10-29-09
“Have you got it yet?” my boss asks after she returns from the campus-wide meeting of boredom.
I know exactly what she’s talking about. In fact whenever anyone asks if I’ve gotten it yet, I get it immediately. “The vaccine? No. I’ve been trying,” I say.
“You have to get it! We don’t want you to be out! Or worse!”
Yes, thank you very much. As if I needed to be reminded for the umpteenth time today that I, a pregnant woman, am in the high-risk category for the latest fear craze to sweep the nation: H1N1—or as my student worker calls it—the Piggy Flu.
“You should be able to get it, right? You’re first in line.” Another coworker says later that same day.
I restrain myself from flying out of my seat. “Just because I’m high priority doesn’t mean I can get it. There are a lot of pregnant women and children under 5 in the world.”
Trust me, I’ve tried. I call my doctor’s office almost everyday. I listen to the recorded message so many times that I can let anyone know the status report of the Richmond Clinic’s flu shot situation. (They don’t got any.) I start to wish that the anti-vaccine contingent had been more successful in spooking the general populace about the safety of the vaccine. At least then numero uno could get a dose no problemo.
A few days ago, after listening to the familiar recording tell me there is no vaccine to be had, I zero out to the receptionist to schedule my Glucose Tolerance Test.
“Dare I ask about the H1N1 vaccine?” I ask.
“We can put you on a waiting list.” He says.
Really? REALLY! Because your message could have said something about that. I don’t know what frustrates me more about this vaccine situation: the fact that people who aren’t on the priority list are getting the vaccine (sometimes lying to get the vaccine) or that the government isn’t handling the distribution in a more organized and coherent manner. At a clinic last weekend, one which my doctor had advised me to attend since her office didn’t have any, 1200 people showed up for 500 shots. Nice. No, I didn’t even try to go to that one as I had anticipated it would be the madhouse that it was. You don’t need to be psychic to see that mob coming from a mile away.
In my prenatal Pilates class last weekend, a newcomer starts out the “How’s everybody doing” portion of our class by announcing she had the shot.
“Where?” I and the other pregnant ladies ask in envious unison.
“At a clinic over on Albina. There were 400 shots. I was number 394.”
We look at her longingly. Oh to be so confident and free of H1N1 panic, to be able to not spend half your day washing your hands into cracked, leathery gloves.
“I can’t believe how much I wanted to be her,” I tell Mr. Crud over dinner. “I felt overwhelmed.”
And who wouldn’t with the horror stories of dead mothers and fetuses coming fast and furious? Yesterday a locker room buddy, who didn’t yet know I am pregnant, tells me of a coworker who came down with the flu and who, at 7 months pregnant, might have to have a c-section to save her baby and herself. My alert level rises.
My acupuncturist tells me that she is stimulating my immune system during my last appointment. Thank G-d. I wash my hands. I drink tea more than ever before after reading that the warm water will deactivate the virus and send it to my stomach where stomach acids will kill it dead. At night I irrigate my nose like a good yogi with my neti pot. I wash my hands again. I wonder if I didn’t have H1N1 to stalk me, if it would be something else. Premature labor, birth defects, Purvis not kicking as much as he did yesterday all linger in the background worry pit of my psyche. I’m sure that one of them would have stepped up had I not had the flu to widen my eyes in mortal terror every now and then.
This morning the swine flu report is that more vaccines are on the way. Maybe by the time I have my appointment next week, a shot will await me at the doctor’s office. Alert level: low.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The Pregnant Card
10-29-09
Yoga is sparsely attended. Instead of the usual 10 people in class, there are 5.
“Lots of attention for you guys today. Lucky you,” my teacher jokes.
He trains his eagle eye on me. First it’s the hellish wide-legged squat that he says will help strengthen my lazy, pain averse legs--I call them lazy, not him—and allow me to backbend to my heart’s content without the lower back pains that have plagued me the last few years. I squat. I breathe.
“Lower,” he says. He kneels beside me and holds his hand against my knee. “Press out.”
I lower and press and try to breathe through the howling in my inner thighs. This…is…good…for…me. Even my thoughts are panting. Every time I feel the pain amp up to grimace levels in yoga, I remind myself that an even more painful event is on the horizon, a mere 3 months and some change away. If I can’t stay centered and breathe through some screaming thigh pain, I’m screwed.
After 8 breaths, my hands fall to the floor. I straighten my legs. Sweet relief.
“Maybe try it again with your legs wider,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” I gulp.
He doesn’t smirk and wisecrack about how tomorrow may never come like he does with my yoga buddy, but mercifully lets me go on to the next pose and the next unbothered…until Warrior 1.
“Kt. Deeper,” he says, walking towards my mat.
“What does that mean?” I ask, knowing exactly what he means but not wanting to admit it. Deeper = more ouch.
“Your knee. Bend deeper.” Again he is kneeling beside me pressing my hand on the outside of my knee as he coaxes me lower into the bend. “Still not parallel to the floor,” he says.
I go farther, cursing my long legs that require such deep bending to get anywhere close to parallel, “Still not parallel.”
I lose my balance and fall to my hands.
“Oh your center of gravity is shifting,” he says.
I look up from my fallen warrior. “That and the 20 or so extra pounds I’m carrying,” I say.
“The extra human you’re carrying!” he says, pushing himself up to standing.
Thusly the unspoken has become spoken in yoga class: I have played the pregnant card. My teacher has gone easier on me since I gave him the news a few months ago. I no longer feel a churning gut before approaching a pose he’s been known to “help” me with, and I’ve enjoyed him telling me to take it easy. Not that I have much of a choice in the matter. I feel like I’m carrying around rocks in my pants. Plus Purvis likes kicking around during my yoga practice. I imagine her striking fetal poses along with having a few WTF is going on here moments.
At home I whip out the pregnant card with increasing ease.
“Can you do the dishes?” I ask Mr. Crud during our post-dinner plop on the couch.
“I like how you start rubbing your belly when you ask that.” He says.
I shrug. “A lady’s gotta do what a lady’s gotta do.” I rub some more.
The one area where I’ve yet to play the pregnant card is transportation. I’m still biking into work to the consternation of some of my coworkers.
“You sure you should still be biking?” An elder prof asks.
“Yup, my doctor says as long as it feels okay and it still feels okay.”
“You didn’t bike in today, did you?” My student worker asks on a particularly rainy and breezy morning.
“Aw yeah.”
I try not to get my panties in too much of a bunch over their concern. I know that they only want me and Purvis to be safe. They aren’t trying to tell me that I am careless or don’t know how to handle my own body. (Which is the bratty place my mind goes whenever I am offered “helpful” unsolicited advice about pregnancy.) I smile and nod and say, “I still have a few more weeks in me.”
I’m trying to make it to December although I am perfectly willing to bow out earlier should my body dictate it. I am slow on the bicycle, slower than I ever thought I would be. The Wicked Witch of the East passes me regularly and I don’t care. Whenever I am pedaling fast enough to pass someone I think, “Damn Sam, you just got served by a pregnant lady.”
In some ways I look forward to playing the pregnant card and buying a parking pass. It will be interesting to see how the other three-quarters live. I won’t miss the blowing rain, the soaked boots, and the final slog up the hill to my house in the afternoon. I will miss plenty though, most of all feeling like a tough girl.
“Darn, Kt. You’re burly,” my yoga teacher said on a particularly blustery, drenched morning.
And don’t you forget it. Well, until I’m practicing asana and then you should really go easy on me.
Yoga is sparsely attended. Instead of the usual 10 people in class, there are 5.
“Lots of attention for you guys today. Lucky you,” my teacher jokes.
He trains his eagle eye on me. First it’s the hellish wide-legged squat that he says will help strengthen my lazy, pain averse legs--I call them lazy, not him—and allow me to backbend to my heart’s content without the lower back pains that have plagued me the last few years. I squat. I breathe.
“Lower,” he says. He kneels beside me and holds his hand against my knee. “Press out.”
I lower and press and try to breathe through the howling in my inner thighs. This…is…good…for…me. Even my thoughts are panting. Every time I feel the pain amp up to grimace levels in yoga, I remind myself that an even more painful event is on the horizon, a mere 3 months and some change away. If I can’t stay centered and breathe through some screaming thigh pain, I’m screwed.
After 8 breaths, my hands fall to the floor. I straighten my legs. Sweet relief.
“Maybe try it again with your legs wider,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” I gulp.
He doesn’t smirk and wisecrack about how tomorrow may never come like he does with my yoga buddy, but mercifully lets me go on to the next pose and the next unbothered…until Warrior 1.
“Kt. Deeper,” he says, walking towards my mat.
“What does that mean?” I ask, knowing exactly what he means but not wanting to admit it. Deeper = more ouch.
“Your knee. Bend deeper.” Again he is kneeling beside me pressing my hand on the outside of my knee as he coaxes me lower into the bend. “Still not parallel to the floor,” he says.
I go farther, cursing my long legs that require such deep bending to get anywhere close to parallel, “Still not parallel.”
I lose my balance and fall to my hands.
“Oh your center of gravity is shifting,” he says.
I look up from my fallen warrior. “That and the 20 or so extra pounds I’m carrying,” I say.
“The extra human you’re carrying!” he says, pushing himself up to standing.
Thusly the unspoken has become spoken in yoga class: I have played the pregnant card. My teacher has gone easier on me since I gave him the news a few months ago. I no longer feel a churning gut before approaching a pose he’s been known to “help” me with, and I’ve enjoyed him telling me to take it easy. Not that I have much of a choice in the matter. I feel like I’m carrying around rocks in my pants. Plus Purvis likes kicking around during my yoga practice. I imagine her striking fetal poses along with having a few WTF is going on here moments.
At home I whip out the pregnant card with increasing ease.
“Can you do the dishes?” I ask Mr. Crud during our post-dinner plop on the couch.
“I like how you start rubbing your belly when you ask that.” He says.
I shrug. “A lady’s gotta do what a lady’s gotta do.” I rub some more.
The one area where I’ve yet to play the pregnant card is transportation. I’m still biking into work to the consternation of some of my coworkers.
“You sure you should still be biking?” An elder prof asks.
“Yup, my doctor says as long as it feels okay and it still feels okay.”
“You didn’t bike in today, did you?” My student worker asks on a particularly rainy and breezy morning.
“Aw yeah.”
I try not to get my panties in too much of a bunch over their concern. I know that they only want me and Purvis to be safe. They aren’t trying to tell me that I am careless or don’t know how to handle my own body. (Which is the bratty place my mind goes whenever I am offered “helpful” unsolicited advice about pregnancy.) I smile and nod and say, “I still have a few more weeks in me.”
I’m trying to make it to December although I am perfectly willing to bow out earlier should my body dictate it. I am slow on the bicycle, slower than I ever thought I would be. The Wicked Witch of the East passes me regularly and I don’t care. Whenever I am pedaling fast enough to pass someone I think, “Damn Sam, you just got served by a pregnant lady.”
In some ways I look forward to playing the pregnant card and buying a parking pass. It will be interesting to see how the other three-quarters live. I won’t miss the blowing rain, the soaked boots, and the final slog up the hill to my house in the afternoon. I will miss plenty though, most of all feeling like a tough girl.
“Darn, Kt. You’re burly,” my yoga teacher said on a particularly blustery, drenched morning.
And don’t you forget it. Well, until I’m practicing asana and then you should really go easy on me.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Out and Proud
10-22-09
My heartbeat quickens as I type it. Finally, after all the hedging, the going back and forth--yes, today’s the day then no, I can’t, not yet--I type the Facebook status update that’s been rattling around in my brain: Kt Crud has one in the oven. There, I said it. Tis liberating in a strange way. Ever since ultrasound number 2 when had planned to start spreading the good word, I come up with reasons to not share the news with the social network-iverse. Oh, Purvis isn’t kicking much today. What if something is wrong? I don’t want to make all the ladies who’ve had miscarriages or struggle with fertility experience a bump of weirdness in their day.
Weekly Mr. Crud asks “So when are you going to tell Facebook?”
I shrug. “Tomorrow?”
I get a nudge in the sharing direction yesterday when several commenters to a seemingly non-preg-related post talk about my pregnancy. Aw hell, I think, but I’m not mad.
Last night at dinner Mr. Crud warns. “You’re being outed on Facebook.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “Looks like my time is up.”
I think of Ruby who outed herself long ago. If she can do it so can I. Deep breath. I take the leap. People respond with humor, kindness, and oodles of congrats. Mr. Crud is happy. I am happy. Purvis is having a particularly kicky day. I hope I don’t disappoint everyone.
The outings are coming fast and furious as my belly grows. I am still more of a Bactrian than a Dromedary (those not fluent in camel can google it) to my great dismay, but the humps are unmistakably pregnant rather than chub.
Yesterday it was a student.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Yep,” I say.
“Congratulations!”
“Wouldn’t it have been awkward if I had said no?” I say.
She nods vigorously.
I have to mess with at least one person: “No, I’m not pregnant. Why do you ask?”
My belly also attracts random eyes on the street. I wonder if some of the women are like me 6 months ago, scanning for all signs of pregnant life among the masses. The bump also attracted it’s first attempted belly-pat courtesy of my father-in-law during a visit last weekend.
He and I hug goodnight. His hand hovers around my belly and makes a patting sign. I pull back, mumbling “No touching.”
Not my most finessed response, but the first thing that comes to mind.
I am taking a hard-line stance with belly (and later) baby touching. I can’t go for that. No. No can do. It’s invasive and kind of creepy. I am not Buddha and my belly is my body, my choice. Two people have permission to rub—Mr. Crud and me. So far this hasn’t been a problem, but I hear from other pregnant ladies that the hands start to fly later in pregnancy. Perhaps a form of prenatal karate should be taught in all the childbirth classes, a section on belly self-defense included in What to Expect.
During their visit my mother-in-law announces. “I love shopping for baby clothes.”
Even though I know what is coming next, I’m still not prepared. The room tilts and tears spring to my eyes.
“Is it okay if I give you these now?” she asks, gathering two stuffed bags in her arms. She lives a plane ride away so this could be her only chance to shower us with baby gifts before the big day.
I nod. “Sure.” I swallow hard.
Mr. Crud squeezes my arm. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—“ he whispers.
“It’s okay,” I say.
If we talk about it anymore I will break down in sobs. I can get through this. I pep talk myself, remind myself of all the unpacked baby clothes in our basement. These are no different, right? My mother-in-law is so kind to us, her excitement at her coming grandchild barely contained. I can do this for her.
I pull what feels like 20 baby outfits from the bags. “How cute. Thank you so much,” I say after giving each a cursory examination. I hand them to Mr. Crud one by one for his chance to ooh and ah. I plunge my hand back in the bag. Plunge, smile, and hand off. Repeat.
Is this jinxing things? I keep thinking. What if we never get to see these clothes on anything but a hanger. What if something is wrong at this very minute? I try to breathe. I am pretty impressed that I am able to keep the tears from coming. I am on autopilot now, just waiting until the clothes end, the in-laws leave for the night, and I can collapse and cry in Mr. Crud’s arms.
The end finally comes.
“And that’s all that I could find in gender neutral colors,” my mother-in-law says. The unspoken being: why not just open the envelope already and find out girl or boy?
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” we say.
After the in-laws head out for the incredibly convenient guest house a few blocks from our house (Thank you, Bluebird!), I bury my head in Mr. Crud’s shoulder. “I didn’t know that would be so hard. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
He holds me tight and reminds me that as pregnant lady I have the right to get emotional over whatever I want. “You didn’t have to open them.”
“I know, but your mom was so excited. I didn’t want to spoil it for her.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Put them away, okay?” I say.
He grabs the bags and puts them in his office closet. “I’m not ready for this,” I say.
“Is it the fear of losing Purvis or the reality that Purvis is coming that’s upsetting you?” He asks.
“Both.”
But mostly it’s the fear.
I tell my bro and sis-in-law of the baby clothes weirdness.
“Oo, it’s too early for that,” my sister-in-law says. “The Cruds fear a jinx.”
“Unfortunately we do.”
I have a feeling that Purvis’ nursery might be a last minute affair. That’s okay. I’m sure we’re not alone. Dr. Adorable suggested that we start looking for a car seat so that I can learn to install it before I’m too large and awkward. Because it is a prescription of sorts, I think I can handle the hunt for a car seat. But Purvis may have to sleep on the couch for a few weeks. And wear paper bags.
My heartbeat quickens as I type it. Finally, after all the hedging, the going back and forth--yes, today’s the day then no, I can’t, not yet--I type the Facebook status update that’s been rattling around in my brain: Kt Crud has one in the oven. There, I said it. Tis liberating in a strange way. Ever since ultrasound number 2 when had planned to start spreading the good word, I come up with reasons to not share the news with the social network-iverse. Oh, Purvis isn’t kicking much today. What if something is wrong? I don’t want to make all the ladies who’ve had miscarriages or struggle with fertility experience a bump of weirdness in their day.
Weekly Mr. Crud asks “So when are you going to tell Facebook?”
I shrug. “Tomorrow?”
I get a nudge in the sharing direction yesterday when several commenters to a seemingly non-preg-related post talk about my pregnancy. Aw hell, I think, but I’m not mad.
Last night at dinner Mr. Crud warns. “You’re being outed on Facebook.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “Looks like my time is up.”
I think of Ruby who outed herself long ago. If she can do it so can I. Deep breath. I take the leap. People respond with humor, kindness, and oodles of congrats. Mr. Crud is happy. I am happy. Purvis is having a particularly kicky day. I hope I don’t disappoint everyone.
The outings are coming fast and furious as my belly grows. I am still more of a Bactrian than a Dromedary (those not fluent in camel can google it) to my great dismay, but the humps are unmistakably pregnant rather than chub.
Yesterday it was a student.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Yep,” I say.
“Congratulations!”
“Wouldn’t it have been awkward if I had said no?” I say.
She nods vigorously.
I have to mess with at least one person: “No, I’m not pregnant. Why do you ask?”
My belly also attracts random eyes on the street. I wonder if some of the women are like me 6 months ago, scanning for all signs of pregnant life among the masses. The bump also attracted it’s first attempted belly-pat courtesy of my father-in-law during a visit last weekend.
He and I hug goodnight. His hand hovers around my belly and makes a patting sign. I pull back, mumbling “No touching.”
Not my most finessed response, but the first thing that comes to mind.
I am taking a hard-line stance with belly (and later) baby touching. I can’t go for that. No. No can do. It’s invasive and kind of creepy. I am not Buddha and my belly is my body, my choice. Two people have permission to rub—Mr. Crud and me. So far this hasn’t been a problem, but I hear from other pregnant ladies that the hands start to fly later in pregnancy. Perhaps a form of prenatal karate should be taught in all the childbirth classes, a section on belly self-defense included in What to Expect.
During their visit my mother-in-law announces. “I love shopping for baby clothes.”
Even though I know what is coming next, I’m still not prepared. The room tilts and tears spring to my eyes.
“Is it okay if I give you these now?” she asks, gathering two stuffed bags in her arms. She lives a plane ride away so this could be her only chance to shower us with baby gifts before the big day.
I nod. “Sure.” I swallow hard.
Mr. Crud squeezes my arm. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—“ he whispers.
“It’s okay,” I say.
If we talk about it anymore I will break down in sobs. I can get through this. I pep talk myself, remind myself of all the unpacked baby clothes in our basement. These are no different, right? My mother-in-law is so kind to us, her excitement at her coming grandchild barely contained. I can do this for her.
I pull what feels like 20 baby outfits from the bags. “How cute. Thank you so much,” I say after giving each a cursory examination. I hand them to Mr. Crud one by one for his chance to ooh and ah. I plunge my hand back in the bag. Plunge, smile, and hand off. Repeat.
Is this jinxing things? I keep thinking. What if we never get to see these clothes on anything but a hanger. What if something is wrong at this very minute? I try to breathe. I am pretty impressed that I am able to keep the tears from coming. I am on autopilot now, just waiting until the clothes end, the in-laws leave for the night, and I can collapse and cry in Mr. Crud’s arms.
The end finally comes.
“And that’s all that I could find in gender neutral colors,” my mother-in-law says. The unspoken being: why not just open the envelope already and find out girl or boy?
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” we say.
After the in-laws head out for the incredibly convenient guest house a few blocks from our house (Thank you, Bluebird!), I bury my head in Mr. Crud’s shoulder. “I didn’t know that would be so hard. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
He holds me tight and reminds me that as pregnant lady I have the right to get emotional over whatever I want. “You didn’t have to open them.”
“I know, but your mom was so excited. I didn’t want to spoil it for her.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Put them away, okay?” I say.
He grabs the bags and puts them in his office closet. “I’m not ready for this,” I say.
“Is it the fear of losing Purvis or the reality that Purvis is coming that’s upsetting you?” He asks.
“Both.”
But mostly it’s the fear.
I tell my bro and sis-in-law of the baby clothes weirdness.
“Oo, it’s too early for that,” my sister-in-law says. “The Cruds fear a jinx.”
“Unfortunately we do.”
I have a feeling that Purvis’ nursery might be a last minute affair. That’s okay. I’m sure we’re not alone. Dr. Adorable suggested that we start looking for a car seat so that I can learn to install it before I’m too large and awkward. Because it is a prescription of sorts, I think I can handle the hunt for a car seat. But Purvis may have to sleep on the couch for a few weeks. And wear paper bags.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
I'm Coming Out
10-8-09
She extends her manicured hand, “Hi, I’m Lisa. Due February 20th. Girl.”
I shake. “Hi. Kt. Due February 1st. Don’t know.” I stumble over my tale of the magic envelope which still remains on my desk, which could at any moment, at the slightest tear, unlock Purvis’ gender mystery.
We go around the circle of 4, giving our preg-stats before our pre-natal Pilates teacher arrives.
I am the most pregnant here date-wise, but Lisa looks months more pregnant than me. She has the smooth round bump that I covet and the accompanying sway-back that I don’t. Lisa is the most Sex and the City of the women in class, this my first formal entrance into the pregnancy industrial complex. The other 2 women are low-key semi-hippie Southeast ladies who—gasp—look my age or—gasp—a year or 2 my senior. Before attending this class, I hadn’t considered that I might be the elder of the group, but now that I am here, I feel a slight relief that I am not doing kegels among the young and bouncy. Mr. Crud points out that the spa where I’m taking the class isn’t exactly targeted at the young and bouncy.
I start to contemplate further adventures in preg-land. All my books tell me that each new pregnancy class, be it yoga or childbirth preparation brings opportunities for new friendships. As we leg lift our saddlebags away in Pilates, I wonder if any of these women will become partners-in-pregnancy and newborn commiseration. Lisa is not likely. She reminds me too much of the popular girls from middle school. Nice to your face, but behind closed doors let the cutting begin. Women like Lisa simultaneously scare me and make me want to please them just so that I will be the one to bask in the glory of their snarky light. The hippie-ish women don’t seem quite my speed either though maybe they are just shy. Where are my aging rockers? My ladies of the wine glass? A lot of pressure for a mere pre-natal Pilates class, I know.
In a way I look forward to being with other pregnant ladies, to sharing rolled eyes at the constant fucking heartburn and midnight trips to the bathroom. (My trip is currently a long haul to the basement while our bathroom is being remodeled. What I do so that Purvis will never know the horror of the previous owner’s penchant for peeling linoleum and inability to do any home improvement project that exceeds the half-assed benchmark.) But I’m a terrible joiner. Even when it’s an activity like writing or yoga or feminism that I love and truly believe in. Witness Wordstock, a local literary extravaganza held a few minutes from my humble abode. Writers and enthusiastic readers converge on the Portland Convention Center for 2 days of readings, workshops, and an endless line of literature-related booths. And will I attend this event so custom-made for a writer like me? No way. Why? I have a hard time explaining. On one hand I get depressed being around so many aspiring writers. There are millions of us. I am deluding myself if I ever think that I’ll get published and make any sort of living out of this writing game. On the other hand, I am snobby: so pathetic are all the yearning smiles, all the small talk and name dropping of publications. (Perhaps if I had my own record of publication to name drop, I’d be a bit more amenable.) I don’t like to stick out, but I do like to feel unique and joining these groups based on writing or pregnancy make me feel alienated if I don’t immediately feel a sense of kinship and belonging, a feeling which usually only comes quickly after a martini or two. (Oh martinis, how I miss thee.)
So, per usual, I will bring more drama to my Pilates class than the average bear.
Yesterday in the locker room one of my buddies turns to me. “You’re looking more round than the last time I saw you,” says BJ, the 70-something swimmer who gives me hope for an active old lady-hood.
“That’s because I’m pregnant,” I say.
The other buddies offer their congrats and pepper me with questions about whether I am feeling sick (“Nope, I’m past that stage now.”) and craving pickles and ice cream (“Nope, just normal food and a lot of it.”).
I tell Mr. Crud. “I was outed.”
“Me too. In the main office. My boss said something.”
“Everyone was cool, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, everyone was really nice. I don’t know why I still feel weird about it.”
“I do too.”
I am getting more comfortable with being pregnant and coming to terms with the fact that I am starting to look pregnant, but still there’s the nagging fear that spreading the news will jinx us. Sometimes I tell somebody of my pregnancy and immediately imagine telling them that we’ve had a miscarriage—technically a stillbirth at this stage in the game. The thought doesn’t instantly send me into a terror spiral. It’s more like a snag in a sweater. Plus there’s the added dimension of having to talk about it with people I don’t know that well. Since I announced my pregnancy at work, various coworkers have come to my window. “How are you doing?”
“Well, thanks. And you?”
“I mean with your—“ they point to my belly or create a phantom belly by rounding their hand over their midsections.
“Oh good thanks. So far so good.”
“You feeling sick?”
“Nope, I’m past that already.”
Something in my brisk tone tells them to drop it and most do. I change the subject with work-related inquiries. How are classes going? Good students this term? Maybe I’m just afraid that I will quickly detour into the well-traveled land of TMI. (“Well, I’m doing pretty well today. I could actually take a shit that didn’t leave me howling in pain. A pleasant change.”)
There’s always the shared terror of the Swine Flu to provide conversational fodder. Yes, I’ve read the pros and cons and I’m going for the vaccine, anti-vaccine conspiracy theories be damned.
And Purvis? She’s still kicking away. No pattern yet so he keeps me on my toes and gives me the occasional fright when a few hours have passed without a jab in the gut. Tomorrow we see Dr. Adorable for a (hopeful) dose of well-being. I look forward to the relieved exhale and weeklong sense of confident well-being when we hear the heartbeat.
RANDOM: A middle finger to Nicole Richie and her fashion line for the pregnant ladies whose upper size limit is 12. Really didn't need to be made to feel like an outcast while in preg-land. May your lack of consideration for the regular-sized women of the world doom your flowy dresses to failure.
She extends her manicured hand, “Hi, I’m Lisa. Due February 20th. Girl.”
I shake. “Hi. Kt. Due February 1st. Don’t know.” I stumble over my tale of the magic envelope which still remains on my desk, which could at any moment, at the slightest tear, unlock Purvis’ gender mystery.
We go around the circle of 4, giving our preg-stats before our pre-natal Pilates teacher arrives.
I am the most pregnant here date-wise, but Lisa looks months more pregnant than me. She has the smooth round bump that I covet and the accompanying sway-back that I don’t. Lisa is the most Sex and the City of the women in class, this my first formal entrance into the pregnancy industrial complex. The other 2 women are low-key semi-hippie Southeast ladies who—gasp—look my age or—gasp—a year or 2 my senior. Before attending this class, I hadn’t considered that I might be the elder of the group, but now that I am here, I feel a slight relief that I am not doing kegels among the young and bouncy. Mr. Crud points out that the spa where I’m taking the class isn’t exactly targeted at the young and bouncy.
I start to contemplate further adventures in preg-land. All my books tell me that each new pregnancy class, be it yoga or childbirth preparation brings opportunities for new friendships. As we leg lift our saddlebags away in Pilates, I wonder if any of these women will become partners-in-pregnancy and newborn commiseration. Lisa is not likely. She reminds me too much of the popular girls from middle school. Nice to your face, but behind closed doors let the cutting begin. Women like Lisa simultaneously scare me and make me want to please them just so that I will be the one to bask in the glory of their snarky light. The hippie-ish women don’t seem quite my speed either though maybe they are just shy. Where are my aging rockers? My ladies of the wine glass? A lot of pressure for a mere pre-natal Pilates class, I know.
In a way I look forward to being with other pregnant ladies, to sharing rolled eyes at the constant fucking heartburn and midnight trips to the bathroom. (My trip is currently a long haul to the basement while our bathroom is being remodeled. What I do so that Purvis will never know the horror of the previous owner’s penchant for peeling linoleum and inability to do any home improvement project that exceeds the half-assed benchmark.) But I’m a terrible joiner. Even when it’s an activity like writing or yoga or feminism that I love and truly believe in. Witness Wordstock, a local literary extravaganza held a few minutes from my humble abode. Writers and enthusiastic readers converge on the Portland Convention Center for 2 days of readings, workshops, and an endless line of literature-related booths. And will I attend this event so custom-made for a writer like me? No way. Why? I have a hard time explaining. On one hand I get depressed being around so many aspiring writers. There are millions of us. I am deluding myself if I ever think that I’ll get published and make any sort of living out of this writing game. On the other hand, I am snobby: so pathetic are all the yearning smiles, all the small talk and name dropping of publications. (Perhaps if I had my own record of publication to name drop, I’d be a bit more amenable.) I don’t like to stick out, but I do like to feel unique and joining these groups based on writing or pregnancy make me feel alienated if I don’t immediately feel a sense of kinship and belonging, a feeling which usually only comes quickly after a martini or two. (Oh martinis, how I miss thee.)
So, per usual, I will bring more drama to my Pilates class than the average bear.
Yesterday in the locker room one of my buddies turns to me. “You’re looking more round than the last time I saw you,” says BJ, the 70-something swimmer who gives me hope for an active old lady-hood.
“That’s because I’m pregnant,” I say.
The other buddies offer their congrats and pepper me with questions about whether I am feeling sick (“Nope, I’m past that stage now.”) and craving pickles and ice cream (“Nope, just normal food and a lot of it.”).
I tell Mr. Crud. “I was outed.”
“Me too. In the main office. My boss said something.”
“Everyone was cool, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, everyone was really nice. I don’t know why I still feel weird about it.”
“I do too.”
I am getting more comfortable with being pregnant and coming to terms with the fact that I am starting to look pregnant, but still there’s the nagging fear that spreading the news will jinx us. Sometimes I tell somebody of my pregnancy and immediately imagine telling them that we’ve had a miscarriage—technically a stillbirth at this stage in the game. The thought doesn’t instantly send me into a terror spiral. It’s more like a snag in a sweater. Plus there’s the added dimension of having to talk about it with people I don’t know that well. Since I announced my pregnancy at work, various coworkers have come to my window. “How are you doing?”
“Well, thanks. And you?”
“I mean with your—“ they point to my belly or create a phantom belly by rounding their hand over their midsections.
“Oh good thanks. So far so good.”
“You feeling sick?”
“Nope, I’m past that already.”
Something in my brisk tone tells them to drop it and most do. I change the subject with work-related inquiries. How are classes going? Good students this term? Maybe I’m just afraid that I will quickly detour into the well-traveled land of TMI. (“Well, I’m doing pretty well today. I could actually take a shit that didn’t leave me howling in pain. A pleasant change.”)
There’s always the shared terror of the Swine Flu to provide conversational fodder. Yes, I’ve read the pros and cons and I’m going for the vaccine, anti-vaccine conspiracy theories be damned.
And Purvis? She’s still kicking away. No pattern yet so he keeps me on my toes and gives me the occasional fright when a few hours have passed without a jab in the gut. Tomorrow we see Dr. Adorable for a (hopeful) dose of well-being. I look forward to the relieved exhale and weeklong sense of confident well-being when we hear the heartbeat.
RANDOM: A middle finger to Nicole Richie and her fashion line for the pregnant ladies whose upper size limit is 12. Really didn't need to be made to feel like an outcast while in preg-land. May your lack of consideration for the regular-sized women of the world doom your flowy dresses to failure.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Knowing Me is Knowing You*
10-1-09
Whenever I start to sense a pattern in Purvis’ movement schedule, she switches up on me again. Just keeping me on my toes. How I adore those little jabs and pokes in the gut region like my sweet fetus is saying, “Hey lady, it’s okay. I’m just kicking around in here.”
Yes, lady. Not Mom.
The word Mom is freaking me out right now. Last week Mr. Crud and I meet with our friendly Human Resources rep to help us navigate the wilds of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) and the Oregon Medical Leave Act (OFLA). The Crud dream is that I will take leave starting with my due date, February 1, until the end of spring term so that we don’t have to contend with finding child-care for a 3-month-old. Mr. Crud’s department chair suggested he take the winter quarter off from his teaching job since our due date falls right in the middle. He’s not much use to his department or students if he’s MIA for half the quarter.
As Friendly HR Rep walks us through the maze of leave choices, she referred to us as Mom and Dad.
“Mom will take OFLA for the first 6 weeks then switch to FMLA for the next 12 while Dad is taking his OFLA.”
Every time she said Mom I pictured my own Mom. She is The Mom.
After our head-spinning meeting, where we did figure out a way to theoretically live the dream if our savings account can hold out for a few months sans paycheck, Mr. Crud squeezes my hand.
“Did it weird you out when she called you ‘Mom?’”
“Totally. I don’t see myself as a mom. I can do Dad, I think. I’ve already got that Superdad t-shirt.” One of my favorite t-shirts of all time in fact. Superdad is emblazoned across the chest in sparlkly rainbow puffy letters.
“It is Portland. Purvis can have 2 dads.” Mr. Crud says.
“That won’t be at all confusing for him.”
I have a few months yet to get comfortable with Mom. Maybe it’s my internalized sexism that sends me into an ick spiral when I hear the word. There are so many examples of awesome coolio mothers in the world. Now I can join their ranks, right? Other mothers have told me there is nothing as sweet as hearing your little one call say “Mom.” I’m sure I’ll get accustomed to the idea. But part of me is bothered that I am so bothered by it. Like what kind of feminist am I to have such a visceral reaction to the word Mom?
And now a moment to digress. I wish that I lived in France where maternity leave is salaried, where nurses come to check up on you after you give birth paid in full by the government. Or Sweden. A full year of paid maternity leave. Civilized, isn’t it?
And now a second moment to digress. I am now questioning our decision that Mr. Crud and I both stay home with Purvis during the first few months. Mr. Crud’s parents and my mom voiced concern when we told them of our dream scheme to spend some QT as a new family during Purvis’ first few months of being a Crud.
“What if you get appendicitis and don’t have any sick leave left?” Mr. Crud’s mother asked after he explained that he’d be forced to take all of his sick leave.
“Then I’ll take time off and get better,” he said.
“Will Mr. Crud still have a job to come back to?” My mom asked.
Sarcastic teenager in me longed to spit back, “No, we were planning on moving in with you,” but I remained mature. “That’s what family leave means. Both of our jobs are secure.”
The apparent parental worry over our plans sent us both into a furrowed brow tizzy. “I really didn’t need that,” Mr. Crud said. “I needed some support here.”
“Yeah, I know. I thought they’d be happy for us. Is our plan really so bad?”
We are both first children, first children who battled hard for our independence from our parents but who both hunger for their approval to a degree that pisses us off.
“They didn’t have maternity leave for men when they had us. We should keep that in mind.” Mr. Crud says.
I agree. But every once in a while my hackles raise. Who the hell are they to question our decision? Then I get a little conspiracy on the whole thing: Oh maybe they don’t want Mr. Crud to stay at home so I’ll need to ask the grandmas to come and help out. Hmmm…could be. I am still waiting to consult with my peers on this question. Speak up peer parents if you have some wisdom of wisdom to share on the question of who stays home during the first few months of baby-raising. Tag-teaming sounds like the way to go.
The same day that we meet with Friendly HR Rep, I turn in our application for daycare. Eeeee!!!! I put off turning it in as I was dogged by lingering fears that by turning in an application to daycare that I was jinxing my pregnancy. My jinx fears have also kept me from posting a pregnancy declaration on my Facebook page. It’s a hard line to walk between the fear of the jinx and being responsible. I negotiate it everyday. Responsibility seems to be in the lead. We are signed up for childbirth prep classes and Mr. Crud has started to read The Expectant Father, a longtime member of the pregnancy section of our bookshelf neglected out of fear of the pregnancy jinx. (My favorite Expectant Father tip to support the preg ladies: “Offer back and foot rubs.” Yes, offer, but do not give. Nicely done, expectant father.)
Milestones:
• I had my first dream of giving birth. In it, I was carrying Purvis in a kangaroo type pocket and she—in the dream she was a baby girl—just slipped out when I was bending over to pick something up. No blood or gore, just a dangling umbilical cord. Wow, that wasn’t too bad, I thought. “Maybe it’ll be like that in real life,” Mr. Crud says. I’ve started to read up on birth and I’m thinking the answer to that hopeful maybe is not bloody likely.
• The word is getting out. I got my first word of congrats from a yoga buddy this morning. Not easy to hide the bump (another word that gets on my nerves for some reason) with skintight yoga pants. I have more of a blob than a bump thought. During a fire drill a coworker let it slip that I was pregnant—yeah, I’m still not quite sure how to slip it into conversation with acquaintances—in front of a woman I’ve known for years who also works at the university. “I was wondering about that!” she said. Apparently my loose-fitting shirts are not as camouflaging as I thought. I’m not quite as clever at concealing my growing girth although most pregnant ladies agree that I’m not showing much for my 22 weeks. Such is the blessing of being a 6-foot tall, wide-hipped woman.
* Ever since Fernando was put under name consideration, my head has been on an ABBA loop. I’m wondering if the ABBA that I play as I do dishes and cook up Crispix mix will be the music that soothes a fussy Purvis. ABBA or Terry Gross’ dulcet tones.
Whenever I start to sense a pattern in Purvis’ movement schedule, she switches up on me again. Just keeping me on my toes. How I adore those little jabs and pokes in the gut region like my sweet fetus is saying, “Hey lady, it’s okay. I’m just kicking around in here.”
Yes, lady. Not Mom.
The word Mom is freaking me out right now. Last week Mr. Crud and I meet with our friendly Human Resources rep to help us navigate the wilds of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) and the Oregon Medical Leave Act (OFLA). The Crud dream is that I will take leave starting with my due date, February 1, until the end of spring term so that we don’t have to contend with finding child-care for a 3-month-old. Mr. Crud’s department chair suggested he take the winter quarter off from his teaching job since our due date falls right in the middle. He’s not much use to his department or students if he’s MIA for half the quarter.
As Friendly HR Rep walks us through the maze of leave choices, she referred to us as Mom and Dad.
“Mom will take OFLA for the first 6 weeks then switch to FMLA for the next 12 while Dad is taking his OFLA.”
Every time she said Mom I pictured my own Mom. She is The Mom.
After our head-spinning meeting, where we did figure out a way to theoretically live the dream if our savings account can hold out for a few months sans paycheck, Mr. Crud squeezes my hand.
“Did it weird you out when she called you ‘Mom?’”
“Totally. I don’t see myself as a mom. I can do Dad, I think. I’ve already got that Superdad t-shirt.” One of my favorite t-shirts of all time in fact. Superdad is emblazoned across the chest in sparlkly rainbow puffy letters.
“It is Portland. Purvis can have 2 dads.” Mr. Crud says.
“That won’t be at all confusing for him.”
I have a few months yet to get comfortable with Mom. Maybe it’s my internalized sexism that sends me into an ick spiral when I hear the word. There are so many examples of awesome coolio mothers in the world. Now I can join their ranks, right? Other mothers have told me there is nothing as sweet as hearing your little one call say “Mom.” I’m sure I’ll get accustomed to the idea. But part of me is bothered that I am so bothered by it. Like what kind of feminist am I to have such a visceral reaction to the word Mom?
And now a moment to digress. I wish that I lived in France where maternity leave is salaried, where nurses come to check up on you after you give birth paid in full by the government. Or Sweden. A full year of paid maternity leave. Civilized, isn’t it?
And now a second moment to digress. I am now questioning our decision that Mr. Crud and I both stay home with Purvis during the first few months. Mr. Crud’s parents and my mom voiced concern when we told them of our dream scheme to spend some QT as a new family during Purvis’ first few months of being a Crud.
“What if you get appendicitis and don’t have any sick leave left?” Mr. Crud’s mother asked after he explained that he’d be forced to take all of his sick leave.
“Then I’ll take time off and get better,” he said.
“Will Mr. Crud still have a job to come back to?” My mom asked.
Sarcastic teenager in me longed to spit back, “No, we were planning on moving in with you,” but I remained mature. “That’s what family leave means. Both of our jobs are secure.”
The apparent parental worry over our plans sent us both into a furrowed brow tizzy. “I really didn’t need that,” Mr. Crud said. “I needed some support here.”
“Yeah, I know. I thought they’d be happy for us. Is our plan really so bad?”
We are both first children, first children who battled hard for our independence from our parents but who both hunger for their approval to a degree that pisses us off.
“They didn’t have maternity leave for men when they had us. We should keep that in mind.” Mr. Crud says.
I agree. But every once in a while my hackles raise. Who the hell are they to question our decision? Then I get a little conspiracy on the whole thing: Oh maybe they don’t want Mr. Crud to stay at home so I’ll need to ask the grandmas to come and help out. Hmmm…could be. I am still waiting to consult with my peers on this question. Speak up peer parents if you have some wisdom of wisdom to share on the question of who stays home during the first few months of baby-raising. Tag-teaming sounds like the way to go.
The same day that we meet with Friendly HR Rep, I turn in our application for daycare. Eeeee!!!! I put off turning it in as I was dogged by lingering fears that by turning in an application to daycare that I was jinxing my pregnancy. My jinx fears have also kept me from posting a pregnancy declaration on my Facebook page. It’s a hard line to walk between the fear of the jinx and being responsible. I negotiate it everyday. Responsibility seems to be in the lead. We are signed up for childbirth prep classes and Mr. Crud has started to read The Expectant Father, a longtime member of the pregnancy section of our bookshelf neglected out of fear of the pregnancy jinx. (My favorite Expectant Father tip to support the preg ladies: “Offer back and foot rubs.” Yes, offer, but do not give. Nicely done, expectant father.)
Milestones:
• I had my first dream of giving birth. In it, I was carrying Purvis in a kangaroo type pocket and she—in the dream she was a baby girl—just slipped out when I was bending over to pick something up. No blood or gore, just a dangling umbilical cord. Wow, that wasn’t too bad, I thought. “Maybe it’ll be like that in real life,” Mr. Crud says. I’ve started to read up on birth and I’m thinking the answer to that hopeful maybe is not bloody likely.
• The word is getting out. I got my first word of congrats from a yoga buddy this morning. Not easy to hide the bump (another word that gets on my nerves for some reason) with skintight yoga pants. I have more of a blob than a bump thought. During a fire drill a coworker let it slip that I was pregnant—yeah, I’m still not quite sure how to slip it into conversation with acquaintances—in front of a woman I’ve known for years who also works at the university. “I was wondering about that!” she said. Apparently my loose-fitting shirts are not as camouflaging as I thought. I’m not quite as clever at concealing my growing girth although most pregnant ladies agree that I’m not showing much for my 22 weeks. Such is the blessing of being a 6-foot tall, wide-hipped woman.
* Ever since Fernando was put under name consideration, my head has been on an ABBA loop. I’m wondering if the ABBA that I play as I do dishes and cook up Crispix mix will be the music that soothes a fussy Purvis. ABBA or Terry Gross’ dulcet tones.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Creaky Old Lady Pregnant Body
9-18-09
(Yup, I did it again. I let pesky work get in the way of my documenting every thought and emotion about pregnancy and Purvis. Bad, bad blogger.)
So my post-ultrasound confidence lasted all of one week this time. Woo hoo. Wednesday morning I was struck with insecurity about Purvis’ movements or seeming lack thereof. Did I feel her kick or was that just gas? I wait a second. Poot. Oh, okay, that was gas. Right now that is how I differentiate between what I theorize to be Purvis and gas. (And boy do I got gas as is the way of the pregnant digestive system.) When I feel the kicky-jabby sensation in my belly with no farty trace, it’s Purvis trying out some moves. Otherwise I’m Gaseous Clay.
I spend all day reading up on the quickening. (This term makes me squirmy. It sounds like a horror movie or a Lifetime movie with Tori Spelling.) A pregnant lady usually can feel her little one’s first kicks and jabs between the 17th and 22nd week. I shouldn’t worry if I haven’t felt Purvis move in awhile. He’s a tiny thing. She may be moving without jabbing my innards. I take a deep breath and return to my mostly okay with a dash of apprehension state, a state not exclusive to members of Miscarriage World.
Body Changes that May or May Not Be Related to Pregnancy:
• My f-ing back is f-ed up again. Shitfuckhell. I noticed the first twinge a mere day after telling my massage therapist how awesome my back had been feeling since becoming pregnant, sharing my theory that the hormones had relaxed whatever tension there was lurking in my normally tricky low back region. Oh yes, seems I spoke too soon. The next day I was greeted with a familiar twinge. Then I went on vacation and the twinge compounded after I engaged in some unwise lifting of my adorable niece. For the next two weeks every step rated on the pain chart from merely uncomfortable to breathtakingly painful. I popped Tylenol like never before and crossed my fingers that this wouldn’t harm Purvis. (Dr. Adorable said it was fine.) Then part of my leg went numb. Nice. The doula theory: the hormones are relaxing ligaments like nuts, which along with my gaining and shifting weight is interrupting my delicate equilibrium. The chiropractor theory: a pinched nerve in my lumbar spine. The back pain is improving poco a poco, but a little to pokey for my tastes.
• I keep biting my lower lip when I eat causing much blood to gush on each bite of my meal. Is pregnancy having a plumping effect on my kisser? Must women who get Cortisone injections constantly monitor their bite technique?
• My TMJ jaw has gotten knocked askew. Pregnancy hormones?
• I can eat and eat and eat with impunity. Somehow I’m not feeling the full sensation that used to cue me to stop with the food shoveling. Pregnancy related or willful ignoring of feelings of fullness since eating is my big oral pleasure now that martinis and cigarettes are off the menu.
• Weird bright red unpimpley blemish near my eye, making me look like I’ve been weeping out of one eye or else wearing pink eyeshadow. Mr. Crud encourages me to make up the other eye to match so as to look like a Duran Duran video vixen.
(Yup, I did it again. I let pesky work get in the way of my documenting every thought and emotion about pregnancy and Purvis. Bad, bad blogger.)
So my post-ultrasound confidence lasted all of one week this time. Woo hoo. Wednesday morning I was struck with insecurity about Purvis’ movements or seeming lack thereof. Did I feel her kick or was that just gas? I wait a second. Poot. Oh, okay, that was gas. Right now that is how I differentiate between what I theorize to be Purvis and gas. (And boy do I got gas as is the way of the pregnant digestive system.) When I feel the kicky-jabby sensation in my belly with no farty trace, it’s Purvis trying out some moves. Otherwise I’m Gaseous Clay.
I spend all day reading up on the quickening. (This term makes me squirmy. It sounds like a horror movie or a Lifetime movie with Tori Spelling.) A pregnant lady usually can feel her little one’s first kicks and jabs between the 17th and 22nd week. I shouldn’t worry if I haven’t felt Purvis move in awhile. He’s a tiny thing. She may be moving without jabbing my innards. I take a deep breath and return to my mostly okay with a dash of apprehension state, a state not exclusive to members of Miscarriage World.
Body Changes that May or May Not Be Related to Pregnancy:
• My f-ing back is f-ed up again. Shitfuckhell. I noticed the first twinge a mere day after telling my massage therapist how awesome my back had been feeling since becoming pregnant, sharing my theory that the hormones had relaxed whatever tension there was lurking in my normally tricky low back region. Oh yes, seems I spoke too soon. The next day I was greeted with a familiar twinge. Then I went on vacation and the twinge compounded after I engaged in some unwise lifting of my adorable niece. For the next two weeks every step rated on the pain chart from merely uncomfortable to breathtakingly painful. I popped Tylenol like never before and crossed my fingers that this wouldn’t harm Purvis. (Dr. Adorable said it was fine.) Then part of my leg went numb. Nice. The doula theory: the hormones are relaxing ligaments like nuts, which along with my gaining and shifting weight is interrupting my delicate equilibrium. The chiropractor theory: a pinched nerve in my lumbar spine. The back pain is improving poco a poco, but a little to pokey for my tastes.
• I keep biting my lower lip when I eat causing much blood to gush on each bite of my meal. Is pregnancy having a plumping effect on my kisser? Must women who get Cortisone injections constantly monitor their bite technique?
• My TMJ jaw has gotten knocked askew. Pregnancy hormones?
• I can eat and eat and eat with impunity. Somehow I’m not feeling the full sensation that used to cue me to stop with the food shoveling. Pregnancy related or willful ignoring of feelings of fullness since eating is my big oral pleasure now that martinis and cigarettes are off the menu.
• Weird bright red unpimpley blemish near my eye, making me look like I’ve been weeping out of one eye or else wearing pink eyeshadow. Mr. Crud encourages me to make up the other eye to match so as to look like a Duran Duran video vixen.
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