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
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
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!
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
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
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