makeup artists have to shade my face, even my nose, which is widening. Although the wardrobe lady begs me to get at least two Mystic Tans before the event, I can’t, because they might be toxic, so I show up so pale Nicole Kidman and Amy Adams make Casper jokes to my face (I didn’t actually interview either of them, but you get the idea—I was white). My feet get swollen and blistered on the red carpet, my skin is a mess with no faux tan to cover it, I’m sure everyone has noticed my puffy belly and beefy upper arms, and the mental energy I should be using to plan my “off the cuff” remarks I mostly spend finding ways to get back to the craft services table so I can pick the fried noodles off a giant pan of Chinese chicken salad.
Here’s the thing about pregnancy complaining: I feel terrible about it. It makes me uncomfortable to bitch about such high-quality, first-world problems, especially when conceiving at all is such a blessing.
Later, when I end up talking about the pregnancy publicly, and all the symptoms that go along with it, I get an angry e-mail: “I used to be a fan of yours, but my husband and I can’t conceive and I am sick of hearing you complain about being pregnant.”
She has a point and now my worst fears about how I’m coming across are confirmed. That’s when I ask myself, who can complain? My girlfriend who is desperate to get married and pushing forty-five up a hill would probably be pissed off at this bitch for bemoaning the fact that she can’t conceive when at least she is lucky enough to have found a mate. Someone else would hate the forty-five-year-old for griping because at least she has a job, even if she hasn’t found a man. Take this thesis to its natural end and there is one guy living under a bridge with no arms, no job, no parents and maybe one kidney who has the right to complain. And only that guy. So the argument is spurious and I’ll continue to lament all I goddamn want.
Back to complaining, although I promise to try and keep it in perspective and tritely struggle to find the bright side, because that makes me feel better about complaining the way knocking wood makes me feel better about having hope.
My biggest complaint in these early days, and it’s one that will grow and fester, is anxiety, which is alleviated only by my doctor visits every couple of weeks. My doctor is one of these guys who gives you an ultrasound every time you go to the office, probably because he bought the expensive imaging machine and insurance covers the test so patients don’t sweat it and it doesn’t hurt and everyone loves to see their fetus on-screen and ascribe all kinds of bullshit characteristics to it, so why not blast sound waves at your fetus unnecessarily? Anyway, at my eight-week checkup, I sit on the butcher paper during my exam as he probes me with the transducer, my denim skirt in a pile with my panties in the corner, my husband in the other corner, and there it is: the heartbeat. He turns up the volume and we can hear it, fast and loud, calling us to the other side.
Now I think I can talk about the baby, but I’m not sure.
I take the small black-and-white photo from the ultrasound like I’m going to be all scrapbookish, but it ends up stuffed in my glove compartment.
In a way, this is sad. In another way, it’s reassuring. My therapist was right—maybe I’ll still just be me, but with a kid. I will not suddenly turn into, say, this woman whose pregnancy blog I found online complete with a photo of herself in jeans and an unbuttoned white shirt. In the picture, her husband stands behind her, also in jeans and a white shirt, and both of them make heart shapes with their hands surrounding her belly button. Even if you don’t have morning sickness, this will probably make you throw up in your mouth. At least I know I can find less syrupy ways of disgusting people with my solipsism. Or at least I fundamentally understand that despite the thrill of being “a little
Here’s the thing about pregnancy complaining: I feel terrible about it. It makes me uncomfortable to bitch about such high-quality, first-world problems, especially when conceiving at all is such a blessing.
Later, when I end up talking about the pregnancy publicly, and all the symptoms that go along with it, I get an angry e-mail: “I used to be a fan of yours, but my husband and I can’t conceive and I am sick of hearing you complain about being pregnant.”
She has a point and now my worst fears about how I’m coming across are confirmed. That’s when I ask myself, who can complain? My girlfriend who is desperate to get married and pushing forty-five up a hill would probably be pissed off at this bitch for bemoaning the fact that she can’t conceive when at least she is lucky enough to have found a mate. Someone else would hate the forty-five-year-old for griping because at least she has a job, even if she hasn’t found a man. Take this thesis to its natural end and there is one guy living under a bridge with no arms, no job, no parents and maybe one kidney who has the right to complain. And only that guy. So the argument is spurious and I’ll continue to lament all I goddamn want.
Back to complaining, although I promise to try and keep it in perspective and tritely struggle to find the bright side, because that makes me feel better about complaining the way knocking wood makes me feel better about having hope.
My biggest complaint in these early days, and it’s one that will grow and fester, is anxiety, which is alleviated only by my doctor visits every couple of weeks. My doctor is one of these guys who gives you an ultrasound every time you go to the office, probably because he bought the expensive imaging machine and insurance covers the test so patients don’t sweat it and it doesn’t hurt and everyone loves to see their fetus on-screen and ascribe all kinds of bullshit characteristics to it, so why not blast sound waves at your fetus unnecessarily? Anyway, at my eight-week checkup, I sit on the butcher paper during my exam as he probes me with the transducer, my denim skirt in a pile with my panties in the corner, my husband in the other corner, and there it is: the heartbeat. He turns up the volume and we can hear it, fast and loud, calling us to the other side.
Now I think I can talk about the baby, but I’m not sure.
I take the small black-and-white photo from the ultrasound like I’m going to be all scrapbookish, but it ends up stuffed in my glove compartment.
In a way, this is sad. In another way, it’s reassuring. My therapist was right—maybe I’ll still just be me, but with a kid. I will not suddenly turn into, say, this woman whose pregnancy blog I found online complete with a photo of herself in jeans and an unbuttoned white shirt. In the picture, her husband stands behind her, also in jeans and a white shirt, and both of them make heart shapes with their hands surrounding her belly button. Even if you don’t have morning sickness, this will probably make you throw up in your mouth. At least I know I can find less syrupy ways of disgusting people with my solipsism. Or at least I fundamentally understand that despite the thrill of being “a little
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