Fool Me Once

6-12-09

"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
--Former (Thank f-ing G-d) President George W. Bush

When I think back on my first pregnancy, I tend to shudder at my optimism, my total trust in my body and the universe to do its thing and give me a healthy baby. I was such a fool. I can’t even read the first 70 or so pages of the Peabody Project Chronicles, a.k.a. the happy pre-miscarriage times, lest I start feeling a deep sadness at my blissful ignorance.

“G-d, I was so stupid,” I said at the time.

I felt so duped by my own belief that everything would turn out just fine for us, that my biggest worry was whether Peabody and I would share a birthday and if I would be in any shape to have some delicious cocktails by the time Thanksgiving rolled around. Who exactly was I?

This morning while in savasana I have the slightest inkling that every little thing is going to be alright. I even dare mentally talk to my embryo. “Hey in there. How’s it going? Are you making yourself comfortable?” I feel myself drifting off into doubt? Should I be doing this? Will talking to this embryo--who I’ve taken to calling Purvis for reasons I don’t fully understand—-make losing it all the more painful should such a thing come to pass? I remember an Ana Forrest answer in one of the Yoga Journal newsletters that fill my inbox to a query about teaching pregnant women. She urged teachers to encourage their pregnant students to relax and connect with the life growing inside of them. After MC #1, I thought of her answer and scoffed: What a load of naive bullshit.

Now I question why being cautious, bordering on worst-case scenario is somehow the wiser of the choices. If Purvis does grow into the adorable tow-headed lass or lad that appears in the hopeful visions in my head, I will have wasted so much time worrying about his or her possible demise. Not that I won’t allow myself the space to be afraid, to have those scary thoughts of the ultrasound room of doom because I know full well that denying them will only cause them to redouble their efforts. But can’t I just operate on the statistically supported assumption that all is well down below?

In savasana I take a deep breath and sigh to get out all the accumulated questions. (Yes, know, savasana is not supposed to be a time to work out all of life’s problems, but rather to just lie there and be. Totally working on it.) “Hey there Purvis. It’s me, the mom. Just wanted you to know that we’re pulling for you. Keep dividing those cells right, okay?”

In a way it’s like a parenting lesson that I’ll have to learn again when my theoretical child reaches teenage-hood and rolls eyes at the sight of me. I have no control—aside from not smoking, drinking, or eating delicious sushi—now as I will have very little then. I’m also reminded of something that my brother said after his daughter, Lyla, was born. “Getting them born safely is just the beginning.”

So it is. And so I go. Optimistic and wise, at least for today.

Symptoms: Oh dear lord, my boobs hurt. I must shield them in the shower lest the droplets of water send me into spasms of pain.
Nausea, oh nausea, rock on.
Aversions-r-us. Pizza and strawberries are the only foods that work for me. Not even sushi. Or French fries. Mr. Crud says, “Who are you?”

People told: My sweet pal, Nao.
Old high school acquaintance turning friend whose had her own tangles with child-bearing demons.