Rampant sexism. Or, the difference between 15 and 30.

We are house hunting.

And let me just interject up here that for the most part, I'm a bright individual. I think fast. I sometimes see things other people don't. I'm just not so much on the math.

OK?

So. Interest rates are low. And we need space. And so we are looking.

We both have good credit, and while what we want to do is a tremendous stretch, it's not totally batshit, considering that we both have good, stable jobs, money from Nick's place once it's sold, etc.

In other words, we are asking for a lot but not laughable insanity.

So Nick called his financial institution and while he was waiting to hear back, I called mine. We both said we were interested in 30-year fixed loans.

Mine said they could offer a 5-year loan with an ARM or a 15-year fixed. So I figured they should go ahead and quote us on the 15-year fixed.

I mean, 15 is better than nothing, right? It's half as much, but we could sort that out later. Right? Because did I mention numbers? They are never logical for me? Or rather, I am never logical with them.

The more mathematically-inclined among us can see where this is headed.

So I, I spent hours on the phone. Here's our income. Here's our savings. Here's what we are getting out of my husband's place. Etc etc.

And the guy would go through it all, and then ask, do we have any other assets. What about this? What about that. Could we possibly demonstrate any more cash?

At a certain point I got exasperated and said, "Look. My husband might have a secret account I don't know about, but if he does, I don't know about it. As far as I know, this is what we've got."

I was thinking, you can or you can't, but stop acting like I'm being totally crazy. Stop acting like I'm doing something wrong.

During our eternal string of conversations, Nick emailed to say he had just heard back positively on the preapproval. But I should go ahead and see, as I was already near the end of the process.

I kept emailing him - things like: "Holy crap!" and "You didn't have this much trouble. Is it because I'm a woman?" and "Am I presenting it wrong? And why does he sound so suspicious?"

And Nick kept saying, "I don't know."

At the end of a couple phone calls and being put on hold a number of times, and the guy sounding veryvery dubious, he finally said that it just might miiiiiight work. Down to the penny.

And I could call back in 48 hours to see.

Immediately after getting off the phone with him, I called Nick. I really was verging on offended.

This must be sexism. It's all because I'm a woman! Nobody sounded sceptical of Nick.

"I mean, really," I said. "How fucking big a deal is some stupid 15-year fixed mortgage? Maybe he'd rather speak to you, the man? You had no problem!"

"Sweetie. 15-year fixed."

"Yes. They couldn't do 30."

"Did you do the math?"

Hilarious. Do I ever?

"Lis. You do realize that 15 years is half the amount of time of 30?"

"Yes Nick." (It's not like I'm stupid.) "So we eventually have to refinance. But we have 15 years to do so."

"NO. We'd have 15 years of enormous mortgage payments. Because they make you pay the whole thing off in 15 years."

Ahhhhh. No wonder that guy sounded so sceptical.

Let me sleep on it. Baby, baby let me sleep on it.

I believe there are people in the world who take a live and let live attitude towards their spouses.

Like, if fruit and vegetables and exercise are incredibly important to one partner, I think there are people out there who don’t make a big effort to foist the food preferences and the cardio on the other person. It’s probably a more harmonious way to live.

I have to imagine.

In other words, I am certain there are easier wives in this world.

So.

Genuinely, Nick works many more hours each day than I do. And my job is more low key. And there's a gym in my building. So I can schedule a convenient mid-day workout and odds are I'll have time and it will not get canceled due to some last-minute crisis.

But on the weekends, our schedules are pretty similar. And on most weekends, we run together both days. For me, it’s in addition to the three or four times I worked out over the week – and my prego workouts remain as frequent, but much less intense.

For Nick, weekends are often the only exercise time he gets.

Saturday we get up, both really wanting to get out for a run, despite the ugly skies.

Sunday morning, we awake to misty grey weather.

I’m going running regardless. I turn to him. “Do you want to run?”

“Not really.”

“But would you run with me?”

He says yes, but reluctantly. I can tell he doesn’t want to. And I’m thinking, seriously? If almost five month pregnant woman can run? You, dude, you can run.

So an hour or so later, post coffee and breakfast, as I’m about to put on my running clothes I say, “You know, if you really don’t want to run with me, it’s OK.”

I do not mean this. Not one bit.

“Really?”

And I think: He's not actually not going to run, when he constantly says he loves to exercise but has no time, is he? Is he? I'll be damned if he is.

“Sure. Just stay home and masturbate with Easy Cheese if you’d rather.”

There’s a flicker of delight. I can see on his face that he is weighing his desire to not run right now against how difficult I might make his life if he doesn’t.

“So you wouldn’t be really angry?”

“I wouldn’t be angry, Nick. I’d think less of you, but I wouldn’t be angry.”

And there he is again, wheels turning. I can see them. Angry Lisa = pain in the ass. Disappointed Lisa = probably tolerable.

So I decide to be very clear. “I wouldn’t be angry. But with each step I’d be thinking, ‘That fucker. He sits on his ass at work all day every day, too busy to exercise. And then when he actually has time, he doesn’t want to go with me.’ That’s what I’d be saying to myself.”

“Huh.”

“So what’s it going to be, boy? Me or the Easy Cheese?”

Week 20 tummy

Today is 20-week sonogram day! I can't wait for this afternoon!

Apparently this is when we get all the detailed pictures of the little dude. I can't wait to see him. Depending on the website, he's either a small cantaloupe or as long as a banana.

And this is totally fun! We tried a new trick last night.

Tej told me that her daughter would get really active when she put headphones on her belly and played music. And so while we were watching The Office (which is rapidly losing my attention, I have to say) I pulled out my iPod, stuck the headphones in my waistband, cranked up the volume, sat still, and waited. . .

It works!

He particularly liked Cat Power singing Sea of Love from the Juno soundtrack. If I listen to a whole album of her in one sitting it pulls me down, but Cat Power in moderation is wonderful.

I also tried a little country, and he didn't jump at Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys. I decided to skip Delta Dawn. Maybe next time.

So then I thought maybe I should head for upbeat, so I put on my workout mix. And he got all thumpy-aroundy with Bananarama singing Venus. Which is one of my personal faves. Yay! He likes 80s dance music!

But this morning I started to really think about it. Do I really want to foster a proclivity for cheesy 80s pop? Or my taste in music in general?

I'm betting most who know me would say, "No, no, and more no. Nooooooo."

I do want the best for my kid. But it's so much fun. . .

Touch my monkey

So far, anyway, I am the opposite of someone who gets annoyed when people touch my stomach.

Although the truth is, I haven't yet had a total stranger do so. That might bug. Because it always annoyed me when I had super short hair and people I didn't know very well would just reach over and touch the back, just to see.

But currently I'm all, "You want to touch it? It's odd! Here - feel it."

Because seriously, if you've never felt one - and I hadn't, so it is what I've been doing a lot of - it's like a hard, round ball.

It kind of fascinates me.

I've known people who have gotten breast implants, and they've gone around showing them to everyone - their mail carrier, their stylist - everyone. And I am verging on this behavior. Although I don't (yet) accost people out of the blue. But when they mention it. . .

"Lis! Look at your baby tummy!"

"I know! Want to touch it?"

Also, the accompanying drawing by my friend Dagny was designed in response to this post. But I feel like it works here. I like that I'm wielding a big javelin. It makes me look more command-y and dangerous, don't you think?

I mean, if you can overlook the shiny blue dress.

I'm thinking of what Sarah said...

Dad, you want to skip this post. Betty, you read everything anyway.

So you all know how I love to write about shoes and dresses and sparkles and dating and raindrops on kittens and the like.

Not that I'm always sunshiney - we all know that's not true - but I often splish splash around in the shallow end. It's fun there.

And the truth is that I do spend an inordinate amount of time on stuff like that. But I spend some piece of almost every day of my life on the following. And sometimes it's easier than others. But lately, it's hard.

I'm writing this knowing full well that a lot of people just don't know what to say in response to things like this. And that's OK. But just know that it won't be fun to read.

There's no punch line. It's more like a punch in the stomach.

My dad, my dad is always complicated. He struggles. He's a smart, smart man. He's loving and good and kind and well-intentioned, and he has always tried to be there for us and make sure that we have whatever we need.

Even now, when I'm a married adult, he helps and he offers. I'm still his kid.

And I love the shit out of him. And I am always his kid. And he's always my dad. That will never change.

But as I said, he's complicated. He struggles. Sometimes more than others. And lately, lately is a big struggle for him. Which puts me on constant alert.

Two years ago next month - and those of you who have known me for a while know this - my dad tried to commit suicide. It wrecked us for a good chunk of time.

We spent the following two months going to the hospital, and then eventually the psych ward, every day. We fought my dad sometimes. We fought each other sometimes. We fought the money-focused healthcare system - and won.

We all walked out alive and stronger. But so battered, so scathed.

Eventually, though, it got better. It never feels totally safe, but it often feels OK.

OK, but some piece of scared, of expecting the worst, is always there. It's the flinch of an ambulance siren going by. Or a too-early morning phone call. Or a tone in a voice.

It wasn't the first time, and I already knew I was good in a crisis - this specific kind of crisis, with slightly different details. I knew I was strong. I knew I could handle it. And I did - but barely. It shredded me.

It's something I know I have the fortitude for. But I cannot imagine how I would summon the strength if I had to right now.

And right now, my dad is in a bad place. I know he is trying. He's really, really trying. He says so, and I see it.

Things changed the last time. It stopped being a secret. I forced that. I was done with the huge, unhealthy, never talked about family secret.

I claimed my grief and my terror and my struggle as mine - because it is. My dad has his, my mom has hers, my brother has his, no matter how much he tries to tamp it down and avoid it. And I have mine.

And my dad, for which I am very, very proud of him, he started talking about it, for the first time ever. And now he is actually articulating where he is and what he's fighting and how he's working towards staying with us.

Which is so different from before.

Now, I can actually say in the here and now, "I need you. I need you with us. My kid needs you."
I know for sure he is trying. He wants to be there for us, for his grandson. But sometimes for him, it's so very hard. I know this.

The thing that scares me most is that I understand the piece - which I know varies in size depending on the day and the circumstance - that feels like maybe this life and this heaviness this particular struggle is more than you can handle.

I don't feel it myself, but I've peered in at the edge, and I understand it, and how powerful it can be.

I know that once you slide into that smooth, dark tunnel, where there is no light, no sense of hope, no hand-holds on which to catch yourself - just smooth, smooth emptiness, it feels impossible to get out on your own. All you can do is slide forward towards what seems like a reasonable, singular solution.

I know it.

It terrifies me.