To know or not to know January 26, 2010

For the last four months, we’ve been referring to this baby as Baby, He/She, Li’l Peanut, and sometimes, when we’re in a hurry, “it.” By this time tomorrow, I am hopeful we can hang up the gender neutral subjects and pronouns and excitedly refer to the little monkey by one of the names we’ve chosen. We have our 20-week sonogram tomorrow, and there is a 9 out of 10 chance — if all the preggo mommy forums on the internet are to be believed — that we’ll be able to find out the sex of Baby.

Since I’ve revealed that the Husband and I are definitely choosing to find out, I’ve discovered that most people come down strongly on one side of the argument or the other. I was not even aware there was an argument. The Nannas and Poppas and Grandmas and Grandpas in this case are still in baby bliss phase, so we could be having an alien and they’d still want to go shopping for diapers. They don’t care either way when we choose to find out if it’s a boy or girl, but now that we’ve decided to go for it, they can’t wait to know.

However, there have been other reactions. One auntie wrote on my facebook page, “Do you want to know??????” A friend from college wrote, “Why do you want to find out, it’s either a boy or a girl…”
At Christmas, a few other aunties and uncles were slightly disappointed that we were going to find out. Most of my relatives seem to favor the not-finding-out-until-the-baby’s-out method. I guess that’s fine for some people, it’s just not for me. The Husband would be fine either way. He has been mostly Switzerland during the entire four months. More accurately, he’s the Red Cross, delivering emergency cheese to my living room campsite in a timely fashion, or whipping up some comforting red bush tea while I’m retching over the toilet. I just mean he’d pretty much go along with whatever I wanted, knowing or not knowing.

I respect any pregnant woman’s decision to not find out the sex of the baby, if that’s what she chooses. However, I have yet to hear a compelling argument against finding out. It seems to me the pros of finding out far outweigh the pros of not finding out. Here’s my list:

Pros of finding out the gender of your little stowaway:
1. Science is our friend. The technology is there, the baby’s twigs and berries (or lack thereof) are right there on the screen. You and the Husband are there for a routine scan anyway, so it’s not as if there’s an extra fee involved in finding out. Why not let’s just have a look see? Our priest also made a good point about this. He told me his wife’s opinion was that she would hate not knowing while some lab tech out there did know.
2. Waiting until the birth isn’t going to be that much of a surprise. It’s 50/50. So I don’t understand the surprise factor. There’s no real suspense there, because unless you’re Henry VIII and you really care that much, you are presumably going to be happy with a boy or a girl. Also, it’s safe to assume that the day (and/or night) of labor and delivery is going to be full of surprises already. “Surprise! You suddenly have to vomit!” or “Surprise! It’s too late for the epidural!” And for anyone who might be worried about the sonogram getting misinterpreted as a boy, and then — surprise! — it’s a girl, the chances of that happening are about 3 percent or less.
3. Gender neutral planning is hard. Try shopping for anything for a baby when you don’t know the sex. Just try it. You are pretty much limited to the basics of hygiene and child safety: outlet covers, Q-tips, those squeezy nasal irrigator thingies. Anything else — anything cute — is white, green or yellow. Blankets, bibs, onesies, you know what I mean. Sometimes you can find cute multi-colored things; my first baby gifts for the Li’l Peanut came at Christmas, just two days after announcing the news to the family, and it was a snowman plate and a set of bright red and orange bibs. So cute, and totally neutral. But let’s face it, some time before the birth, you’re going to want to shop for a little tiny dress or a teeny-tiny baseball shirt. Just make it easy on yourself.

Pros of not finding out:
1. ?

Honestly can’t think of a single one. I guess it comes down to personality. My personality is just way too anxious to not find out.

In the meantime, I’ve busied myself by digging out this one-pound cone of gorgeous, neutral, cotton yarn that I fell in love with about three years ago. I’d made some dishrags with it, but I loved the way it knitted up so much that I envisioned someday using it to make a baby sweater. So I bought more of it. A LOT more. It’s the perfect color of beige, with little splashes of red, purple and aqua. It’s begging for a few dark wood toggle buttons. At the time I thought I couldn’t get pregnant, so I put it away and waited for the time when I could knit it up as a gift for a foster baby. As you can see from the photo, I’ve finished the hat and the booties, and just started on the pants, or bloomers, or whatever you want to call them. Then it’s on to the sweater, and then the afghan.

The plan is to use this hand-knit layette set for the official first photo, the one that gets sent out to all the aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas and cousins. I’m not terribly keen on the pink hat or the blue hat they give you at the hospital these days, or even the cost-cutting pink AND blue striped hat. Pink and blue are fine, especially when mixed with other bright colors, but the pastels are just not my thing.

I guess you won’t be able to tell by the clothes in the photo whether it’s a boy or a girl. Anyway, everyone will already know the baby’s very boyish or very girlish name by then, so it won’t matter what the baby’s wearing. And because, like the desire to find our or not to find out, it’s about personality. Whatever the popular opinion is, forget it. I’m doing it my way.

Things I used to believe January 18, 2010

Many things I used to believe about the world, I don’t anymore. That’s not to say I’m more cynical now than I was at 16 … if anything I’m more hopeful. It’s just that I grew up with a lot of preconceived notions about things I really did not understand. Take, for instance, elective bariatric surgery.

I used to believe this was the easy way out for the extremely overweight. It’s for people who just don’t want to do the work that it takes to lose the extra pounds, I thought. Cutting into one’s abdomen to surgically establish a new, smaller stomach organ to prevent a person from overeating is just barbaric and gruesome and not the way nature intended us to undo the damage we do to ourselves by eating too many cheeseburgers. That, or the procedure is for those rare people with genuine thyroid disorders, and who therefore can’t shed weight by simply eating less and exercising more.

In the last several months, the proverbial scales have fallen away.

Not to get too psycho-babbly, but one reason I may have been so dismissive of these elective procedures is because I tend to be so hard on my own self. I work very hard for weeks at a time to eat healthful foods and stay active, and then when the work doesn’t pay off at the rate I’d like it to, I stop. I decide I must be doing something wrong, or not working hard enough. I give up and go get a breakfast burrito and stop obsessing about my weight. And then end up hating myself the next day. People who have struggled with weight their whole lives are their own biggest critic and their own worst enemy. And I’m not talking about those low-self-esteem women who gain and lose the same 15 pounds and think they’re “fat.” I happen to have quite a healthy does of self-image — I’ve always said that if I had to choose, I’d rather be smart and chunky than skinny and dumb.

But being one’s own harshest critic also means you can apply that same power in a more positive way. If you have the energy to put yourself down, you have the power to do the opposite and be your own biggest cheerleader.

Shortly before Thanksgiving, my mom revealed to me that she was quietly planning to have elective gastric bypass surgery. As she told me about the process, I had my doubts. But I could tell how important this was to her, so I just listened. By listening, I realized there was more to it — SO MUCH MORE — than just a little snip and stitch to put you on the weight loss express train to Bikiniville.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother had been seeing a nutritionist since September, attending classes recommended by her doctor, meeting with her surgeon and going to group therapy, where she heard the stories of others who’d had success with the surgery. It turns out in the months leading up to the surgery, the nutritionist put my mother on a very restricted low-calorie diet. Then, in the two weeks prior to the procedure, it was liquids only. Not just any liquids. Every day, she had to gulp down about 40 ounces of this rather disgusting and expensive clear protein drink. While everyone around her was enjoying her homemade Christmas ban ket and fudge and egg nog, she was sucking down some truly awful health drink, and only that. She dropped 30 pounds even before the surgery.

Now, about a month after the surgery, she’s about lost a total of 50 pounds. And I’m so proud of her I can hardly stand it. She didn’t take the easy way out. I know this now because I’ve never seen her work harder. I’ve lived with her through TOPS, Nutri-System, and a host of other weight-loss programs. I’ve never seen her put so much thought into a permanent choice about her health, and I’ve never seen her more determined to see it through. But it has not been easy. The recovery is ongoing, and she’s just now able to eat tiny portions of solid food. While she’s watching Paula Deen roast pork ribs on the Food Network, mom’s melting a cracker under her tongue. In a few weeks, she’ll be able to go back to the health club and continue her water aerobics. In the meantime, she’s got her own revolving door at the doctor’s office for constant check-ups, is battling insomnia and can hardly drink communion wine without getting ill. Anyone still think this is the easy way out? I’ll give you her number and you can hear all about it first hand.

When the husband and I decided at Christmas that it was time to tell the family we were expecting a baby, one of my aunties was particularly excited and squealed, “the baby’s going to have a skinny Grandma!” It seems sort of fitting. After all, the struggle for her to lose weight got exceptionally difficult after she gave birth to me. Her baby weight never let her go. So I guess it’s come full circle. She gets to enjoy a new baby with the freedom to give the baby back when it’s fussy, and with the freedom from the dark cloud of diabetes hanging over her head.

Whatever we choose to do to make our bodies better, there is no easy way to thin. Some people just need an extra hand up.

The pregnancy excuse January 7, 2010

One of the oldest, most weary, running jokes in my family is just barely more than a one-liner. “I didn’t see you at church on Sunday. What’s wrong? Got swollen feet?”

The story goes back to when my mom was pregnant with me, way back during the Nixon administration. Somewhere in her third trimester, Mom woke up one late winter/early spring Sunday morning to discover her church shoes didn’t fit. Her feet were too swollen to fit into them. So she stayed home from church. What’s a 22-year-old girl to do, after all? Wear galoshes with her polyester maternity mini-dress? I think not.

So dad went off to church by himself, and Mom gratefully peeled off the pantyhose, chucked off the ugly maternity dress, unpinned the beehive hairpiece thingy, and got back into her jammies. Probably made some tea and put her feet up. Enjoyed a little peace and quiet without my well-meaning fuss-budget Dad harping on and on about pregnancy weight gain. Relished a few hours away from church people advising her on everything from baby names to breastfeeding. Blocked out the echoes of her gruff and crotchety obstetrician, accusing her of sneaking sweets. I picture her just having Me Time, before they called it Me Time.

These days, it’s not such a big deal. If preggo lady wants to stay home, she stays home. She doesn’t need an excuse. She’s got a portable, basketball-sized excuse with her at all times. Heck, with the way my own hormones are raging, nobody would say boo if I decided to angrily march out in the middle of a sermon. Which I wouldn’t do. Episcopalian sermons don’t give much cause for walking out in protest.

But in the days I was safely tucked away in the womb, already dutifully learning the Heidelberg catechism as part of my Dutch Calvinist heritage, it was a big deal to miss church. You just didn’t skip. You had to be actively engaged in technicolor bouts of vomiting, or in the hospital having your guts surgically prodded, for people not to judge you for missing our Sunday morning obligation.

So when my mom missed church because her shoes didn’t fit … oh dear. By the reaction of her brothers and sisters, you would have thought Mom had given an excuse equivalent to “the dog ate my homework.” I could almost hear all those adults’ sarcastic snorts from inside the uterus. I know this because, as a young child, the swollen feet joke was one of the first references I understood as having to do with expecting a baby. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was the idea of swollen feet that made me start asking about where babies came from.

Stories like this make me feel two things. I feel sorry for Mom and for a lot of other pregnant women who had babies in the 1970s or earlier. Second, I feel immensely grateful that I’m pregnant in the age of enlightenment. If I want to eat a grilled cheese sandwich with five slices, nobody’s going to judge me. If I want to sit on the sofa with my feet up and watch re-runs of The Office all night long, I’m practically encouraged to do just that. If I want to wear my new Christmas cardigan (thanks Mom) so many days in a row that it starts to sprout legs to ambulate itself into the washing machine, so be it. And finally, if I want to stay home from church and knit booties, by golly, that’s what I’m going to do. Pregnancy in 2010 is a beautiful thing — a judgment free zone. Now get out of my way, blog, I’ve got some knitting to do.

Resolved January 1, 2010

Because everyone is now too cool for school to make New Year’s resolutions, I’ll take the road less traveled.

In 2010, I resolve:

1. To worry less about how others treat me, and worry more about how I see others being treated.
2. To stop wasting time by having to repeat myself when people would rather be listening to the sounds in their earbuds.
3. To spend more time with the wise, wonderful women in my life.
4. To be more anonymous in giving.
5. To stop kvetching about the stoic, reticent Midwesterners.
6. To read some books outside of my comfort zone.
7. To stop yelling at the dog; it serves no purpose but to make me feel, and look, crazy.
8. To declare my independence from others’ passive aggression … if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, then I’m not responsible to make things right …
9. … and in turn, to stop using passive aggression for my own purposes, and instead to respect others enough to communicate.
10. To unclutter my space, but also to not feel inadequate when I can’t let things go.

Not a hint of irony in that list. Just me in all my bloody, unwashed earnestness. Who needs expensive therapy when we’ve got the internet?