On not worrying

Dear Frijole,

Your father and I had a conversation today that I want you to know about.  We'll talk about this again many years down the road if you should ever decide to have a child.  Mentioning injury and pain to the penis is the key, I think.

Ivan:  You don't have to worry.  I will be at the hospital with you as long as it takes.  And I'll count for you and help you breathe and everything.

Amie:  I don't know anything about all that.  I'll learn when I take my class.

I:  Class?

A:  Yeah.  A childbirth class.

I:  (scoffs)  You don't need a class.  You have hundreds of generations of women's instincts to rely on.

A:  If you had a person immimently being pushed out of your penis and you wanted to know more about it, you'd get more information. Talk to me then.

I:  Well-played, well-played.

Love,

Mama

"You are my face."

Dear Frijole,

Your daddy and I went to my ultrasound yesterday and were so excited to find out that YOU ARE A GIRL!  I cried happy tears on the table when they told me.  Your daddy is very happy, too, although he is already nervous for you to start dating.

Unfortunately, we weren't able to get good pictures of your face because of your position.  But just like last time, you kept crossing your legs and waving your arms around.  I suggested that maybe one day you'll be a conductor of some sort.  You are an active little thing in there.

We have decided that your name will be Sophia Ruth Pesic.  Ruth was one of my beloved grandmothers.  Juanita was the other, but sadly I feel like using her name and calling you Sophia Juanita makes you sound like a Latina porn star.

I chose the name Sophia for you in 2001.  I was sitting in a cafe in Hollywoood, CA when I declared it out loud and made it official.  When I met your daddy, he had already chosen this name for you, too, even before he met me.  So, even though the name has become very popular in the last couple of years, we felt there was only one thing we could call you.  But you'll always be my little Frijole.

Love,

Mama

Progress

Dear Frijole,

Things are really starting to happen now.

This week, I am 20 weeks pregnant with you--5 months!  My belly is changing all the time as you grow, and apparently you are currently the size of a cantaloupe.  On Monday I felt you move for the first time, and I was so happy.  The feeling was very subtle, like swishy little flutters.  I told your daddy, grandma, and auntie right away because I was so excited to finally, finally feel you in there.

While I feel pretty good overall, two things are a bit inconvenient.  First, my face is breaking out like crazy just in the last few days.  It's like puberty all over again and certainly doesn't do much to make me feel pretty.  There is also the groin pain that makes me feel like I've ridden a horse across a desert.  I'm not sure if he had a name or not.  Everything I read says this is normal as things are "stretching out and loosening up" down there.  Your grandma said it was my pelvis bones spreading apart.

Oh, dear god.

That's the other thing.  I'm having a bit of anxiety about how and where you are going to come out.  Every week I happily read how big you're getting and then I immediately feel trepidation.  There's no turning back, my little cantaloupe!  I got upset with your daddy the other night when I mentioned this to him and he joked, "Yeah, she's going to break you off in a couple of months."  I can't tell you how not funny I found this statement.

Tomorrow I have another ultrasound and--assuming you uncross your legs this time and cooperate--we will find out if you are a Frijolito or a Frijolita.  I've made no secret about the fact that I want you to be a little girl.  I know that I will adore you no matter which one your are (even if it's somewhere in between), but it's just that I've spent an awful lot of time taking care of little boys in my life and would really like the chance to buy you little sundresses.  I am very nervous for tomorrow to come.  The waiting has been killing me. 

Finally, I'm starting to gradually buy things to get ready for you.  I ordered you a bathtub, health and grooming supplies, and baby toiletries.  It feels momentous because these are the first baby things I've bought myself despite the fact that I've gazed longingly at these items since I was about 24 years old.  Your grandma is sending a car seat and stroller for you and I'm excited to get them.  I saw them online and they are lovely.  Plus, your daddy and I picked out the crib we want to buy in a couple of months.

We're getting there, Frijole, and I can't wait to meet you.

Love,

Mama

Know your onion

Dear Frijole,

I haven't written much here.  Actually, I haven't written anywhere at all.  Even though my head is filled with words constantly, I don't seem to have the energy to put them into anything bigger than a text message.  It's not your fault.  It's the rest of the world's fault.  It's my fault.

I am 17 weeks pregnant with you and, honestly, there isn't a moment when I don't think about you.  I never quite know what to say when people ask, "How is the baby?"  You're so quiet in there!  I THINK you're okay.  I'm not having any problems.  Our ultrasound and bloodwork have all come back showing that you are healthy and busy developing.  You SEEM to be okay.  I just wish I could feel you move.  I keep hearing and reading that this should happen any time now, and I keep waiting and waiting.  Sometimes I feel an uneasiness within me.  It's hard to explain--like a restlessness that does not originate with me.  At those times I feel certain you must be moving around in there but I just cannot feel it yet.  I am told it will happen all too soon and that, at times, I will want to go to sleep and wish you would STOP moving.  It's hard for me to imagine what that must be like.

I'm struggling to make the right decisions for us, Frijole.  My psychiatrist and I butt heads over what is right for me, for you.  She is strongly advocating that I undergo electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) to treat my severe and endless depression.  After learning more about it, I don't think that I can take the risk involved.  And so I struggle to find other ways to take care of myself.  Of both of us. 

Most of the time I feel so far away and alone, and the obstacles between here and there seem insurmountable.  It is still true that not very many people know about you, and I feel very strongly that it has to stay that way until you are born.  There's plenty of other people's criticisms of my life and my decisions to go around, and I feel like I will lose my mind if they criticize the existence of you, too. 

You.  My one little light.

In three weeks we will have another ultrasound and I should be able to find out if you are a Frijolita or a Frijolito.  I can't wait to see you again.  In the meantime, I will keep plodding along, doing my very best.

All my love,

Mama

Your first pictures

Dear Frijole,

On Friday, I got to peek at you during an ultrasound.

I was so scared.  The last time I had an ultrasound, it was bad news.  Plus, I get worried sometimes that you aren't even in there--I can't tell!  I was afraid somebody was going to tell me you were gone.

You are the most amazing sight I have ever seen.

You were also very active!  You crossed your tiny little legs at the ankles and waved your hands in the air like you just didn't care.  You rolled over.  When the lady tried to coax you into the position she needed to take your measurements, you wanted no part of it.

You're like your mama already.

I cried happy tears as I watched you moving.  I got to see and hear your heart beating (151 bpm!), to see the umbilical cord that connects us.  I saw your brain and your little bones.  To be honest, Frijole, seeing your skeleton--and your skull in profile below--was a little freaky.

The lady told me you don't have all the fat yet that will make you cute--that doesn't come until the end.  Believe me, Frijole, you can have some of mine.

Even though things at home are not very happy right now, the knowledge that you are healthy and wiggling around in me makes me very, very happy.  And I am doing my best to arrange things so that you come into a happy home.  More on that soon.

Love,

Mama

In which I threaten to embarrass you completely (the first of many)

Dear Frijole,

I am now 10 weeks pregnant with you and apparently you are the size of a prune.   Your body size is supposed to nearly double in the next three weeks!  I read that you are getting hair and fingernails and beginning to swallow and kick.  I hope to feel your first flutters very soon.  I was lucky enough to feel your sister a couple of times, and now when I lie quietly I focus attention on my belly and on searching for your movement.

I am feeling strangely guilty.  To be honest, other than feeling tired it would be easy to forget that I am pregnant.  I've still not felt sick or nauseous a single time, my boobs don't hurt and aren't any bigger, my feet aren't swollen.  I don't feel nearly as weepy as I did last time.  My belly is beginning to firm up a bit which lets me know you are growing, and I feel occasional aches and pains in my belly and groin area which let me know my body is stretching and growing to make room for you.  Otherwise, that's about it.  I feel embarrassed to tell this to friends who are currently pregnant or have recently delivered who experienced much more discomfort.  It's like I haven't begun to pay my pregnancy dues yet. 

I certainly don't mean to complain.  And I hope you aren't planning on pulling any nasty tricks like giving me a really easy pregnancy and then being a screaming, collicky baby.  Mamas have really long memories, and to get my revenge I will take tons of embarrassing naked pictures of you in all sorts of ridiculous situations and show them to all your future dates.

Love,

Mama

Monster socks

Oh, holy mother of God, Frijole.  I want you to own a pair of these monster socks.

(These feets belong to my friend Nick's baby Alice.)

Melon Collie

Dear Frijole,

Most of the time I am trying not to think too far ahead of where you are right now.  I just have to do it that way for my own sanity.  But once in awhile my mind wanders and I wonder what you will be like.  What will your personality be?  Will you be impatient and stubborn and moody and melancholy like me?  I think things will be easier for you if not, but maybe I will understand you better if so.When I let myself imagine far enough into the future to picture you as a full-on kid, I find myself thinking often about one of my earliest memories. 

My mom and I lived in a white trailer with light blue trim on Willis Ave. in Bridgeport, WV.  We were right behind the car wash and T&L Hot Dog.  It wasn't a particularly scenic area, but to my delight we were next to a creek and an apple tree where I often played.  I must have been four going on five years old during the time of this memory, because we didn't live there that long.

One morning, I woke up before my mom and I climbed up onto our couch in the living room to look out the window.  It was grey and raining, and the raindrops pounded and streamed down the window, blurring my view.  I was still in the time period of my life where I adored my mother--she was the most beautiful, wonderful, intelligent woman in the world.  I worshipped her.  She worked midnight shifts at the post office in Clarksburg and slept during the day, so I spent a lot of time with other family members and babysitters.  I craved her attention and soaked up any bit of it I could get--a laugh or a smile or a back rub or a hug nestled into her warm, perfumed chest.  My god, I ate it up.

Because I didn't get to see her very much, I was terrified that she would forget that she had a little girl.  She was only 22 at that time, you see, and still very much wanted to go out with friends and boyfriends when she had free time.  When I was around her, I tried to be the best girl I could be.  I tried not to whine or cry or complain.  I tried to listen and do what I was told.  I tried to be very, very polite.  I constantly drew her pictures so she could see just how much I loved her. 

In my free time, I tried to ease my anxiety about my mom forgetting about me.  At my babysitter Carolyn's and at my papaw and grandmother's houses, I would "bop" on the couch endlessly and chant to myself repetitively:

My mommy loves me
She's coming to get me
My mommy loves me
She won't forget me

It always felt like I was waiting for her to come.

Anyway, on that particular rainy morning in the trailer, I gazed out the window and worried about my mom dying.  My calico cat Cookie had recently gotten hit and killed by a car, and this brush with mortality and new, uncomfortable awareness of death had given me a whole host of new things to agonize over. 

What if my mom died and left me alone?  That possibility was too terrible to fathom, so I assured myself that I would just have to die and be buried with her because I could never, ever be alone.  For a moment I can distinctly remember being comforted by this solution until a new and terrible question dawned on me.  What if my mom and I didn't die at the same time so that we could be buried together?  The choices I felt I was left with seemed awful:  I could either be left alone without her or be buried alive with her.  I pictured the two of us in a hole in the ground, me clinging to my mother, while dirt was thrown on us to cover us up as it had been thrown on my cat when she was buried.  How terrifying!  But the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced this was the only option to keep from being left behind.  I started to cry with resignation and fear.

My mom shuffled sleepily into the living room in her silky, rose-colored bathrobe, took one look at me sobbing on the back of the couch, and said, "Why are you crying?"

I raised my face--by now both my eyes and nose were streaming--and blurted out, "I don't want to be buried alive with you!"

For the life of me I cannot recall her response, and I cannot fathom what my own response would be to such an axious, gloomy child.

I hope that you are carefree, Frijole.  I hope that you are always secure in my love for you, and I hope your mind is never darkened with such melancholy.  For now, I can only drink my milk and take my vitamins and promise myself that you will only know love and safety so that your imagination is free to dance in sunnier ways.

Love,

Mama

I will pay you a million dollars. Right now.

Dear Frijole,

My god, to have some chocolate milk right now would make me the happiest girl alive. Not the powder or syrup that you stir into milk.  I want the kind you buy at the store pre-made.  The kind that is thick and creamy and smooth.

This craving started slow--just as a passing thought of, "Oh, that sounds good."  But it has begun to grow.  When I placed my grocery order to be delivered today, I put some on the list.  The groceries were two hours late this afternoon, and I agonized and waited and watched the clock.  When the guy arrived, I could barely contain myself.  He handed me the receipt and I signed for the delivery and he said very casually, "Oh, we were out of the chocolate milk so that wasn't included."

I wanted to smack him all the way back to his delivery truck.  Didn't he understand!?  I need chocolate milk!  My baby needs chocolate milk!  (Sorry:  sometimes it's convenient to blame things on you.)

I suppose I could have trekked myself to the store after that, but I was exhausted and cranky and my head hurt and I lay down instead. 

And now I am one sorry chica.

Green

Dear Frijole,

I can't be pretend to be a broccoli martyr anymore and I admit it:  I am a picky eater.  To be honest, I mostly blame your grandma.  The woman couldn't cook vegetables to save her soul.  Growing up, I was regularly served pale, mushy, limp vegetables that had been boiled to hell and back.  Who wants to eat that?  Unfortunately, your grandma was also in the school of parents who insisted that one would not leave the table unless one ate everything on the plate.  When you get two stubborn ladies like us together, you get a lot of still-sitting-at-the-dinner-table-at-midnight battles. 

Ingest this cold, sodden cauliflower or sit right here in the kitchen in the dark?  Well, I have all the time in the world, thank you very much.

(Frijole, I solemnly vow never to do this to you.  I will insist that you taste at least one bite of everything, but I refuse to leave you with the deep scars that midnight cauliflower leaves.)

So, in a nutshell, I am having trouble eating the vegetables you need and deserve.  Hell, I need and deserve them.  Thus!  I have purchased a blender that I believe will be a great assistance.  I can make lovely fruit smoothies and sneak some of the scary vegetables in!  People on the internets swear you can get a fair amount of broccoli in there before you can taste it, so it must be true.  Soon I will make the first experimental smoothie and find out.

I also enlisted the help of my friend Nicole--a chef who knows a thing or two about preparing these hideous things.  She gave me two recipes for kale that I can't wait to try.  They're quite simple so I'll put her recipes and instructions here:

*****************

Raw Kale Salad

Peel kale from stems.  Toss with rice wine or red wine vinegar and salt.  Massage with hands.  Leave in fridge for a day so leaves are softened.  When ready to serve, toss in sunflower seeds, crumbled bacon, cut up apple,  a can of cannellini beans, canned tuna, or anything else your heart desires.

*****************

Kale "Chips"

Preheat overn to 400 degrees.  Take kale off stems and rinse leaves.  Put on cookie sheet in single layer, and drizzle with olive oil and garlic salt.  Put in oven for 12-15 minutes.  (Can also do with sesame oil and sesame seeds.)

*****************

While I can't yet personally vouch for them yet, I trust Nicole and feel optimistic that the previously-never-tried-and-always-mysterious-resident-of-the-leafy-green-vegetable-aisle may be a much more regular item on my grocery list.

In other related news, Frijole, your first official prenatal appointment is on Tuesday morning.  While I am incredibly pleased about being able to receive your prenatal care at UCSF, I approach it with trepidation.  I'm scared of getting my hopes up, and scared of being scheduled for an ultrasound because I have never seen a living baby inside of me.  The image of your very still sister on that black and white screen still haunts me, and the hope that it can be different seems more than I can hold at this moment.

I have to say, though, that so far you have been incredibly easy on me.  My feet and ankles are not swollen.  I'm not sick, and I'm not even unusually tired so far.  You love orange juice, and you want to eat breakfast IMMEDIATELY after I wake up, but at this time I can't complain.  Physically I feel good.  I'm sure this will change soon enough, so for now I am relishing it.  If future nausea and fatigue and discomfort mean that I will get to hold and nuzzle you, then I will bear it.

Love,

Mama

You're official.

Dear Frijole,

I have had my first two doctor appointments related to you now.  To begin with, you are official.  I peed in the cup in the doctor's office and everything.  I am estimated to be approximately 5 weeks pregnant with you.  You are just a tiny little thing right now, but these first weeks are the most important.  I am eating tons of fruits and vegetables, taking my vitamins, and drinking lots of water and milk to make sure you are strong and healthy.  But one thing I really need more of is sleep.

Today I met with my psychiatrist about you, and we butted heads a bit about what, if anything, I would take while you are growing in me.  She doesn't want me to take anything.  The last time I was pregnant I was on board with that decision, but not this time.  I feel very, very strongly that in order for you to be healthy, I need psychotropic medication in order to be able to rest and relax.  The second day I knew I was pregnant with you, I had a gut-wrenching panic attack that left me sobbing on the floor of the bathroom--much like the first time I was pregnant.  I felt hysterical and alone and terrified.  I will not go through that again.  And I will not let you go through that.  The doctor and I eventually settled on a prescription we could both agree on and I feel very happy about that.

While I am doing my very best to take good care of you, I am still struggling with the idea of you a bit.  I feel very scared to get attached to you, for example, because I am so very afraid of being left alone and wanting and hollow again.  I feel guilty about this, but I am confident that in time this fear will begin letting up.

I do find myself singing to you when we are alone.  Actually, your daddy and I sing a lot, in general.  That's one of the things I like best about him--well, that and when he busts into one of his little dances in his boxers.  Our voices aren't so great and we botch the words a lot, but by the time you emerge into this world you should have a thorough knowledge of pop music from about 1982-2002.  And, if I have anything to do with it, you'll have a decent knowlege of indie rock as well.  And the Beatles.

Love,

Mama

Well, it figures.

I chose a nickname for you that your father is unable to remember how to pronounce.  I call you "Frijole" (pronounced free-HOLE-ay) because it is Spanish for "bean" and I thought it was sweet.  Now he is constantly asking me, "What is it again?  Felipo?  Fajito?" and I sigh.  If I chose a Slavic word to call you it would be easier for him but then I would be constantly confused--too many damn consonants.

We are off to a fantastic start here!

News of a little bean

Dear Frijole,

Yesterday morning at 6:30am I found out that you are coming.  For a few days I had started to suspect your presence--based largely on my general crabbiness and my absurdly lustful thoughts about orange juice--but it took me some time to work up the courage to actually find out. 

I'm sorry and more than a little embarrassed to tell you that, unlike your sister, you were not planned.  You were a bit of a suprise and I, your mama, am still adjusting to the surprise of you.  Actually, if you knew what a long-shot your conception was I think you'd be rather proud .  Maybe when you're older I will explain--not that you will ever, EVER be interested in hearing about my sex life.  For now, suffice it to say that all your father has to do is walk into the room and angle his pelvis slightly in my direction and I become pregnant.

Your daddy is very happy and excited that you are coming, but I mostly feel terrified at the moment.  You see, if things had worked out differently I would be eight months pregnant with your sister.  I would be huge and uncomfortable and would probably spend an inordinate amount of time packing and re-packing my hospital bag.  Losing your sister broke my heart with a thoroughness that took my breath away; I thought my grief would crush me.  I wanted to try to make YOU at some undetermined point in the future when I felt ready.  And stronger.  Ready or not, it seems that time is now.

I find that I only want to tell a few very special people about you.  I want to protect us as long as possible from the inevitable judging eyes of the world.  I want to keep us in a little cocoon of love and support for as long as it is possible to do so.  For my sake and for yours.  I feel the need to lay low and not draw too much attention to us lest the universe notice and strike out in some way that takes my little Frijole from me.

This afternoon I cried and curled myself around you and asked you to stay put.  Your job is simply to grow and grow.  I promise you that I will do my job to the best of my ability and keep you warm and comfortable and well-nourished during your stay inside me. 

Speaking of nourishment:  I've already purchased broccoli.  I know you don't know me very well yet, but let me tell you now how much I HATE broccoli.  I know it is good for you, though, so I will choke it down.  You should know, however, that I'm adding it to the list of things to remind you of when you are a big kid and are feeling rather ungrateful.  My inevitable maternal instincts will compel me to remind you how I GAVE YOU LIFE and carried you IN MY BODY for NINE MONTHS and I ATE BROCCOLI for you.  I apologize in advance--that's just how it works.  Your grandma did it to me and I survived.

Love,

Mama