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.