standardized tests of English proficiency. I teach the Test of English as a Foreign Language (TOEFL) and the Test of English for International Communication (TOEIC). My coworkers are interesting and funny, and the boss is compassionate and humane. It's a good place with high standards. I'm also still working part-time teaching the SAT and GRE at [a test prep company], as I have been for more than five years now.
I never considered teaching when I was at [East Coast private college], but am now relieved to have found at least part of what I'm supposed to be doing. My [part-time] boss told me, "Emily, you ARE a teacher." Yes, I guess I am.
I have another fundamental shift in identity on the way: if all goes well, I'll finally be a mother by early October. I've been spending a lot of time educating myself about midwifery (we're hoping to deliver at home with midwives in attendance) and fitness during pregnancy. I'm very much enjoying learning about the capabilities of women's bodies, and especially about how midwifery honours them by encouraging us to trust our ability to handle childbirth without potentially dangerous medical intervention, at least when the pregnancy is low-risk (as most are). It also encourages parents to take responsibility for and make informed choices about their children well before they are born. In the province of Ontario, midwives are trained and certified, and home birth attended by them is fully funded. I feel very lucky to live here. Regardless of how the baby arrives, though, [Mr. K] and I are endlessly excited about becoming parents.
The interest in fitness has been a couple of years in the making. After a miscarriage in July of 2004, I decided to become physically stronger to prepare my body for future childbearing. Oddly enough, I fell in love with weightlifting, and ended up training with a wonderful powerlifter named Samantha who cheered me on to attempting a 225-pound deadlift last year. I got the weight off the ground, but not all the way up to mid-thigh; I'm sure I'd have lifted that and more by now if I hadn't gotten pregnant first. But now I have something to shoot for after the baby comes.
The other occupants of our household are still of the feline variety. A few of you will remember James and Percy, who came with me to Canada in 1992. We were heartbroken to lose both of them to cancer in 2004, Percy in January and James in October. (2004 was just a bad, bad year. I'll never trust the Year of the Monkey again. Monkeys mess with things.) These days we're living with two more beautiful brown tabbies, Martha and Charlotte. They have their own distinct personalities -- Martha is sweet as anything, and Charlotte is prickly yet loving -- and once again we find ourselves unreasonably fond of our animals.
I'm looking forward to seeing everyone at Reunion. Here's to another five years.
I write from Toronto, the city where I've lived for the past fourteen years, in a country I've grown to love very much. I married [Mr. Krapsnart] in 1997, and became a permanent resident of Canada in 1998, and a citizen in 2003.
What kicked off the past five years for me was having to learn to walk again in 2001 after knee surgery, having torn the anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) in a stupid late-night accident the previous year. The months of physiotherapy after the surgery forced me to think about what I wanted to do with myself, and I finally decided to leave technical writing and the computer industry for good, and to become a teacher.
After I went back to school for the better part of 2002 and gained certification as a teacher of English as a second language, I spent two and a half years teaching English to immigrant and refugee women at a nonprofit agency in a program funded entirely by the Canadian government. Never have I loved a job so much. I taught women from 38 countries, and helped see them through culture shock, difficulties in settling in a new country, pregnancy, miscarriage, career woes, health issues, domestic violence, divorce, widowhood, and of course, the frustrations and joys of starting life in a new language. In return they gave me immeasurable amounts of love and support. They showed me their cultures and taught me about what is truly universal. There was so much warmth and respect and just plain fun at the school's occasional parties -- I knew I was in the right place when I was watching a Sri Lankan Hindu Tamil woman dance to salsa music at the party for Eid ul-Fitr, the holiday that ends the Muslim month of Ramadan.
Deciding to leave the agency was one of the hardest things I've ever done, especially when I was faced with the outpouring of emotion from the students when I made it clear I had to go. But it was the agency's management that in the end left me no choice. The agency has a staff of a little more than a dozen, and in three years more than twice that many people have left.
I still miss the place a lot, though, and hope to return to education in the social service sector someday, I hope in a place that values emotional connection as much as it does numbers on spreadsheets.
I am now working at a small company (five people) that teaches international students how to take standardized tests of English proficiency. I teach the Test of English as a Foreign Language (TOEFL) and the Test of English for International Communication (TOEIC). My coworkers are interesting and funny, and the boss is compassionate and humane. It's a good place with high standards. I'm also still working part-time teaching the SAT and GRE at [a test prep company], as I have been for more than five years now.
I never considered teaching when I was at [East Coast private college], but am now relieved to have found at least part of what I'm supposed to be doing. My [part-time] boss told me, "Emily, you ARE a teacher." Yes, I guess I am.
I have another fundamental shift in identity on the way: if all goes well, I'll finally be a mother by early October. I've been spending a lot of time educating myself about midwifery (we're hoping to deliver at home with midwives in attendance) and fitness during pregnancy. I'm very much enjoying learning about the capabilities of women's bodies, and especially about how midwifery honours them by encouraging us to trust our ability to handle childbirth without potentially dangerous medical intervention, at least when the pregnancy is low-risk (as most are). It also encourages parents to take responsibility for and make informed choices about their children well before they are born. In the province of Ontario, midwives are trained and certified, and home birth attended by them is fully funded. I feel very lucky to live here. Regardless of how the baby arrives, though, [Mr. K] and I are endlessly excited about becoming parents.
The interest in fitness has been a couple of years in the making. After a miscarriage in July of 2004, I decided to become physically stronger to prepare my body for future childbearing. Oddly enough, I fell in love with weightlifting, and ended up training with a wonderful powerlifter named Samantha who cheered me on to attempting a 225-pound deadlift last year. I got the weight off the ground, but not all the way up to mid-thigh; I'm sure I'd have lifted that and more by now if I hadn't gotten pregnant first. But now I have something to shoot for after the baby comes.
The other occupants of our household are still of the feline variety. A few of you will remember James and Percy, who came with me to Canada in 1992. We were heartbroken to lose both of them to cancer in 2004, Percy in January and James in October. (2004 was just a bad, bad year. I'll never trust the Year of the Monkey again. Monkeys mess with things.) These days we're living with two more beautiful brown tabbies, Martha and Charlotte. They have their own distinct personalities -- Martha is sweet as anything, and Charlotte is prickly yet loving -- and once again we find ourselves unreasonably fond of our animals.
I'm looking forward to seeing everyone at Reunion. Here's to another five years.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
I think they're going to come by to revoke my "girl" card soon
I bought a pair of shoes this week. I think I buy shoes about twice a year, if that often. For the past few years I've been living in black Saucony walking shoes because of a persistent case of plantar fasciitis. They're not attractive, and they mean I don't often wear skirts or dresses, but they mean I can walk around in comfort and do my job.
So: new shoes. They're Merrells, and they're comfy and somewhat more attractive than black sneakers.
For me a shoe purchase is blogworthy because I buy shoes about once or twice a year, and am just baffled by the people -- usually women -- who spend a significant part of their disposable incomes on footwear. I don't get a lot of the stuff that women are supposed to be into. I'd rather have a canoe from the Mountain Equipment Co-Op than, say, a diamond ring.
I do wear makeup sometimes, but I don't feel like I can't leave the house without any. I shave my pits right now because I'm trying to stay active and my sense of smell is so heightened by the pregnancy that I was grossing myself out by the end of the day. But I still feel, often, that I'm, well, a bit of a freak.
At the fitness class last Wednesday, I found myself yet again the resident alien. Many of the women (there are about 20) were comparing notes about what products are best for numbing the skin before waxing. It didn't seem to occur to anyone that it was even possible to just go ahead and let the hair grow. It was just accepted that it's a woman's lot to submit herself to pain to meet a standard of beauty.
But when it comes to actually giving birth to all these babies, I seem to be the only one even considering a home birth with midwives. Midwifery is traditional women's wisdom, handed down over hundreds of years. It expresses faith in women's ability to handle a normal, low-risk birth without medical intervention instead of treating it as a terribly risky event that requires hospitalization and often surgery. It shows a respect for women, our ability to handle pain, and our ability to make informed choices that the obstetrical model of birth often just doesn't. It requires women to take a great deal of responsibility for their children well before they are born. And it's a way for women to connect with each other on the deepest of levels.
And yet those of us who want a natural birth in a familiar place are often considered almost criminally irresponsible. We are consciously rejecting the deepseated belief that the most advanced technology must be the best option available. Many people who hold this belief find challenges to it to be misguided and even threatening. (My aunt, married to a formerly practicing obstetrician and herself certified as a childbirth educator 20 years ago, has already started warning my mother about what an ill-informed, dangerous decision Mr. Krapsnart and I are making.) We're also considered a little crazy for being willing to open ourselves to pain in order to bring a baby into the world.
The conversation among the educated, motivated pregnant women at the fitness class invariably turns to doctors and hospitals and epidurals and episiotomies and caesarians (with, of course, the occasional foray toward Brazilian waxes. Pain for beauty's sake is, apparently, perfectly acceptable, but pain in childbirth is to be scrupulously avoided, even when the verdict is that 24 hours of labour are far, far preferable to 24 hours of waxing). Midwives and home birth are rarely mentioned, and when they are, they're afterthoughts.
If I speak up, I get Looks, and the occasional "Wow, you're brave." If I'm silent, I seethe.
I know I'm painting in very broad strokes here, and I know that I don't know the instructor (who, again, is fabulously well informed) or the women in my class well enough to do so yet. But so far (after three classes) I haven't found anyone else who's working with midwives, so I think I'm not completely wrong to consider myself an exception to the norm, both in the class and in the society at large.
My body and my baby are no different from those of most of my classmates; why are these women -- and so many others -- so convinced that birth isn't something they can do without needles and knives? And why do I feel so alienated for having faith in us?
So: new shoes. They're Merrells, and they're comfy and somewhat more attractive than black sneakers.
For me a shoe purchase is blogworthy because I buy shoes about once or twice a year, and am just baffled by the people -- usually women -- who spend a significant part of their disposable incomes on footwear. I don't get a lot of the stuff that women are supposed to be into. I'd rather have a canoe from the Mountain Equipment Co-Op than, say, a diamond ring.
I do wear makeup sometimes, but I don't feel like I can't leave the house without any. I shave my pits right now because I'm trying to stay active and my sense of smell is so heightened by the pregnancy that I was grossing myself out by the end of the day. But I still feel, often, that I'm, well, a bit of a freak.
At the fitness class last Wednesday, I found myself yet again the resident alien. Many of the women (there are about 20) were comparing notes about what products are best for numbing the skin before waxing. It didn't seem to occur to anyone that it was even possible to just go ahead and let the hair grow. It was just accepted that it's a woman's lot to submit herself to pain to meet a standard of beauty.
But when it comes to actually giving birth to all these babies, I seem to be the only one even considering a home birth with midwives. Midwifery is traditional women's wisdom, handed down over hundreds of years. It expresses faith in women's ability to handle a normal, low-risk birth without medical intervention instead of treating it as a terribly risky event that requires hospitalization and often surgery. It shows a respect for women, our ability to handle pain, and our ability to make informed choices that the obstetrical model of birth often just doesn't. It requires women to take a great deal of responsibility for their children well before they are born. And it's a way for women to connect with each other on the deepest of levels.
And yet those of us who want a natural birth in a familiar place are often considered almost criminally irresponsible. We are consciously rejecting the deepseated belief that the most advanced technology must be the best option available. Many people who hold this belief find challenges to it to be misguided and even threatening. (My aunt, married to a formerly practicing obstetrician and herself certified as a childbirth educator 20 years ago, has already started warning my mother about what an ill-informed, dangerous decision Mr. Krapsnart and I are making.) We're also considered a little crazy for being willing to open ourselves to pain in order to bring a baby into the world.
The conversation among the educated, motivated pregnant women at the fitness class invariably turns to doctors and hospitals and epidurals and episiotomies and caesarians (with, of course, the occasional foray toward Brazilian waxes. Pain for beauty's sake is, apparently, perfectly acceptable, but pain in childbirth is to be scrupulously avoided, even when the verdict is that 24 hours of labour are far, far preferable to 24 hours of waxing). Midwives and home birth are rarely mentioned, and when they are, they're afterthoughts.
If I speak up, I get Looks, and the occasional "Wow, you're brave." If I'm silent, I seethe.
I know I'm painting in very broad strokes here, and I know that I don't know the instructor (who, again, is fabulously well informed) or the women in my class well enough to do so yet. But so far (after three classes) I haven't found anyone else who's working with midwives, so I think I'm not completely wrong to consider myself an exception to the norm, both in the class and in the society at large.
My body and my baby are no different from those of most of my classmates; why are these women -- and so many others -- so convinced that birth isn't something they can do without needles and knives? And why do I feel so alienated for having faith in us?
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Random, loosely-linked neuron firings
Lots has happened in the past few weeks that I could be blogging about, but by the time I sit down on the couch and pull up the laptop I can barely remember what sites I want to read, let alone what I want to write about. And the old episodes of Doctor Who are piling up on the PVR too quickly for me to burn them to DVD. It's hard out here for a geek.
Three of my best friends from high school have been in touch recently; one of them, J., even came to visit (albeit far too briefly). You never make friends again like the ones you have when you're 14, and it's really quite marvellous to fall back into a conversation as comfortable as ones had more than 20 years ago. R. commented on one of my Flickr pictures today; that's how I got back in touch with her. She's a diplomat in India these days. She's always been a richly talented writer, and her blog (Esquivalience, linked on the right) is some wonderful reading.
I dropped by the old job on Friday (not, of course, going inside) and saw several of my former students and co-workers. S., a tall, gorgeous French speaker from Cameroon, and I congratulated each other on our bellies. She's at seven months now, and has an older daughter who has the best case of Skeptical Small Child Face that I think I've ever seen. Everyone seems to be doing well; I still miss them all a lot.
In other news, the anatomical ultrasound went well. We got to watch the whole thing on a monitor on the wall in front of us. Evidently there really is a baby in there. We saw a head, a heart, a healthy spine, kidneys, arms, legs, hands, and as the technician put it, "two tiny feets." The femur was 2.4cm long (about 1"). The still pictures they give out afterwards don't come anywhere close to conveying the visceral thrill that comes from seeing a tiny little hand open and close inside your belly. This baby is very active and seems to enjoy the energy that comes after I exercise.
On the other side of the circle of life, though, we got word this week that Stephen, my first officemate at IBM when I came here in 1992, died a couple of months ago. Stephen was a true Renaissance man, with collections of books and LPs that could probably have put some universities to shame. He was kind and funny, goofy and generous to a fault. He loved opera, cooking, doggerel, bad jokes, and his partner, Edward, who predeceased him by at least a decade. I'd been meaning to get back in touch with him for years. Dammit. Peace be with you, Stephen. Your presence is much missed.
Three of my best friends from high school have been in touch recently; one of them, J., even came to visit (albeit far too briefly). You never make friends again like the ones you have when you're 14, and it's really quite marvellous to fall back into a conversation as comfortable as ones had more than 20 years ago. R. commented on one of my Flickr pictures today; that's how I got back in touch with her. She's a diplomat in India these days. She's always been a richly talented writer, and her blog (Esquivalience, linked on the right) is some wonderful reading.
I dropped by the old job on Friday (not, of course, going inside) and saw several of my former students and co-workers. S., a tall, gorgeous French speaker from Cameroon, and I congratulated each other on our bellies. She's at seven months now, and has an older daughter who has the best case of Skeptical Small Child Face that I think I've ever seen. Everyone seems to be doing well; I still miss them all a lot.
In other news, the anatomical ultrasound went well. We got to watch the whole thing on a monitor on the wall in front of us. Evidently there really is a baby in there. We saw a head, a heart, a healthy spine, kidneys, arms, legs, hands, and as the technician put it, "two tiny feets." The femur was 2.4cm long (about 1"). The still pictures they give out afterwards don't come anywhere close to conveying the visceral thrill that comes from seeing a tiny little hand open and close inside your belly. This baby is very active and seems to enjoy the energy that comes after I exercise.
On the other side of the circle of life, though, we got word this week that Stephen, my first officemate at IBM when I came here in 1992, died a couple of months ago. Stephen was a true Renaissance man, with collections of books and LPs that could probably have put some universities to shame. He was kind and funny, goofy and generous to a fault. He loved opera, cooking, doggerel, bad jokes, and his partner, Edward, who predeceased him by at least a decade. I'd been meaning to get back in touch with him for years. Dammit. Peace be with you, Stephen. Your presence is much missed.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
What a day
This morning on the streetcar I ran into Amalia again.
"Guess what," I said as I tapped on my belly.
"Me too," she said, and beamed, and hugged me.
She's about a month behind me. I am thrilled for her.
~*~*~*~*~
Today I went to my first FitMom class. I knew my endurance sucked, but boy howdy, it sucks bad. The class is circuit training, with lots of lifting of girly-girl vinyl-covered dumbbells, and doing of lunges (which I loathe), and chatting about pregnancy and labour. My trainer would probably have a fit at the amount of overhead pressing, given that she says it's hard on the shoulder joint, but my shoulders didn't seem to complain about it today.
The instructor is impossibly perky and for a few minutes at the beginning I was having serious "what have I done by signing up for fifteen weeks of this?" doubts (especially when the girly weights came out). Perkiness and I don't get along so well. But said instructor is also immensely knowledgeable. I'd read in a couple of places that it's important not to get one's heart rate over 140bpm during pregnancy, but she stated (without even being asked) that that information is outdated. The real test of whether you're working too hard is trying to talk: if you end up gasping for air and unable to choke out words, ease up. Otherwise, you're fine.
I found this very reassuring, given that my heart rate monitor-slash-wristwatch spiked to 160bpm briefly when I was at the gym yesterday, and was reading about 150 today. It is okay to get my heart rate up, and I need to do it. My cardiovascular health is currently shot to hell and I need to improve it dramatically if I'm going to have a chance at the labour and delivery that I want.
She talked a lot about the amount of misinformation that is floating around out there, and about how some people are so committed to it that they're willing to verbally abuse perfect strangers who aren't behaving in a way they deem appropriate. She mentioned running a 10k when she was seven months pregnant, and said that as she'd trained for it, people driving by had rolled down their windows to yell at her. She also said that people she didn't know would fuss at her at the gym. "Are you sure it's okay to be doing that?" Her response? "Well, I'm a nationally recognized pre- and post-natal fitness expert. What do you think?" Um...
It was also nice to meet the other moms, most of whom are first-timers as well, and some of whom are already past thirty weeks. It seems to be common among this crowd to keep working out right up until bitter end. (Overheard conversation: "What happened to so-and-so?" "Oh, weren't you here when her water broke?")
We worked hard and I'm sure I'll be sore tomorrow. I'm glad I signed up.
Tomorrow is the big eighteen-week ultrasound. Please hold a good thought for us.
"Guess what," I said as I tapped on my belly.
"Me too," she said, and beamed, and hugged me.
She's about a month behind me. I am thrilled for her.
~*~*~*~*~
Today I went to my first FitMom class. I knew my endurance sucked, but boy howdy, it sucks bad. The class is circuit training, with lots of lifting of girly-girl vinyl-covered dumbbells, and doing of lunges (which I loathe), and chatting about pregnancy and labour. My trainer would probably have a fit at the amount of overhead pressing, given that she says it's hard on the shoulder joint, but my shoulders didn't seem to complain about it today.
The instructor is impossibly perky and for a few minutes at the beginning I was having serious "what have I done by signing up for fifteen weeks of this?" doubts (especially when the girly weights came out). Perkiness and I don't get along so well. But said instructor is also immensely knowledgeable. I'd read in a couple of places that it's important not to get one's heart rate over 140bpm during pregnancy, but she stated (without even being asked) that that information is outdated. The real test of whether you're working too hard is trying to talk: if you end up gasping for air and unable to choke out words, ease up. Otherwise, you're fine.
I found this very reassuring, given that my heart rate monitor-slash-wristwatch spiked to 160bpm briefly when I was at the gym yesterday, and was reading about 150 today. It is okay to get my heart rate up, and I need to do it. My cardiovascular health is currently shot to hell and I need to improve it dramatically if I'm going to have a chance at the labour and delivery that I want.
She talked a lot about the amount of misinformation that is floating around out there, and about how some people are so committed to it that they're willing to verbally abuse perfect strangers who aren't behaving in a way they deem appropriate. She mentioned running a 10k when she was seven months pregnant, and said that as she'd trained for it, people driving by had rolled down their windows to yell at her. She also said that people she didn't know would fuss at her at the gym. "Are you sure it's okay to be doing that?" Her response? "Well, I'm a nationally recognized pre- and post-natal fitness expert. What do you think?" Um...
It was also nice to meet the other moms, most of whom are first-timers as well, and some of whom are already past thirty weeks. It seems to be common among this crowd to keep working out right up until bitter end. (Overheard conversation: "What happened to so-and-so?" "Oh, weren't you here when her water broke?")
We worked hard and I'm sure I'll be sore tomorrow. I'm glad I signed up.
Tomorrow is the big eighteen-week ultrasound. Please hold a good thought for us.
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