Turning Point

11-25-09

Yesterday’s yoga class is full. The famous Tuesday rush that my yoga buddies and I puzzle over. Why Tuesday? Is it the one day of the week that isn’t too close to either weekend? When I was in college Wednesday signaled the start of the weekend for me or at least provided the first good reason to partake of the sweet nectar, malt liquor. How can you miss Beverly Hills 90210 and how can you make it through the parade of rolled-eye Donna sighs and Brenda side-eyes without a 40 of King Cobra? Impossible.

As a result of the full yoga class—yes, I was talking about yoga before I got sidetracked by lusty thoughts of getting liquored up—my bound baddha konasana puts me in a tight position. I pull my feet together and try to find a space for my long ass legs. My knees poke onto the mats of my fellow yogis. My teacher catches my eye.

“Maybe I should skip this one today,” I say.

He shakes his head. “No way. You’re pregnant. You get to take up some room. You’re practicing for two.” I’m glad he said it and not me. What good is the pregnancy card if you have to pull it out of the deck yourself? I much prefer it when people just make way for my slow-moving (wider than usual) ass without me having to throw any “cracker, please, I’m pregnant” glances.

The yogis on either side of me adjust their mats to make way for my knees.

“And you get to eat whatever you want,” whispers the yogi to my left, a mother of two who zips through her practice every morning so that she can make it home in time to wake her boys and make them breakfast. “That’s what I liked about pregnancy the most.” She makes an mmmm sound then jumps back to chaturanga.

If only it were true. If only the preg-literature advised the pregnant lady to eat twice as much as usual instead of an additional 300 calories. 300 calories I can eat in a single handful of Trader Joe’s Oh My Omega Mix. Not exactly the license to eat I had been hoping for. No, for that I must wait for breastfeeding. The NY Times recently published an article about how breastfeeding is the current in vogue way of losing the pregnancy weight. Many of the women interviewed scoffed at the idea that their dedication to breastfeeding was related to anything but the health of their children. Hmmm…I wish I could be so selfless. I plan to breastfeed because of the benefits to Purvis, it seems a shitload more convenient than mixing up formula, and, yes, because I want an all-you-can-eat-without-guilt ticket to the buffet.

My acupuncturist asks me how my sleep is, interrupted sleep being my main pregnancy (and life) complaint.

“Not so good. I woke up in the middle of the night the past two nights.” I say.

“Are you uncomfortable? Is it the heartburn?”

“No, not really. I know it sounds weird but it kind of hit me the other night that I’m actually going to have a baby in a few months and I haven’t done anything to get ready.” I say.

She laughs and puts her fingers on my wrist to take my pulse. “You just need yourself and your breasts and you’ll be fine.”

But what of the car seat, the stroller, the crib, the changing table, the diaper covers, the baby carrier (Moby or Maya? I think we’re going Moby.), the socks, the bottles, the butt wipes, the diaper genie, the diaper service, the nursing bras, the swaddling blankets, the burp cloths, the high chair, the gliding rocking chair, the baby monitor, and the infinite trinkets that seem to trail a birth announcement like cans on a newlywed’s car? I awake in the middle of the night, my mind spinning with all the preparations, most prominent being preparing a nursery in what is currently Mr. Crud’s office (or The Dungeon as we call it). And those are just the cosmetic changes. Then there’s the whole business of having another person in the house, replacing our dynamic duo with a trio. I guess I should have had some of these thoughts before hitting the 30-week mark, but somehow they got pushed back into a corner, stuffed behind all the worrying about miscarriage.

“I’ve officially transitioned from worrying about what will happen if something goes wrong to freaking over what will happen when things go right,” I tell Mr. Crud over dinner. “Not that I want things to go wrong,” I quickly add.

“I know what you mean. Totally.”

Then he assures me that he’ll start clearing out The Dungeon over the next few days.

We’ve started to wade through the mountains of baby crap that we are supposed to buy. We consult Consumer Reports and the dog-eared copy of Baby Bargains we inherited from Max and Kathy Crud. We leave our first trip to Babies R Us empty-handed, but wiser. When did strollers become tanks?

My acupuncturist advises me to make a list so that I can spend the wee hours of the morning snoozing rather than worrying. I do prefer this brand of worry to carting around a stone of fear in my stomach that something is wrong with Purvis.

RANDOM: The first album of Chloasma, my pregnancy metal band, will be called “The Bloody Show.” Seriously, pregnancy shit is made for metal.