the modernity ward

Shave Me From Myself

My 'hood is filled with cute ladies sporting shorn heads. Yes, there are plenty of adorable pixie cuts and mini-bobs, but mostly I long for the machine-even fuzz of a newly buzzed scalp. That was some fun hair to have, let me tell you. Low-maintenance (unless you factor in having to crouch in the bathtub for husband-inflicted haircuts), sexy (I think!), striking, and above all fun to rub. No greasy bangs oiling up the forehead; no too-short-to-ponytail bits going stringy along the back of the neck. Those were good days. See old, old pictures. Man, I was so very much younger then. Like, seven or eight years.

Anyhoodle, a typically sweltering Philadelphia summer, now globally warmed for her pleasure, brings back fond memories, and a slightly itchy clipper finger, if you know what I mean.

There are several things stopping me. One is the demoralizing experience of having to look like Javier Bardem for the better part of a year when I decide to grow it out again. The second is that I finally have enough hair to clip in some extensions, Jessica Simpson-style, when I want to wear a messy chignon (read: wad of plastic hair). If I don't put it in a bun, the effect is more Confused Hair-Metal Band Guy, with an occipital-length layer over a mullety mid-back fall of chestnut waves.

Other factors in my thus-far successful struggle to keep the clippers in the closet include the fact that I said to myself, I said, Jo, I said, you're gonna grow your hair out now, and you're gonna do it right, with regular visits to a stylist, because you know, it's starting to go gray pretty darn fast, and if you like being a natural Chocolate Copper (the label on my fake hair, which matches my own perfectly), well, you better enjoy that while you can. So there's that.

There's also the possibility of incipient Pregnant Lady Face Puff. It doesn't seem to have set in yet, so maybe it won't (ha! And the baby will slip painlessly from the Tunnel of Love while I stand in line for an almond croissant!), but if it does, I find myself wanting a little frame around my face to offset my broadening, W.C. Fields-ening nose.

Finally there is the myriad of Bad Pregnancy Hair Choice stories I have heard -- many involving actual head-shaving.

Have you -- or has anyone you know -- ever made a Bad Pregnancy Hair Choice? Should I shave my head and just buy a wig for those need-to-look-marginally-sophisticated days? If your face spreads in pregnancy once, will it do so again, or does it vary by pregnancy?

I need some answers.

Weight, Weight...Don't Tell Me

The Fat and I, we have been been tight, at times, over the years -- beginning with the heady early days of Mode Magazine (my God, it was revolutionary! Plus-size fashion! That was both adequately sized and fashionable! And coincided with the onset of my then-mysterious PCOS weight gain), and culminating in my most recent postpartum foray into mail-order-only territory from Old Navy (regarding which, fuck you very much, ON). Astute readers may note that I am listing separate and discrete times, which would lead one to the inescapable conclusion that each time I was fat, I went and lost the weight. On which count, busted.

Sometimes I embraced The Fat, and sometimes I hated it; the latter, mostly, having more to do with insulin-resistance-induced depression. Interestingly, when I cured the depression with the Atkins diet (and you better believe that I credit heavy cream and bacon for my continued mental health, and no, I am not kidding), the weight just sort of...fell away. Of course to the outside world, it looked the other way around: I lost the weight, and got real happy. Nobody was particularly interested in being disabused of that idea, either, no matter what I said.

If you've ever been fat, and then lost weight, you may have gotten to the point where you wished people would just go back to talking behind your back (as it became obvious that they had) instead of constantly complimenting you (each compliment carrying an unspoken "...not like before!") or asking what your secret was. I'm all for educating the public about the benefits of metformin and the prevalence of PCOS, but when slender women begin quizzing you on what they might say to their doctors to get themselves some of what is obviously this miracle drug that you've found, you sort of want to punch them in the mouth. With an eclair.

In my case, no less annoying was the idea that I had lost the weight (each time) through dint of hard work and sacrifice. Because, yes, I sacrificed a lot of simple carbs and sugar, but I got a lot in return. I don't mean smaller pants. I mean nice level blood sugar and cream cheese pie; I mean a taste for dark chocolate and a greater appreciation of the sweetness of a good strawberry than I'd ever dreamed. I hadn't counted calories or deprived myself or kicked my own ass in the gym, the culturally favored activities for weight loss. Besides, that particular compliment carried a nasty set of assumptions and implications about all those other fat people, you know, the bad ones who just aren't trying hard enough. Like you, three months ago.

Okay. Fast forward to present day, when I, at or around my senior year of high school weight, get pregnant. Last time, I carbed my way to a twenty-pound-per-trimester gain. As my dear midwife says, I "gave myself permission" to do so. Which is completely true. This was it! My one chance to be pregnant! And not to have to think about PCOS! Of course I would celebrate with Lucky Charms and Kozy Shack! (And, you know, self-medicate with same for the serotonin.) I put on about sixty pounds that pregnancy, and while some people can do that and it's what their bodies need, it was so not what my sugar fiend body needed.

This time, I actually lost a few pounds during my first trimester. Mild nausea, a heat wave, and the grueling physicality of mothering a two-year-old in a walking neighborhood, I guess. And, although I should probably have comment privileges at Shapely Prose* revoked for saying this, I have to admit I was...a little bit glad.

The pound-a-week goodness of the second trimester has kicked in just fine, though, and I seem to have found the three or four pounds I lost before; my tighter pants (that I was going to alter into maternity pants) don't really make it to the zipping stage. But you know? It's pregnancy. That stuff happens. I'd rather have that little voice inside my head saying, "Eat your protein! Make sure you put enough cheese and oil on that salad! If you eat that donut, you'll be shaky and sick in half an hour!" instead of some ugly thing about the donut making me (gasp!) fat. Or, frankly, even considering the weight aspect of anything I consume or expend. Until that little first-trimester weight dip, I'd lately been practicing the doctrine of health at every size (HAES) -- of listening, very carefully, to what my body needed to eat, or drink, or do, and acting accordingly**. And of exercising for the pleasure of it (in the case of T-Tapp) or the necessity (the preschool dropoff/pickup walk, ten loooong hilly blocks, done four times most days. Oh yeah, and the park, and the zoo, and walking the dog).

And now that the grim specter of weight control has once again left my consciousness, I'm free to do so again. Yay.

*Are you reading Shapely Prose? No? You really oughta. Smart gals.

**If you remember Shangri-La, I actually don't think the two are incompatible (provided you can divest it of the weight loss thinking). On days when I would drink a lot of oil, I would certainly be better able to discern what my body wanted and didn't want, without a lot of random noise involving simple carbohydrate. I think some of us have bodies that can get to a place where we need to hit the reset button, if you will, and olive or grapeseed oil can help do that.

Mysteries of the Universe, in Two Parts

Part the First:

Whilst entertaining friends the other day, I walked past my bedroom and caught a whiff of something downright unholy emanating from...where? I excused myself to hunt around in corners and closets until, under the bed, I found a pile of, um, something. Something bad. It may have been vomit, it may have been poop; it could have come from a cat or a dog. Either way, it had to be dealt with, so I moved the bed and scraped up the nastiness. Up close, I realized it had no odor, possibly because it was at least a week old. The smell was coming from the garbage truck downstairs, and soon wafted in through every window.

So basically there was a pile of cat sick under my bed for a week that I never noticed. And the garbage smells.

Part the Second:

We got our customary free balloon at Trader Joe's today, the red that Sophia had very politely asked for and that we had carefully tied to her wrist. Somehow, getting into the carseat, the thing came off and disappeared off into the blue. She was inconsolable.

Now, usually our policy is "One shopping trip, one balloon, no matter what." Blah blah life lessons and all. But she'd been so sweet about asking for it, and so happy to have it, and so compliant about everything -- and I was pretty sure it was a tying mistake on my part that led to the rogue balloon. I was comforting her in the car, on the verge of going back into the store, when a man appeared with a new balloon for her. He'd seen the moment of loss, and I guess he must have run as fast as he could back into the store to get the balloon. He smiled, offered the balloon, and then he was gone.

If you know me at all, you'll know it's totally out of character for me to say "Bless you!" (to someone who hasn't recently sneezed). But it was the only thing that seemed remotely fitting. I cried half the way home at that small display of human goodness that meant everything to a tiny girl. And her maudlin mama.

If Your Poison Gets You

Then call 1-800-222-1222. Because Poison Control rocks my socks. They didn't ask why I'd left the arnica gel on a six-foot-high shelf right where a child could get it, they didn't ridicule me for choosing an alternative medicine that consists primarily of alcohol and liquid silicone. They never once asked me why I'd been unconscious long enough for a child to pile up a dollhouse, a low shelf, and god knows what else to acquire the delicious alterna-tube of alcoholic goodness, and they certainly didn't pass judgment on me for taking a few groggy minutes to locate the Poison Control number after realizing that my child was delightedly sucking the tasty, tasty gel* from said tube like it was a SqueezePop.

Nope, the nice lady just said, "Shouldn't be a problem! Maybe give her a snack or some milk so she doesn't get any stomach irritation. Okeydoke! Byeeee!"

Poison Control. It's the one thing America does right.

*I figured it wouldn't be a big deal, but I didn't know offhand the safe amount of isopropanol for consumption by two-year-olds.

Just Fix Me a Polycarbonate Bottle Full of Dr. Pepper. And Gin.

Today was one of those days where a crazed two-year-old leapt into the front seat of the car and turned on the hazard lights/tried to undo the parking brake/set the windshield wipers to "frenetic crab-claw spasms" in the two seconds it took me to grab the grocery bag out of the trunk. It was one of those days where a nice childless couple witnessed Angry Pregnant Mommy scolding said two-year-old, then two-year-old dashing away at top speed through a busy parking garage, not responding to APM's commands to "Stop!" and finally being forced to hold hands. Which went very well, let me tell you. As long as you consider "grasping about the upper arm to prevent an escape/total collapse/nursemaid's elbow while child wails and staggers" to be "holding hands."

Having been at this mothering gig for nigh on to three years, it no longer troubles me when these unpleasant scenes go down in public; I'm not smacking my kid, not shaming or calling her names; I'm making the demands I make for the sake of safety. No, it is not okay to screw around in the front seat of the car; no, it is not okay to go racing through a parking garage when at least two cars are backing out. It's also a lesson  worth learning that the important adults in your life will be most displeased when you do the very things you have been instructed not to do. Or vice versa. Flip that. Reverse it. You know what I mean.

So I was unable to put the effort I once would have into interpreting the looks I received from that nice young couple; I didn't parse their "Have a good day!" for hidden judgment. I prefer to think they'd logged a few hours babysitting neighbor kids or tolerating younger siblings, and looked on in resigned understanding. Sometimes kids are like that, they were thinking. You keep up the good work, lady. Hope the kid goes down easy tonight.

And she did.

Nephew-a-go-go! And, Is There Anything Cuter Than a Deeply Conflicted Two-Year-Old?

Check out pictures and highlights at Mamadeus.

* * * * *

Sophia is dealing remarkably well with the prospect of upcoming earthshaking change, which is unsurprising, since she usually handles things like spilled orange juice or untimely delivery of crackers with grace and aplomb.

In other words, she periodically shouts at me that "You CANNOT have a baby! There is NO BABY in there! There is NO BABY comin' out!"

I don't argue, but neither do I concede. A few minutes later she assures me that "If you have a baby, I will find a NEW MAMA."

"A new mama?" I ask. "And you won't live with me?"

"No," she says. "I will go live with a new mama."

"Well," I tell her, "even if there is a new baby, I will still be your mama. I will always be your mama. No matter what. D (who recently had a second baby) is still S's mama, yes?"

She considers this, and allows that she will simply move to a new house, and Dada can come. "May I come?" I ask.

"Okay," she says. "But not a new baby."

* * * * *

When Sean arrives home a few hours later, she is bouncing on the bed, joyfully yelling "Baby! Baby! Baby!" She asks if she can see pictures of babies on the internet. Picking up an old toy, she suggests the baby might enjoy playing with it. "And wearing my baby shirts that are too small for me, because I am a big girl!"

The next day, we're back to NO BABY IS COMING OUT.

* * * * *

Why bother telling a two-year-old so far ahead of time? Chanukah is a million years away; the passage of time is mysterious, and my belly is just a little bit round, obvious to me, maybe, but certainly not to most. Well, for one, Sophia comes with me to midwife appointments -- and she got very interested in that business with the Doppler. "You lied down on the table!" she recounted in awe. "And the midwife put a stick on you! And it made a sound!"

I gave a one-sentence explanation about a tiny little baby growing inside, not to come out until after the last night of Chanukah, and that was that. A week or so afterward I heard her explaining to her friend S, new big sister, that she was having a new baby too, in the wintertime when it's cold, after Chanukah. A lot more makes it in than I expect, with that kid. So I gave up a long time ago on keeping anything hushed, and decided to go with matter-of-fact, age-appropriate explanations.

Which yield, in the longer term, conversations like this:

Sophia: Midwives help babies come out.
Me: Yes, that's what they do.
Sophia: You helped Poo have her baby come out.
Me: That's right, I was there.
Sophia: You are a midwife, mama!

Hee.

If You Like Boston...or Journey...

Then you will be just fine with your car radio, anywhere in America. Don't stop believin'. Or thinkin' about tomorrow. Also, don't cry or raise your eye. It's only teenage wasteland.

Or maybe it was Natick. Anyway.

I just got back from Assachusetts, which is the state in which your face is six inches from your sister's naked heiner because she needs counterpressure NOW NOW NOW and women in labor, they don't like to wear pants so much. I won't tell you any more -- that's her story to tell, including sex and name of the baby, details of the birth, a full description of the pediatrician who apparently spent a night hooking for hoagie money in Manch Vegas and rolled right out of the trunk of her car (where she'd slept) and into work. It is permissible, I learned, to arrive for your job AS A PHYSICIAN wearing a rumpled white coat that hangs down several inches below the hem of your cheap-looking dress, tawdry mules that cause you to clop gingerly like an arthritic horse, and a wig that you snatched from the gutter outside the Off-Brand Barbie Hair Import Warehouse, because you felt so sorry for it, all full of leaves and covered in tire marks.

Also she had electric green colored contacts behind eyeglasses that magnified her eyes. But the wig was truly breathtaking.

So, uh, I'm back. And I remembered how much I love doing labor support. And also that I am pregnant and prone to getting very, very tired, especially after staying up for 24 hours straight.

I Am Just, Like, the Worst Pregnant Lady Ever. Or the Best.

Last time around I was so very careful. I was Model Infertile Pregnant Lady who would clearly Do Anything to protect her Precious Fetus. I went around not drinking coffee and not eating soft cheese and not having lunch meat and taking the expensive prenatals that still allow you to poop when you feel like it might be a good idea; I eschewed nonpasteurized juices and god knows what else, Hair dye. Probably haircuts period. My moisturizer because it had some botanical whoozywhatsis that might possibly be unresearched. Benzoyl peroxide. Of course all the deprivation drove me to self-medicate with Lucky Charms. Serotonin, don't you know.

Nowadays I'm doing everything short of riding helmetless on a Harley: devouring raw eggs with abandon (in the form of batter), mixing and matching vitamin cocktails to approximate a reasonable intake of folic acid, smearing myself with Clearasil and this Burt's Bees serum in turns. Cold lunch meat? Grocery store sushi? I don't fear the listeria. I choke down a half cup of coffee in the morning, not because I like it anymore, but because if I don't I will be collapsed in a migrainish heap by ten a.m. I had to start with iced tea and Coke while the nausea raged, but I'm working my way back to the hard stuff.

And remember that whole Fifth Disease flap a few posts back? You know what I've done about it? Diddly shit, that's what. I don't worry about contracting CMV from preschool either. And I plan to get a blue streak in my hair, once it's a little longer. (Of course the peroxide and dye will not so much as touch my scalp, but still.)

Hindsight being what it is, it is clear to me now that while pregnant and most certainly for at least four months postpartum, I had an undiagnosed (well, technically, unreported) anxiety disorder. And a flare-up of OCD. (I can hear you laughing, Kateri.) It was a lot of fun: paralyzing anxiety over the smallest car trip that often degenerated into my screaming at myself and either slapping or biting myself, intrusive thoughts of many unpleasant flavors, and a whole lot of handwashing.

And remember my plastics freakout? (Which you can find on my old blog, in the left sidebar.) Yeah. That was part of it too. Not that I'm microwaving saran wrap now or anything. But I do own a few "safe" plastic items, and I am actually able to touch them without fear.

Did the craziness of a surprising pregnancy after years of fertility struggles -- coupled with the stress of moving to a new city in my third trimester (to a truly horrible house) -- trigger the attack? Or was it, hormonally speaking, a set-up? I don't know. I thought for a while I was just really high-strung, but this time around I'm not so sure. I can't bring myself to get worked up over much at all, and while that's partially the UNRELENTING FATIGUE, it may also be reflective of generally improved mental health.

I've made arrangements to deal if I have another postpartum meltdown, but the pregnancy itself feels so different. The prospect of actually having a baby in the midst of friends and support network -- why, it's revolutionary! Not moving to a strange city while enormously pregnant? How unusual! Why has no one thought of this before?

I don't know that I can take credit for my relative Zen calm if I'm just too tired/sloppy/busy/lazy to care. But I can certainly enjoy it. With a side of raw fish.

(Hey, there are limits.)

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the anchovies
That were in
the tiny can

And of which
you would probably have liked
to have partaken
.

I regret nothing. I got
sixty percent of my daily allowance of sodium
in one sitting
and it was fucking
awesome.

* * * * *

In other news: boob in good shape, nasaline up and running, rhinocort access from HMO a project for another day. However, the midwife coverage looks like it shan't be a problem, glory hallelujah. Shall we celebrate with a tiny yellow can of fish?

Yes. Yes, I believe we shall.

Grumpy. Sleepy. Dopey. Sneezy. Happy.

But never bashful. Never bashful.

Grumpy because:

1. Have baffling boob issue. It feels for all the world like a blocked duct, but...whathefuhh? Am NOT lactating. Did not think colostrum could do that. Hurts.
2. Useless HMO does not cover mental health providers I would prefer. Probably. Website unclear. Have to call the idiots again.
3. Fifth disease raging through preschool. Not good for pregnant ladies. Don't know if immune.
4. Sophia suffering serious separation anxiety w/r/t preschool. Not fun. Two hours I have to myself to clean house/write posts/walk dog/buy groceries without interference marred by knowledge that somewhere, child is sobbing.
5. Sleepy.
6. Dopey.
7. Sneezy. Stopped taking my Category C Flonase, and am mildly stuffy/runny all the time. Hate sleeping with mouth open, sexy as it may be.

Happy because:

1. Twelve weeks today. Woohoo!
2. Have discovered Facebook, though am being trounced in Scrabulous by friend MORTAL ENEMY Kateri.
3. Oh, I'm sure there's some other reason. I'm just too groggy to think of it.
4. UPDATE! Oh yeah: no more nausea. Or at least a 95% reduction.