Week 12 tummy

It's not all that impressive, I realize.

But it is a lot bigger than it used to be. Plus my baby is only somewhere between the size of a lime and a lemon.

Apparently at 12 weeks, it should be a lime. I'm making up the lemon part. I'm not sure what they're going to give me next.

If you've never read a baby book or looked at one of those sites, you do not know that as soon as it's bigger than a pin prick, or an angel kiss, or whatever it starts out as, they start comparing it to fruit. I think the first one might have been raisin or cranberry.

I've signed up for these weekly email updates. They're informative, and the fruit amuses me.

"This week, your little darling is the size of a grape!"

"This week, your baby is the size of a prune (although decidedly less wrinkled)!"

I'm not kidding you. I'm quoting almost verbatim, especially the cheesy "less wrinkled!" part. Last week it was a kumquat. This week a lime.

I must admit to curiosity about the fruit of choice and just how big they go. I'm going to doubt it's ever a weird, exotic one like chirimoya, or an awkward shape like starfruit.

But back to my little lime.

The sonogram person yesterday said it was measuring almost a full week bigger than 12 weeks. They said this is fine, in that you don't really know when you conceived, they just go by your last period.

I pointed at Nick. "Do you think it could have anything to do with my husband's size?"

They stifled laughter and replied that yes, genetics can play a role.

I didn't mean it jokingly.

One of my huge concerns is that this baby is going to turn out to be half as big as me. In fact, size concerns are as follows:

That by month seven he or she (and if it's that enormous, I am hoping for a he) will have squished my lungs, heart, and in fact all my organs up into my throat trying to get comfy. And remember the part in Alien just before the alien bursts out of that guy's stomach? That will be me. And! And by the time my kid is fully cooked, he's not going to wait to be delivered, he's just going to reach a huge hand through my hoo-ha and pull himself out.

And then he'll demand a roast beef sandwich.

You know I'm not kidding.

The battle of the beard. Or, Chedo redux.

I am not entirely sure why he's posing like this. Really, I just wanted to document the beard.The beard, it kind of snuck up on me. I think it makes Nick look like a big scary man who sleeps under a bridge.
Don't be deceived by the disarming smile.

I've taken to calling him Chedo.

I married a clean-shaven man. It is a look I love. I think this is why I wound up on so many dates with uptight conservative men and Republicans in general.

Because although I wanted someone with a liberal outlook, I like the freshly scrubbed, unimaginative, khakis and button down or super conservative suit and tie, I-live-in-Virginia-and-vote-Red-look. I love men who have to wear suits to work.

Sad, but true.

And then, then I met Nick, who looks all conservative (with maybe one grand and glittery exception) on the outside but is extremely liberal.

Nick often doesn't shave on weekends, but by Monday morning he's all shiny and bald-faced again. But there was that long weekend where we had MLK Day off, and then the inauguration. Nick worked both days, but from home. I was in the city with friends Monday and Tuesday, so by the time I saw him Tuesday night, he had all this beard business going on.

It's now been close to two weeks. He's really enjoying it. And he wants me to like it.

He comes home and says things like, "I ran into someone else in my building who thinks I look really distinguished."

I roll my eyes. "OK, Chedo."

And you know, sometimes I try to be manipulative, but I never pull it off. I'm too transparent. We were driving in to work, stopped at a light, and Nick caught me examining his beard critically.

"You'll grow to love it."

"You know, I bet if Chedo Lino's wife really wanted him to shave his beard, he would."

"Lisa. Chedo Lino is not only not an actual person, but he's not even correct song lyrics."

The beard, so far, it stays.

I am just about over Edward Cullen

Even if he does sparkle like a million rainbows in the sunshine, which I kind of love.

As you know, I was thoroughly and deeply invested in the teenage vampire angst. I loved Edward and his repeatedly-adjectivized alabaster skin and topaz eyes. I loved how in love he and Bella were.

I mean, they still are. I just finished book three.

But the truth is, somewhere in the third book, I found myself rooting for Jacob. I got all, oh, Edward is just so fucking complicated.

I'm sick of his eternal internal struggle. I'm tired of his preoccupation with saving Bella's soul. I'm all kinds of weary of his insistence on marrying her right out of high school before he's willing to vampire her. And his struggle against the sex.

Whereas Jacob I find so refreshing. He's all sunshiney and positive and sweet and loving. And, and! He's 108 degrees! How deliciously warm would that be?

I haven't seen the movie, and so the characters in my head are still as I visualize them. And I now realize I'm imposing my own dating experience on the characters in these books, and that kind of mortifies me. But I cannot seem to figure out how not to.

Jacob, in my mind, he is this guy I briefly dated a couple years ago. Latino, whereas Jacob is Native American, but enormous, muscular, brown, and gorgeous. Super smart, and a really nice person. And man, hot. Just hot.

A sucky person for me to date, which I could blame on his ex-wife, or his unstable childhood. Both of which, of course, I would've thrown myself into making up for, because this was before I came to the realization that that strategy is pure stupid.

But I'm pretty sure that for his ex-wife, he was adoring and devoted and worshipful, in the same way Jacob is with Bella. He loved her so much. And his ex-wife, she made it very clear that she was settling when she married him, and eventually she cheated on him and divorced him.

So by the time we met, he was thoroughly untrusting (non-trusting? trustless?), and was doing a lot of playing and a lot of not-committing. Which just didn't work for me. But I still think he's a good person.

Come to think of it, he'd make an excellent werewolf, I'm quite sure.

Edward, on the other hand, Edward is all the enormously complicated, control freak, uptight men I have ever dated, but one in particular, rolled into one. I understand the magnetic pull. I get the visceral reaction and the body sparkles. I know the breathless red-hots can't-live-without feeling.

But still, I've begun to find him exhausting and slightly tedious.

I want to be like, "Oh, Bella, you'll grow up and you'll tire of this. I know it feels all urgent now, but you're 18, ferchrissakes. And, even if you don't get sick of him, you should at least sleep with Jacob once - at least once! - before you commit yourself forever and ever to this one man and a life of eternal vampiredom."

So clearly, I am still way too invested.

Solipsism

The lovely and talented Lemmonex interviewed me a couple days ago. Because when I saw the interview game on her blog, it looked like fun. And so easy! I mean, all you had to type was, "interview me." Who could resist?

There are rules at the bottom if you'd like to be interviewed.

So, the questions.

1. OK, seriously...what do you miss most since learning you learned you are pregnant? Booze? Sushi? Brie? Be honest.

I miss different things in different moments - but when I miss them, I ache for them as I would for a glass of water while dying of thirst in the Gobi desert.

I miss sushi terribly. I would almost kill for a spicy tuna roll. The other night I was on the verge of tears when several of my dining companions had tuna sashimi and I had a tossed salad. I was crushed. It's not rational, but it's true.
There are other days where a glass of red wine seems like it could make my week. I could have a little tiny bit, I'm sure. But I don't want a wee bit. I want like five glasses. I don't want moderation right now.

And so I have none.

And I miss the crap out of smoked salmon. I don't want to heat it hot to make it safe before I eat it.

One thing I've not stopped is coffee. I have a cup every morning and it makes my day a hell of a lot better. This might not be the best rationale, nor is it PC, but I decided that if crack whores can carry babies anywhere near term, I ought to be able to have a fucking cup of coffee.

No?

2. What do you like best about your relationship with Nick?

Best is hard. But somewhere in the best mix would be how easy, how even, and how drama-free our relationship is. I think he gets almost all the credit for this, particularly right now.

We have fights, and we exchange really harsh words sometimes. But there is no crazy up and down, no game playing, no bullshit. We always make it clear that we still love each other, no matter how maddening the other person might be at the time.

From the first moment, he was really straightforward about how much he wanted me in his life. And when I get all spun up in my own drama, he doesn't get caught up in it. And he only lets it get so far.

It's a completely different dynamic for me, and I so appreciate it.

3. If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?

Personality-wise: I would be more even-keeled, less prone to depressive dips and existential crises.

Physically: I would not have asthma. It's currently completely under control. But I wish I never had to think about breathing.

4. The thing you are most looking forward to about motherhood?

I had to think hard. And then my answer made me feel like a bad person.

I'm probably most looking forward to reading to (and eventually with) and doing fun little projects with my kid. I'm excited about the talking - and listening to how he or she acquires language. But truthfully, I know there are a lot of years before that happens.

You see, I have never been a baby person. I like particular kids a lot, but babies are not so much my thing. Even the ones I love, I am always happy to hand back. And yes, I am dead sure I'll love the shit out of my own baby, and I know there are a lot of baby years ahead of me...

5. Licorice--red or black?
Black! Salty black licorice is one of my favorite things on this planet. And I think the last time I had great licorice was years ago, in Germany. They have these licorice cats, and cat paws (which somehow cracks me up, eating little kitty cat paws - aren't they cute?). Super yum.

If there is somewhere in DC to buy delicious licorice, I'd love to know.

If you’d like to play along, just follow these instructions:
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. Be sure you link back to the original post.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

So, really, it turns out I'm a revolving door of pink is the new black

Today's topic is one that many people would not discuss in such a public forum. And I'd like to make it clear that I am writing about it precisely because I find it anxiety-inducing. Not because I take it lightly.

So.

I spent a good chunk of the past month Googling Down syndrome. And other things I'd never heard of before, such as Trisomy 13 and 18. There is a lot of frightening information out there, and you can get yourself 54 kinds of worked up. Or more.

Because, I don't know if you know this - I didn't - but advanced maternal age begins after 35.

Advanced maternal age. It sounds old and scary. The image I get is of a grey haired, pursed-lipped, stern, non-child-friendly librarian. I don't know why.

I thought about my age as a factor in getting or not getting knocked up. But I didn't really think beyond that.

And then to my vast surprise, I got pregnant quite fast, and went in to the doctor. At which point I immediately learned a lot about my advanced maternal age. You are given all this information about different tests for different things that could be wrong.

Because of your advanced maternal age.

Nobody is pushing you to have these tests. But you're eligible for all of them. Because your eggs, they've been sitting around for a while. Which means there is a greater chance of a genetic abnormality. And they have had more time to accumulate more environmental damage and such.

Your odds of having a baby with Down syndrome, while 1 in 1,250 at age 25, increases to 1 in 100 by age 40.

Dramatic, no?

So, being me, and being slightly obsessive sometimes or usually, and being an enormous fretty-pants, I Googled relentlessly. The advanced maternal age. The statistics. Screening tests. The percentage of false positives. The percentage risk associated with different diagnostic tests.

And so on.

This, as you might imagine, became my topic of choice. You should feel lucky I was keeping this a secret for a while. Anxiety level? Very high.

As with most things, I churned myself into practical hysteria. I obsessed. Endlessly. And then I worked through it. It's not resolved, but I've fretted about this as much as I physically can. Somehow, I needed to go through that to come out the other side.

I can say this now.

You don't necessarily think about your behavior around things like this while you're doing it, because, well, you're just living forward. Being yourself.

And then, one day, you might be sharing all you've gleaned from exhaustive searches with a close friend. And something happens to make you realize that perhaps, just perhaps, you have gone over the top with all of it. As you are wont to do.

The moment of realization? When your husband gently puts his hand on the friend's arm, leans forward in a confidential manner, and says the following.

"Basically, Downs is the new rabies."

And the friend, she nods knowingly.