Secret, Secret . . . I Had a Secret

On Monday, I called my mom at work, to see how my Uncle Dennis is doing, as she spent the weekend with him. After speaking with her for a few minutes, she said "I was just thinking of you. Are you pregnant?" I responded with the very pithy "Why would you ask that?" "I don't know," she replied. "Just a feeling I have." So, not being someone who is able to lie to my mom, I had to say "Well, yes, I am." I took the home test on Saturday and got a positive result and then a follow up test (second opinion) on Monday -- also positive. I knew it; the past two weeks I have been incredibly nauseated all day, every day, something I experienced when pregnant with Jude. There is no better feeling than being totally sick to one's stomach all day long. So, I went to the doctor today to figure out what is happening and was given an ultrasound. Sure enough, there was the tiniest little heart that I could see beating. This caused me to really stop and wonder: how far along am I? Dr. Hottie answered that question: I am about eight weeks along. Eight weeks. Two months.
So, for anyone paying attention, I certainly did not have a miscarriage, just some heavy bleeding. I wish I had known. I now kick myself for those glasses of champagne I had at the wedding, though the doctor assures me that I should not worry. Of course I worry; I can't help it. I worry that I drank champagne one night. I worry that I took pepto one day last week to try to settle an upset stomach. I worry that I haven't taken my vitamins every day because I have been nauseated. I worry because that tiny bit of cells (with a strong little heartbeat)depends on me and I don't want to let him/her down.
So, Jeff and I were going to wait to tell people, but once my mom knew, there was no sense trying to keep a secret. So, we decided to go ahead and tell people, assuming that there were a few people that my mom didn't already tell.
Oh, and the Dr. Hottie thing: that is an affectionate nickname that my doctor earned when I was pregnant with Jude. He is one of those men who is so good looking as to be almost too good looking, exactly the sort of man you'd feel uncomfortable being naked in front of if he weren't also such a good doctor.
I am already experiencing cravings, mostly for bread and some meat and an aversion to sweets. I have to go now; there is a breadstick in the kitchen with my name on it. I had to write my name on it, lest someone else in this house try to take food away from the pregnant beast.

The Only Thing We Have To Fear

So the only thing we have to fear is the fear of being afraid, or something like that. At least that's what we are taught as adults, to be fearless, to face our fears. But we only have some fears because as children we were taught to fear by adults. I know because now I am the fear-teacher and though I know it is necessary, it is not a role I relish. The obvious place to start was with the stove and with fire and Jude has been taught about "hot" since he first began to crawl. We never had a problem. When the oven is on or a candle is lit up on a counter, Jude will point to it and say "hot." Earlier this week, though, we took Jude for a walk around the neighborhood. His little legs like to carry him ahead of us, so we have to remind him to walk with us. Then, he ran ahead of us, toward the street, which causes the parental brain to contemplate all sorts of ugly scenarios, none of which I need to describe here. Screw all of the "face your fear" stuff that you hear on televison or read in self-help books; if you are a parent (at least a decent parent) you are afraid a good deal of the time. Said fear causes you to become more protective (or even overly protective) sometimes. Of course, then, part of the job consists of instilling fear in your child to keep him or her safe since you literally cannot be with the child every minute. We had to tell Jude repeatedly not to go near the street since he could get hit by a car, that he is short and a car might not be able to see him. We kept walking and Jude stopped suddenly and held his arms out to Jeff, saying "I want up." Jeff picked him up and in that tiny Jude voice, Jude said "Car not hit me." We could not convince him to walk at all on the rest of the trip. It was a briefly good feeling, knowing that he actually listened and absorbed what we were telling him, followed by a sinking ugly feeling, knowing that Jude was afraid of something, knowing that we had to make him afraid. Necessary, but not pleasant. Now, though, each time we are in a parking lot, he comes gladly to me or to Jeff, saying "Car not hit me" instead of running off ahead of us as he may have wanted to in the past.
In other fear news, my fear of never seeing another movie I would like seems to be behind me. Last weekend, Jeff and I headed off to the theater for a fear-related movie: Zodiac. This movie is of-course about astrology. Wait, no. It is about the Zodiac killer, the kind gentleman who haunted the San Francisco area in the 1960 's and 70's. Jeff read the Zodiac books and was eager to see the film; I had not read the books but was eager to see Jake Gyllenhaal, so there was something for everyone. I found it to be an engaging, intelligent film with lots of Gyllenhaal, so I liked it very much. It is really less about the killer himself than about the cops and newspaper folk with whom he was fond of toying. Very good film. I also saw the feel-bad movie of the year yesterday: Babel. I think it was a very good film, but very depressing. Very, very depressing. Very good script, though and excellent acting. Did I mention, though, that it is sad? I'm afraid I won't be watching it again any time soon. Next up, kiddies, is Borat. I am hoping that I laugh, but not to the point of laughing until I hurt. I am always afraid of doing that.

Domestication of the American Female

For my birthday, my brother and his new wife bought me a gift card (thanks again, you crazy newlyweds). I held on to it for three short days before racing off to the store to use it. I thought about different movies I wanted, books I would enjoy and other items of pleasure. In the end, I bought none of these items; instead I bought a hand-held, cordless vacuum (and a pair of lizard and toad pajamas for Jude. They are so cute.). I was so proud and so ashamed all at once. The ashamed part comes when I realized how much I wanted it and how much I was looking forward to trying it out. I hate housework and generally do as little as I can, just enough to keep the household from imploding (Jeff takes up the enormous slack -- thanks Jeff). But I actually got excited at the thought of being able to easily sweep out the cracker crumbs from Jude's car seat. Yes, excited. I think I have become as completely domesticated as I ever could be and I seem to be happy about it. Weird. I never pictured this happening.
When I picture domestication, I think about the women who live in the neighborhood where I work, women who are home all day and who, in some cases, have so many children that they would have literally had only months in their adult lives when they were not pregnant. These women are voices to me on the telephone and I wonder how -- and if -- they ever leave the house. Seriously. I am interested in how a woman with eight children can ever leave the house. One of my coworkers has 13 children. I see him often but have never seen his wife. She always sounds vaguely upset when she calls.
Even though I am enjoying sitting at the computer, reading movie reviews and watching my episodes of Buffy, it is time for me to go. I have a vacuum to try out.
Oh, and kids, if you have a chance, my friend has a blog that is worth checking out. Funny stuff. The link is on the right-hand side of my blog under the name "Dung!" (so named, not for excrement but for an episode of Monty Python, or so my friend tells me.) It is profane, but funny. Okay, he is not really my friend but my lover and he promised me something really . . . special if I mentioned his blog, so consider it mentioned. Also over there is a link where you can subscribe to this-here blog if you are into that sort of thing.

How Do You See Me?

Now that the social event of the year is over, I have time to look back and reflect. Jeff and I sat at a table with my dad and step-mom and my mom and step-dad sat at the next table over. I realized that my dad had never seen me drink anything other than soda or water. He called the next day to make sure I didn’t have a hang-over (I certainly did not, Dad, as I only had three small glasses of champagne). Still, it must have been something strange for him to witness if it prompted a phone call. Later that day, my mom called, asking “how the drunk is.” I wondered, then, if I had ever had a drink around her and it occurred to me that, other than at my own wedding, maybe I hadn’t. She wouldn’t care if I did; I would think she would be immune to that after spending so much time around my brother and his friends. My mom is a social drinker, my step-dad a really social guy when he drinks. My dad drinks never and my step-mom had a bit of alcohol at the wedding, which was weird because she never drinks either. But the subject of the blog is not alcohol or even social drinking. It is perception. I wonder how my parents see me. Do they see a 33-year-old married woman, a mother? Or am I perpetually the shy little girl with glasses who dragged along a book to every family event I ever attended? (I don’t do that anymore, but that is only because Jeff won’t let me. He insists I talk to my family instead. Meanie.) Do they see me as a quiet, independent little toddler who loved her books? A moody teen who liked to read age-inappropriate novels? On my wedding day, did my mom and dad, step-mom and step-dad see a little girl playing dress up or an adult finally feeling self-confident and assured, happy (and, strangely enough, without a book at all that day)?
I wonder how I will see Jude in the future. Will I be able to accept his adulthood or will I always see the toddler I fell in love with? The boy with the beautiful smile who sings and dances, who watches Elmo movies and, at the end, always waves at the tv and says "Bye, Bye Elmo?" Will I be able to look at a more grown up Jude and not see the boy who sits on his daddy's lap at bedtime while I read him a story? Possibly. But I don't want to ever forget this moments. Already I have a hard time remembering him as a baby, a tiny, completely helpless person. Baby moments pass so quickly. But as an infant, a toddler. I think I will always remember that. How could I forget his great independence, his daily accomplishments, the pure joy he shows for life?
On a completely different note, I saw another new movie: Brick. What is wrong with me that I can't find a new movie that I like? I was disappointed because I thought I would like it, was certain actually that I would enjoy it. I was, instead, pretty annoyed by it. My quest for a movie I will like continues. Next up: Babel. Wish me luck. Now, I must go and cover my child's face with kisses while he will still let me.

The Social Event of The Year

Well, the social event of the year has come and gone and a good time was had by all. I am talking, of course, about my birthday. That is, of course, a joke; my birthday was on Thursday and it was very fun and Jeff, Jude and I went to dinner. A very fun affair, but, hardly the social event of the year. Instead, that distinction goes to my brother's wedding, which happened on Saturday evening.
Jeff and I met in January 2000 and got engaged in July 2000. We got married in August 2001 (just providing a handy time line). We bought a house in September 2002 and sweet Jude was born in July 2004. The last 7 years couldn't have been more different for my brother and his no-longer-a-girlfriend. They met at a wedding in March 2000 (2 months after Jeff and I met) and dated for a very long time. Amanda was a college student and Ryan was working at a tool and die shop. They seemed a very cute couple, but it was hard to tell if they had much in common. Amanda has since completed college, earning a doctorate and is now working as a pharmacist. Ryan is still at the same tool and die shop and these two kids that, on the surface, wouldn't seem to have too much in common, are very much in love.
My brother is pretty much in every way my opposite. Physically he is very imposing, something that served him well way back in high school when he played football and made friends with nearly every other kid on the football team. I mention that because twelve years later, he is still friends with most of those fellow football players. Whereas I don't really keep in touch with anyone I was friends with in high school, Ryan still sees these guys on a weekly basis and several of them were in his wedding party. We've never been terribly close, Ryan and I, as we are very different, though I know I have always wanted the best for him. Well, last evening, I know that happened. I have literally never seen my brother as happy as he was last evening. Though I have a strict rule about not drinking (since social drinking always led to my being a bit too social), I did have a few glasses of champagne last night. I am happy that my baby brother found someone to love and who loves him so much.
So, congratulations, Ryan and Amanda, you sweet little kids. Have fun in Mexico and, whatever you do, don't drink the water. Have champagne instead.