How long has it been since my last confession . . . er, blog? Entirely too long, obviously, since I am getting e-mails from friends and readers asking if I am still alive.
I am. Really.
My days are just . . . a little different right now.
It was one of the hottest days of the summer, with the thermometer approaching the 100-degree mark. I was grateful to be in a cool city bus with my daughter, traveling down Fifth Avenue from 80th Street.
The bus was getting more crowded, with a number of people standing.
At one stop, right after a very pregnant woman came aboard, the driver made the following announcement:
“If someone does not get up and give this woman a seat by the next stop, I will turn off the air-conditioning.�
Someone immediately got up and offered this most appreciative woman her seat.
A solution to the whole pregnant woman on a train dilemma? Feministing has a great story, via Reuters, about the Japanese Health Ministry's distribution of "I am pregnant" badges to women (who, incidentally, don't actually have to prove they're pregnant) so that fellow commuters will offer them seats on crowded trains.
The comments that follow are interesting, especially the question of why, exactly, offering your seat to a pregnant woman is the chivalrous thing to do. Is it the weight or the nausea?
Before being pregnant, I'd always assumed it was the weight -- a free seat as compensation for having to carry around a 20+ pound burden and, um, continuing the human race.
But, while I never really had morning sickness, I do now grasp that the nausea/dizziness aspect of the first trimester when, if you're lucky, it's not at all obvious that you are pregnant, is a pretty big deal. Of course, so is going to work with the flu. Or a hangover.
In theory, you should be able to ask for a seat if you feel like you really need one, for whatever reason. And people, generally, are probably civil enough to comply.
More pregnant ramblings to drive Steve Rhodes crazy
Broadsheet, the women's issues-oriented blog at Salon.com, has posted a whole host of pregnancy-related links, including one to this New Yorker article about research into preeclampsia.
The piece, written by author and Harvard medical school professor Jerome Groopman, touches upon some of the big themes I've been (much less articulately than Groopman) wrestling with in the last few weeks, including the strange dearth of serious research into pregnancy-related medical conditions and health risks, and the circumstances in which the best interests of a woman (health-wise) and those of the unborn baby she carries are directly opposed to one another.
Leslie's "She Said" column today should be required reading for anyone who is pregnant, has been pregnant, is thinking about getting pregnant, or knows-and-loves anyone in any of those categories.
Leslie, who is slim and petite, proudly claims to have gained 50 pounds with each of her pregnancies. She reported this to me the other day with an almost giddy smile.
I have to admit that my initial reaction was not all that positive. Fifty pounds is a pretty significant percentage of my normal body weight. I couldn't imagine being happy about having to carry that around.
And, while I certainly haven't been dieting, I have been very conscious about how much weight I gain while pregnant. Partly, it's vanity: even though, thank goodness, the aesthetic standards of local public television are a lot looser than, say, a major national network, I do have the weekly TV gig going on and I'd rather not look like a blob on camera.
Mostly, though, it's a weird sort of Protestant work ethic feeling of guilt that had me believing I should look a certain way: with the cute, symmetrical and perfectly proportioned "bump" that all the Hollywood pregnant people seem to have -- and then very quickly lose.
Which is strange, actually, since it's not like I've looked like a movie star at any other point in my life.
Anyway, without being too ridiculously cheesey and Oprah-esque, reading Leslie's essay today was kind of an eye opener for me.
(Also, there was the very sweet older male colleage who spotted me in the hallway and, upon taking in the great expanse that is my belly declared, "Looking good, kid!" That was one of my favorite compliments ever.)
So, while I've already bought the post-partum workout books and videos, I'm going to work on being more Zen about the whole thing. And if it takes a while to get back into the skinny jeans, oh well. I mean, I do get a kid out of the deal. Which is really pretty great.
While I don't buy into that whole be-your-kids'-best-friend dynamic that seems to be common among affluent parents of teen-agers right now, it is my ambition to be my child's "cool parent."
The truth is that both R. and I are fairly big-time geeks, who got good grades, read serious books and listen to public radio. We know our kid is going to think we're hopelessly lame.
But, no matter how un-hip your parents are, as a kid, you almost always have a sense of one of them being far cooler than the other. This is the parent to whom you can make your pitch for expensive sneakers or non-plastic eyeglasses, the parent who understands that certain things are required for, say, surviving junior high school.
I think it started when I made a joke about alcohol and pregnancy.
R. and I were attending a cocktail reception and, when he stepped away for a moment, I held on to his drink. A few minutes later, a woman I didn't know walked up to meand informed me that I really shouldn't be drinking.
"Yeah, tell me about it," I said, patting my belly, "alcohol is what got me into this mess."
Department of Unsolicited Endorsements: Four fabulous maternity shops
Yes, what everyone says is absolutely true, maternity clothes are a lot better than they used to be. But they're still a little odd. (And heaven help you if you're looking for a semi-normal-looking business suit.)
Here are four awesome (if pricey) boutiques in Chicago with cool clothes:
Show and Tell (formerly Swell), 1206 W. Webster
Belly Dance, 1647 N. Damen
Kickin', 2142 W. Roscoe
Krista K., 3458 N. Southport
And, if you're up for a drive (hint: bring a snack), there's a really nice Maternity Works outlet store at the fancy new outlet mall in Aurora.
Between these places and the usual suspects (Carson's, Marshall Field's and Old Navy), it is almost possible to buy a reasonably cool pregnancy wardrobe.
A few weeks ago, my slightly crunchy (vegetarian, Dean-voting, Birkenstock-wearing) sister-in-law gave R. and I a great pregnancy "care package," which included some mother-to-be herbal tea, a book on how to give your kids non-conformist names and, most usefully, a pre-natal yoga video.
I'm enough of a yoga video fan that I've learned long ago to disregard the new age music and other silliness and just make use of the very nice stretching and breathing exercises. And, since I was quickly reaching the limits of my ability to follow my usual favorite, the well-sculpted and scantily-clad Rodney Yee, I immediately started using the one she'd given me.
It was, admittedly, even more ridiculous than your usual yoga fare.
When I headed to the Secretary of State's office to replace my stolen driver's license, I was figuring that the whole thing would be a bit of a nightmare.
As it turned out, though, an Illinois "Drivers Facility" is not a bad place to spend an afternoon, especially if you happen to be pregnant. (Or eldery or disabled, I suppose, but those conditions seem fraught with other challenges.)
I took the El right to Clark and Lake and walked into the office without even having to step outside in the rain. (I was tempted to stop off in the Food Court, but I'm kind of soured on Food Courts right at the moment.)
Right when I opened the door, I was greeted by a sign that instructed senior citizens, persons with disabilities and expectant mothers to head directly to the front of the line. The line didn't seem that long, and, I figured, I'm not really that pregnant, so I just waited my turn. (Actually, I kind of wanted to give my free pass to the woman in front of me who was trying to entertain her squirming 2-year-old, but that didn't seem like an option.)
After about a 15 minute wait, I got to the "greeter," explained what I needed and got my deli-style number.
Then I headed to the waiting area and, again, spotted one of the signs that pointed to a specially designated waiting area for those of us who might really need to sit down. At that point, I was half-expecting refreshments to be served.
At every turn, someone offered to expedite my service simply because I have the great fortune to be an "expectant mother." (Not to quibble over details or anything, but I think I prefer the slightly less euphemistic term "pregnant woman." Whenever anyone refers to me as any sort of mother, I immediately suspect that they have some sort of weird, life-begins-at-conception agenda. But maybe I'm just being paranoid.)
And, because of a sort of random confluence of circumstances (weather, outfit choices, recent schedule), this was the probably the first time I've been with them that it's been physically obvious that I'm pregnant.
Here's how it went:
I took off my denim jacket and Jariatu broke into a big smile when she saw my very curvy profile. "Your body is so beautiful!" she said with delight. She didn't immediately get that the belly (along with the other curves) was baby-related, but it didn't matter. Because she's been taught that a little roundness on a woman is a fine thing.
That's pretty cool.
(Of course, she also later told me that her family had previously discussed the issue and decided I was "too skinny" and very lucky to have landed a husband. Oh well.)
