Q. How powerful is our Powerful Baby Girl?
A. More powerful than a dose of Tylenol taken on a daily schedule.
I've had hangovers more pleasant. Heck, I've had hangovers on top of hangovers that felt like a tickle fight in comparison.
It took time and an ultrasound image to get me to forget my first brutal bout with The Migraines. Now I try to imagine the pain as power surges from my body to hers. With every thud in my noggin she is turbo charging her little limbs. A reenactment would include science fiction sizzles of neon green.
Still, it hurts and I wish it would all settle down a little so I could live my life instead of experimenting with Ways to Lay So My Head Skull Doesn't Cave In on Itself. I have a lot of stuff I need to be doing right now: 1. Learning how to make Cake Pops; 2. Investigating Bumbo Seats.
All of this Migraine business explains why it is so easy for my own mom to trigger my guilt reflex. Must. Remember.
This week has been exceptionally full of Victorian era weeping. I no longer need a reason to have my face collapse into flood. Good things, bad things. They're all equal when it comes to my snot ducts. I received a phone call with some reassuring news earlier this week and lost my mind shaking and wheezing and drenching everything around me. Still, I assure you, these 15 minute thunder storms feel fantastic.
Chuck is now finally able to feel the Powerful Baby Girl. In fact, she knocked him good this morning. I've now moved on to a phase of intense curiosity about this little person's interests. "What if she wants to play piano?" I asked Chuck. Then today I imagined her running down a soccer field with a thin little braid. I spend a lot of time when I first wake up writing fan fiction about how she will respond to that guy who looks like a statue in Venice Beach.
JCrew: Ohhh. I can totally see her. She's a little brunette who wears Ralph Lauren!
Me: (Wearing an oversized sweatshirt cinched with string beneath my belly, yellow jeggings and ankle boots): Hm. I see her more as a ginger who dresses funny.
JCrew: (Laughs a little too hard)
Last week I experimented with being a Pregnant Woman in Public on a Friday Night. I'm guessing that women all over the world attempt this and succeed, but they've probably never spent any time in my pajama pants and don't know that life can be all about things like striped polar fleece and revisiting "Cheers."
We went to a handful of art openings, which is usually one of my favorite things to do. This month it seemed ... like a lot of standing.
Quick aside: A few months ago I performed a circus-level eye roll about a woman who was five months pregnant and predicting discomfort over the idea of standing for an extended period. I was an asshole that day. I looked at her mini bump and thought "Oh, please. Quit being so dramatic." I assumed she had already bought decals for her car to indicate the presence of a fetus.
Later that standing night, at a rock 'n' roll show, I shifted my weight a lot. Crossed my legs this way, then crossed them the other way. I didn't really understand how to explain my discomfort other than to gasp the word "Gravity."
Finally I called uncle on the night.
I said to Chuck. "My vagina hurts."
He nodded, poked The Great Archivist.
"Let's go," he said. "Her vagina hurts."
Later I would learn from my friend Hinz that I could have more delicately referred to the uncomfortable area as "My Basket." But really: how often do you get to say "My vagina hurts"?
WHILE WATCHING 'BRING IT ON'
Me: What if she wants to be a cheerleader? And what if I'm all 'Ugh, no, you don't want to be a cheerleader.' So she doesn't tell me she's trying out. Then she makes the team, but pretends like she's doing some tutoring after school. One day I walk into the high school gym and she's executing a perfect basket toss and I'm super proud and don't even care that she's a cheerleader anymore?
A few days ago I took an opportunity to look at myself from a unique angle: The behind. I wasn't necessarily surprised by my findings. I'm unable to sit for long periods, which I attribute to the additional mass teetering atop my tail bone.
I've widened considerably and vaguely recognized myself now as a woman who would stand naked in the locker room of the YMCA running a towel like a bowling ball buffer through my various crevices all while carrying on a conversation with you about my thoughts on aspartame in milk.