Deliver Me

I am terrified.

I finally read the sections on labor and delivery in the baby books. It sounds (understatement follows) uncomfortable. C-sections sound scarier. In case you weren’t already aware, the baby comes out through the vagina and in a c-section, the surgeon cuts through three layers of your body. Why don’t we deliver babies through our nostrils, I wonder. Female anatomical design totally sucks.

There’s guaranteed to be an abundance of pain and gore before we actually meet baby. Unfortunately, I think I have a body that can only handle pleasure. I’ve never complained about being pampered. Ever. (You can check this out independently if you like.)

To make matters worse, I started reading an article by Atul Gawande in an anthology of science writing because I thought it was about Apgar testing (and because he said Virginia Apgar grew up in the next town over) and then it turned out to be about some poor woman who was in labor for 30+ hours and then had to have a c-section.

Now I have nightmares about how my sweet, cooing baby is trapped inside of me. And I’m convinced that the reason I haven’t gone into labor yet is because I’m terrified by the idea. I already suck at being a mom.

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BUT

If you tucked me in

tucked my head

under your chin,

if you breathed

my dreams and

whispered them

back to me as if

you've seen them too.

If on our lips

new devotions

sucked at sound

and my tangled hair,

then my mouth could be

more than a metaphor,

and I could confess

to you that

even from

three cities away,

your touch

shadows me.

Like your name

screamed aloud

then chased by my

need to whisper it again.

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We’re Not Expecting Some Delicate Flower

Big A left for work at some unearthly hour before 6 this am; Li’l A promptly showed up in my bed for a pre-breakfast snuggle.

So here we are, my nose aligned with his baby-shampooed hairline, his butt backed into my belly. It’s perfect. Until he abruptly (and indignantly) scoots upright.

The baby! She kicked my butt!

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CALLING

Pilot

I ask for directions

Bent over me,

Breath plays

As you explain

Now I’m really

Lost.

Rockstar

I rock on

The heft

Of your hand

It would be shallow

To love you

Just for this.

(But I could.)

General

Mouth pulsing

You start a war

Your words are

Works in progress

And bite like ice

Shock like sheet lightning

Like sunstroke

Like revelation.

You started a war

But your entreaty

Hides here, in touch.

Media Bumps

Friends have been sending me all sorts of pregnancy-related links lately. Here are two that popped yesterday.

First is Christine Coppa’s blog at Glamour magazine. She’s being touted as the original Knocked Up girl (if you haven’t seen Judd Apatow’s side-splitting movie yet, go already!). Like the Knocked Up protagonist, Christine is single, she is pregnant, and she is having the baby.

While all the name dropping (Bugaboo strollers, Seven Prego jeans) makes me wonder if there’s a product placement tie-in, I also have to admire her courage in going for the baby she wants. Although I do wonder why a seemingly smart 26-year-old would have had unprotected sex with a casual sex partner. Whatever—none of my business anyway. And I’ll wish her luck—with all the haters out there and a baby on the way that’s something she’ll need plenty of.

Second is this picture of Natalia Vodianova, the supermodel, with her bump. No—I do NOT look like her now—I was never that fabulous to begin with : ). She's wearing magenta, has really skinny limbs, and looks radiant. A N D the only way you can even tell she has a bump at all is by the uneven hang of the hem.

As for me, I did fit into one of my size 0 pre-preg dresses this morning, but only because it’s cut roomy in a very giving jersey blend. And then Big A sat on the floor to inspect and massage my gams because he’s wary of them sneaky thromboses. Nope, not fabulous at all. But awfully nice nevertheless.

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Salman: The Musical (When Life Goes Bad and Art Grows Worse.)

Yup. I know you don’t want to look (but you will anyway).

Fragments from Ben Greenman’s portrait of Rushdie après Padma Lakshmi breakup here.

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Our House (in the middle of the street)

A long-time Baltimore resident’s verdict on our new ‘hood: “It’s quite safe there; you could get mugged, but you won’t get shot.”

Nice to know :).

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