Shower Me

11-19-09

My internet pregnancy buddy, Ruby, emails for my take on the whole baby shower thing. Are we having one? Will there be painful games involved? Yes and no. Mr. Crud and I always planned on having some sort of do to celebrate the impending arrival of Purvis. After attending a lovely affair to welcome our friends’ mystery baby, we were both 90% less averse to the idea of baby showers. (Side note: Mystery Baby is one of the cutest little girls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Last time we saw her she cozied up to me like we were BFFs from way back. Her mom said, “She loves pregnant ladies.” Mystery baby sat on my lap and cuddled up to my belly saying, “Baby in?”) Their shower had belly dancers, wine, and tasty nibbles. Ladies, gents, and children of all ages were invited. There wasn’t any of the strained smiles or forced laughter that I associate with most showers. Bawdy jokes flew without the wink-wink-nudge-nudge-we-know-you-totally-did-it undercurrent that I’ve experienced at other showers. Granted most of the other showers I’ve attended have been work-related since many of my friends aren’t the reproducing kind so my sample is skewed. I have a hard time getting comfortable at work events of all kinds unless copious pours of alcohol are involved.

Anyway, Mr. Crud and I know we don’t want any games, to involve baby pictures of our guests, or to exclude any of our friends based on gender. What we know we want: Middle East food (catering from Hoda’s has been the one thing we’ve known we’ve wanted since the get-go); petit fours (why I hunger for a treat I last ate at a senior year French club meeting, I don’t know but they are one of my shower demands); and to see all the friends we’ve been neglecting since I peed on the stick and we became more hermit-like than usual.

We figured we’d be throwing our own shindig (see above hermit-like behavior), but my yoga buddy Mirjana has kindly offered to host our pals in celebration of Purvis. (My new boss has also offered to host a workety shower, which is slightly more dangerous. I’ll give Mr. Crud a pass on this one. Painful games may be involved. Baby pictures too. May G-d have mercy on our souls.) The only workable weekend for Mirjana’s shower is a mere 2 weeks before my due date. In light of my superstitious inability to actually go through with buying anything baby-related (we are still car seat-less), the close proximity to my due date may be a good thing. At that point I will be able to graciously accept baby presents without mentally hissing “kineahora!” to ward off the evil eye. But how many times have I said that?

“After this ultrasound, I’ll be able to relax,” I say.

Mr. Crud pats my shoulder. “Good.”

“After this doctor’s appointment, I’ll relax,” I say.

Mr. Crud cocks his head to the side. “You think so?”

“After I hear the heartbeat, I’ll be able to relax.” I say.

“Really.” Mr. Crud says.

No, not really. I have stopped setting arbitrary benchmarks when this mystical relaxation will take over and I will become completely confident that everything is fine with Purvis for once and for all. I am improving.

Last night I dream that I break down and have a whiskey sour (a drink of choice from the 90s when whiskey was still my poison). The next night I have a straight up shot of whiskey. The next a glass of wine. I somehow keep forgetting my indulgence of the previous evening and keep drinking the sweet forbidden nectar. Then one morning I awake to no jabs in my belly. No kicking. Nothing. I rush to the hospital, crying. I wake up with a racing heartbeat.

“Well that’s no way to start a Friday,” I mumble to myself as I stumble from the bedroom to the bathroom.

I wait for a jab, a flop, any movement from the Purvis region. For the first few minutes of my day my belly is still. I set the timer for my morning meditation. I ease myself onto my cushion, cross my legs, and start relaxing my body part by part all the while the fear of Purvis stillness pulses in the background.

Relax eyebrows. Relax jaw. Come on, Purvis, one kick, one jab, one floop. Relax ears. Relax throat. Relax neck. Are you in there, Purvis? Is everything okay? I know it was just a dream and all, but come on, one kick for Mama. Relax shoulders. Relax elbows. Wait! Was that Purvis or is my stomach growling. One more, Purvis. Like you mean it this time. Relax back. Relax hips.

By the time I reach my toes Purvis has given me two good kicks in the right hip area, her target of choice. I try to focus my mind on the business of relaxing, then the quiet “so hum” of my breath with little luck. Even when I’m concentrating on one thing my brain splits off onto another spiral. I experience the Tuvan throat singing equivalent of meditation, which only tempts me into breaking off into a third layer of thought about what a crappy meditator I am.

But Purvis is okay. And at least I don’t panic or go off to the locker room shower to weep when his kicks aren’t as kicky as they were yesterday. I remember my last pre-doctor’s appointment panic and tell myself that everything turned out fine. Purvis is tired on Fridays like me. Because for the time being we are drawing from the same body, the same energy source. Purvis kicks around like nuts on Sunday because we are well-rested. At least that is my pseudo-scientific explanation of the day.

Random Updates:

Still biking along, but growing slower by the day. I’m thinking I have at least 1-2 more weeks of cycling in me before my ribs get too crowded and my balance too wonky. In other balance news, while crouching to pick the largest, thickest brownie from the New Seasons display I tipped over onto my ass without warning. Only harm done was to my ego. Isn’t yoga supposed to keep me from such random topples.

When I’m not dreaming of Mr. Crud abandoning me, I dream of alcohol. Sweet sweet wine and whiskey and dry martinis. I walk the aisles of the Fred Meyer wine section salivating over the bottles. Sometimes when I muse over Purvis’ birth, I fantasize more about my post partum meal of sushi and wine than holding the squirming bundle of joy. However I am not fantasizing about smoking so maybe that monkey is finally off my back for once and for all.