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.

Thoughts Thought For The Past Few Days

After seeing so many average and horrible (thanks, Black Dahlia, I am still not over you), I am still in search of the next movie I am going to love or at least really like. I thought I had found this movie in Layer Cake. From the beginning it was British and smart (I admit it: I love smart and British). Daniel Craig was good and the story was interesting. But, then, halfway through, the movie got unnecessarily complicated, splitting off this way and that. I got lost. And, I discovered to my dismay, I wasn't all that interested in finding my way back. So, I turned off Layer Cake and decided instead to watch Rent. I fancy myself a bohemian at heart (albeit a bohemian with a house and a steady income) and love musicals, so Rent is perfect for me. I love the songs, the characters. There are so many movies that I have never seen, but I like the comfort of one that I know I like.
Speaking of comfort, it is comforting for me to know that my small child is already a con artist in the making. Last night as I dressed him in his pajamas, he pointed to the small red bottle on his dresser and said "I want Tylenol in my mouth." (Yes, he is two and that is how he talks.) I explained to him that Tylenol is only for making stuffed noses or coughs better. Then, my little dear let out the most pathetic little fake cough that I have ever heard. I couldn't help but laugh at him.
It has been a very hard week all things considered. Even though I was barely pregnant, my body had apparently adjusted already to being pregnant and is still adjusting to not being pregnant. The first few days I felt okay, really, but now, over a week later, I am still upset, but getting better. It has been a hard adjustment for my body to make. I don't recall the adjustment even being this hard after I physically had a baby. Of course, then I was recovering from the surgery and had a tiny baby and no sleep to occupy my time. When I have too much free time to think, I am capable of really mentally torturing myself.
Speaking of mental torture, I can't remember if I mentioned my utter distate for The Black Dahlia. It burned into my brain and I fear that years from now when I can barely remember my own name, its images will haunt me. Not likely to haunt me, though, is The Break-Up, which is the most recent Kimberly-Jeff (of Jeff-Kimberly, if you prefer) movie watched. I thought it was funny and enjoyed it.
This week's poll: Which tv show (currently on the air) cast would you most like to join? I chose How I Met Your Mother since they all seem fun and Jeff chose The Office since he said it seems you can get away with doing very little.

Monday Thoughts

Anyone who has spent more than a minute with me has noticed that I tend to have mood swings. I prefer to call it “artistic temperament,” but “mood swings” is not inaccurate. Today my feelings have been all over the place. I blame The Black Dahlia. The movie is very pretty to look at. Okay, that takes care of the positive comments: now for the negative ones. Let me start by saying that I loved L.A. Confidential. I have seen it a few times now and find it to be a good example of what contemporary “noir” can be. Dahlia, on the other hand, is boring and meandering and is less about the Dahlia murder case than my own autobiography is. It has taken us three days (so far) to watch. Even though I have not finished the movie, I still feel qualified to give my opinion. I am a big believer in second chances and not making rash decisions. However, last evening I threw all of that out the window when I decided that I had to go to bed instead of watching the last 15 minutes. Because I am a masochist, however, I will be watching the last 15 minutes this evening, and, unless there is some sort of tap-dancing animal or unbelievable twist at the end, the movie cannot be redeemed. There is potential in the story, I think, though there are so many other things going on that I cannot in good conscience recommend it to anyone with any kind of attention deficit (or anyone who doesn’t have an attention deficit).
Though I would like nothing more than to blame Dahlia for my current state of mind, I know there is something else going on my mind, something that I need to write about briefly, so here goes: I had a miscarriage. I was barely even pregnant, but I did have the positive pee-on-the-stick test and very short elation before I miscarried. Certainly there wasn’t enough time to bond with the barely fertilized egg before it was gone, yet I still feel sad. I am giving myself all kinds of reasons not to feel sad, but the sadness creeps in around the periphery none-the-less. Jeff and Jude accompanied me to the doctor today and as I sat in the doctor’s office nearly crying, I couldn’t help but think “This doctor must really think I’m nuts. Every time I come here, I am either crying or on the brink of crying.” I allowed myself one long look at the beauty of the pregnant women all around us, then, we went out for ice cream and I headed back to work. Life goes on and I comfort myself with two thoughts: one, I will be a pregnant woman again (though one more baby is my limit – I’m not running some kind of factory in there) and two: 15 more minutes and I never have to watch The Black Dahlia again. Now that is something to smile about. Oh, and today was unseasonably warm and I dyed my hair back to red so things are looking up.
This week's Jeff and Kim poll: Which tv character would you most like to date? Jeff chose Pam Beasley and I chose Jim Halpert (both, of course, from The Office.)