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.