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
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
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.)
(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
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
Saturday, September 17, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
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
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
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