Name Nonsense

Because my size 40 inch waist makes shopping for designer denim impossible, I accompanied my friend Joyce to find the perfect denim addition to her wardrobe. This was a good vicarious hit for me because Joyce is an avid cyclist and budding runner with very long legs so all the jeans looked good on her. While waiting for her to try on jeans, I sat outside her dressing room in all my prenatal glory. I struck up a conversation with the saleslady attending to the dressing rooms.

She asked me when I was due.

For as much as I bitch and moan about my size and girth, I am still shocked when someone knows I am pregnant. (Still shocked when someone gives me a seat on the train, and not just because most people are self-absorbed and unintersted in giving up a seat.) It makes no sense that I complain about how pregnant I look and then feel surprised when someone asks me about my pregnancy, but honestly, it makes no sense to push your offspring out of your vagina or have him lifted out of your sliced abdomen, either so we're not exactly dealing with logic.

Once I realized she was talking to me (the only person sitting outside the dressing rooms), I told her my baby was due on February 1st. She asked if we were having a boy or a girl. I told her it's a boy, and when she asked about names, I told her we were still searching for the perfect name. I may have mentioned that I was open for suggestions. In fact, I am pretty sure I told her to give me her best shot of a boy's name.

Without skipping a fetal heartbeat, she said, "I got a name for you."

Excited to hear this perfect name, I said, "What is it?"

She said, "Semaj." (Pronounced "se-ma-jay.")

Wow. Had she been waiting for a pregnant lady to come into her area so she could unfurl the majesty that is Semaj?

I asked her where she heard that name.

She said, "It's James spelled backwards."

Hmmmm. Of course. Why didn't I think of that? For every name we like, we can also spell it backwards and make an entirely new name. Ffej would be a nice name if we were going to abandon hundreds of years of Jewish tradition and name Meatball after Jeff. ("Come here, Ffej, time for dinner.")

I actually don't know how this backwards naming idea helps me, but it's a great example of a conversation that took place because I am pregnant, and let's face it: people are hilarious around pregnant women. The advice, the gestures, the speculations. I just love it. As long as people keep their hands to themselves they can suggest Semaj's all day long. It's funny. I believe people mean well. We are no closer to a name, but you never know when it might show up.

Angelina

Isn't it time for Angelina Jolie to have another baby (or two)?

Highs and Lows

Highlight of the day: making it until almost 4:27 p.m. without any chocolate, which is a feat of Shakespearean proportions at this stage of pregnancy and fatigue. I am depriving myself today because my glucose test (for gestational diabetes) is tomorrow and I am determined to pass. Admittedly, I originally said I would cut out sweets for the three days preceding the test, but as I approached T minus 3 days, I decided I would rather risk a false positive than live these 72 hours without chocolate. I feel like I am home free now. I plan to be asleep by 8:00 p.m., since I have been up since 5:00 a.m., which, frankly, sucks. I can't blame Sadie because she was asleep until 6:15 a.m., and I can't really blame pregnancy because Jeff was up and wide-eyed himself at 5:30 a.m., and as I love to remind him and everyone else, HE'S NOT PREGNANT, I AM. So, it's just more time change funk. But, here's me on the cusp of passing a test that I failed last pregnancy. If I have to take that disgusting 3-hour glucose test I am running straight to Neiman Marcus to get a consolation prize. It will be cashmere and it will probably be a size XL.

Lowlight of the day: I had to appear at a hearing in state court, which, for reasons too numerous to name, I hate. One of the most unappealing parts of appearing in state court is trying to get an elevator from the first floor to the 23rd floor. Regardless of time of day, the elevators are jammed with cranky, self-important lawyers, whose definition of "business attire" is so incoherent and diffuse that it honestly seems like some of these people are trying to get sanctioned for fashion crimes. (Should you wear 6-inch high heals with feathers on them to court on a weekday morning? State court no less? In the midwest? With a cotton skirt? Come on!) Seriously, this morning there were no less than 35 lawyers waiting over 3 minutes to get into a 6 foot by 3 foot box to take them to EVERY SINGLE FLOOR BETWEEN 1 and 23. Are you kidding me? My baby son will be 5 before I find the courtroom.

Today's elevator ride was particularly suffocating. I got into the elevator first, because I am pregnant and aggressive and happened to be standing by the one elevator that happened to be working during the court's rush hour. I politely stepped in and walked to the back of the elevator. (Those whole 3 feet.) The next thing I know, a gigantic, 6 foot 4 inch, linebacker of a man gets it right in front of me, clutching his monogrammed leather satchel full of legal pads and files, and pushes his very ample backside right up against my bump.

Oh, sorry, did my unborn child take up too much room for you?

I couldn't move. I was literally boxed in by Big Foot and he was talking about his latest forays into horse racing. Our gigantic horse lover lawyer man was so busy talking about the horse racing odds and his winning gamble that he didn't realize he was cutting off my oxygen and close to racking up a charge for attempted feticide. If I hadn't been with a more senior partner, I think the toxic mix of fatigue and crowded personal space may have given me push to tell him to get out of my way, get to a f*cking Gamblers Anonymous meeting, and learn to talk in a hushed elevator voice when you are surrounded by 15 strangers, all of whom are running late.

This is what's so great about third trimester: As the fatigue takes over and the weigh gain accelerates apparently so does my charm and ability to take life's little challenges in stride. If I keep this up, I will be riding those elevators as a defendant and not a defense lawyer.

Must.

Get.

Sleep.

Pregnancy Advice

The best pregnancy advice I can think of is this:

Chili with beans is NOT a cure for heartburn no matter how much ice cream you eat afterwards.

Time Change Can Suck It

This time change (the "fall backwards") can kiss my ass. I have never hated a time change so much in my life. "Falling backwards" left our hardwon routine in the dust and I am not happy about it. For the past 3 days, Sadie has arisen around 5:30 a.m., and she hasn't seemed any happier than I do about that. It's still dark outside and the WHOLE POINT of this freaking time change was for the sun to shine in the morning. I am trying not to jump on the Prozac truck about this, but I am really desponent about it.

Now that I am awake so many more hours per day you would like to think I can pack more into my life. Aside from more complaining and more yawning, there's not much more I have packed into it. This morning, I did make some heartburn-free lemonade out of my early morning lemons when Sadie's battle cry ripped through our house at the pre-dawn hour. I embraced the only upside I could think of: more time with Sadie. I went to her (dark) room, got her out of her crib, and sat with her in the rocking chair for about 45 minutes. I know she was still tired and I was determined to get her back to sleep. Sure enough she was snoring her little piggy snores in about 5 minutes. I sat there meditating on life's meaning, and thinking about how to teach her numbers so we can train her not to cry out until she sees that it's at least 7:00 a.m. I have to say that I could see the sun rise through the slats in her window shades and she was cute as a little ladybug (a ladybug that snores) in my lap. I conceded to my innermost self that getting up an hour earlier isn't the end of the world. I do what I always do in those uncomfortable parenting moments: I project myself about 10 years into the future and remind my current self that these days are numbered and Sadie won't always be in little footie pajamas snoring in my lap smelling like yummy french baby shampoo.

I take a few deep breaths.

And, I remind myself that I probably don't have to wait 10 years to yearn for the days that I got to sleep from 9:00 p.m. until 5:30 p.m., considering our ladybug piggie has a brother who's on his way.

And, speaking of Meatball. Can I say that yesterday he moved around the womb for about 6 hours straight. It's still the most awe-inspiring and fantastical thing that I have ever experienced. I am a little nervous about what kind of nutritional plan I will have to adopt to keep up with the baby who grows from this very active fetus. Will I be eating seaweed and sawdust instead of Luna Bars? I love him and his summersaulting ways. My sense is that he's going to come bounding into this world with lots of flourish.

Too bad he may not have a name until 2012.

Mr. C. Sheen

Just in case there was any doubt, there will be no dating of Charlie Sheen.

Pamper Mama

At this stage of my pregnancy, where my limbs are almost always swollen, and I wake myself up 4 times per night because my snores are so loud, it's time for some pampering. You know, something just for me. Before I turn my pampering over for Pampers.

There's a facial and a mani/pedi in the works for next Saturday with some friends. If you could see my fingernails right now, you would probably urge me to see if I could get in THIS weekend instead of waiting another 8 days. There's also a hair appointment also on the books for early December. These appointments will provide a vital dose of Mama care that will take some of the edge off of having to lumber around with cankles for the next 12.5 weeks.

But, there are other kinds of pampering. There's also the pampering of the mind and the soul and the spirit. And, I must report that I have done a good job of feeding this part of myself this week.

How?

Well, of course, I made an extra therapy appointment. But not just any appointment. I made an appointment with my therapist (who happens to be a psychiatrist, so that means it costs A LOT OF MONEY) to play Scrabble.

What? You've never done that?

Well, I highly recommend it. And here's why:

First, I am a really crappy Scrabble player, despite the fact that I think I am reasonably verbal and pretty well-read. I have what I would call an "underdeveloped" strategic thinking muscle and it's starting to bug me that Jeff can beat me so thoroughly at Scrabble. So, I had a feeling that my therapist would be good at Scrabble, or, at the very least he would play differently than I would, which would be interesting and a "teaching" or "therapeutic" opportunity.

Second, the whole sit-down-and-talk-about-my-problems-or-neuroses is sort of played out. It's boring and also I don't have a lot of problems, which is a good thing, but it cuts down on the attention you get from your therapist when you turn out to be getting happy, healthy and fulfilled. So, I wanted a new venue that was less about "let's fix this about Christie" and more "what can you teach me?" Scrabble seemed easier than showing up to knit a sweater or to learn how to balance my checkbook.

Third, I wanted to have the experience of being "parented" in an activity that was important to me. Very little is more important to me than words (ok, I admit it, and winning), so instead of trying to make the things that are important to my parents important to me (to be a football fan; or to be interested in finance; or to be in sales or accounting), I asked for an appointment with a surrogate parent that would center around something I like to do and want to do better, or at least differently.

Fourth, I am exploring different templates for my relationships with Sadie and Meatball. I want my relationship with both of my kids to have a component where I teach them and share with them things that I enjoy, as well a relationship where I enjoy the activities they discover independently that bring them joy. I am not sure I know how to do that, and I figured a good place to start is finding a place where I can be a teachable kid so that my own children can grow up with a parent who's ready to parent them because she's had the luxury of being a kid whose parents shared "teaching moments" with her.

Do I secretly wish I could have kicked his ass with one eye closed? Yes.

Did that happen? Um, not exactly. I have a suspicion that he's played a lot of Scrabble. As in, I think he's an avid Scrabble player. I didn't account for that. I literally never considered that he'd even played before. Sure, it's not like it's a secret game or something he would not have come across. I just figured he sat around reading back issues of JAMA and reviewing former Yale colleagues' books on mitochondria or something like that. I wasn't picturing him to have Scrabble-specific skills. I guess I am glad he does have as many Scrabble skills and strategies that I plan to employ going forward, but it really wouldn't have matter if he didn't have them either. I wanted the experience of playing the game that feels perhaps like how some boys growing up feeling like they should be playing baseball with their dads. Do little boys really care if their dads suck at throwing the ball? They just want dad to show up in the yard and put the mitt on.

People keep asking me who won the game. I don't know what the score was, but I know I won the game.

(Ok, I kept the score card and technically I really did win, but Dr. High Points helped me strategize and make plays that would ensure my victory.)

Better than a manicure? In some ways, yes. Much, much better than a manicure.

Maybe next time we can get pedicures and I can show him a thing or two.

(EEwwwwwwwwwwww, seeing your therapists' toes!!!!!!!!!!)