Being pregnant is weird.
I mean, I haven’t had many symptoms yet aside from extremely sore boobs, slight nausea, and the weird feels-like-I-did-too-many-sit-ups pain that Oh, Chicken had. But I suddenly don’t want to do things I used to want to do all the time. Take candy, for instance– I love it. If given a bag of candy corn, I would eat the whole thing, or at least until my stomach hurt pretty badly, then finish the bag off when I felt better. It is Halloween week, and I’ve eaten only three reese’s cups. That’s it. I have my son’s entire bag of loot in my dresser. I have not eaten anything from it.
And get this… this morning at the diner… I did not want my COFFEE! After making the decision that since no studies have proven that one small cup of coffee does any harm to future-babies, I thought it would be best for me and my family and my students if I continue to drink my one cup in the morning. I didn’t want it. Spooky. I guess I don’t get to make the decisions around here anymore.
This is hard for me to say. I’m not sure how to put it because I do love you strangers as much as a person could love a bunch of people they’ve never seen. I don’t really feel like blogging every single detail of my pregnancy. I thought I would. I had composed a whole post in my head months ago about how my blog is my place to vent and now that I’m pregnant I will complain about the pregnancy without remorse, so if you’re TTC and you don’t want to read a whiny already-pregnant bitch complaining, you should come back when you’re pregnant which I hope will be soon. But I don’t want to. I have a weird (for me, anyway) desire to be private. I know, right? You guys know all about my feet up in stirrups and the shape of my fallopian tubes. Yet I suddenly feel all sheepish.
I made a hard decision. I have decided to blog less. I will post occasionally to let you know that things are going well. (I refuse to let them go any other way, karnsarnit!) But I think I’m going to focus my whirlwind of bloggity energy on my other blog, momtourage, where I will still be all me-me-me, but not so much muterus-myuterus-myuterus. I probably will write some pregnancy posts there after 12 weeks, God willing. So if you like my writing, please add momtourage to your feed or stop by to visit. Of course, I will continue to visit your blogs and comment regularly because, as I said before, I love you.
One Last Corny Story
In my class we are studying the Lenape people, native to this area, and how they lived over 400 years ago. When we study how they got their food, I go into depth about the three sisters gardens. The women would plant corn, which grew tall and sturdy. Around the corn grew the beans, which used the corn stalks as trellises. The third sister, squash, shaded the ground with her huge leaves, keeping it moist and weedless and nourishing the earth. I decided not only to grow a three sisters garden in the classroom, but to also have the kids dissect stalks of corn. Woah. That was crazy. Corn was flying through the air. At the end of the day, it looked as though there had been a scarecrow rumble in my room. The kids were engaged the whole time and seemed to be learning. That’s good, I thought, as I swept my room for the third time.
I had been trying to germinate corn seeds in my room with no luck. Only one out of eighteen kernels developed a root. The corn stalk dissection was a bit impromptu. I’d bought the stalks when we went on our annual walk to the “pumpkin patch” (which in Brooklyn means large florist with bales of hay and a huge inflated scarecrow.) The florist had tied the bottom of the stalks in a large trash bag. Guess what the kids found, when they ripped the husks off of the ears of corn? The seeds were germinating right there on the cob! It was cool. Did you know that corn has been so domesticated that it cannot reproduce on its own? It needs outside help, like a reproductive endocrinologist… I mean, farmer. The corn seeds are too close together on the cob. Yet they need to be planted pretty far apart. When the cob falls to the ground, the seeds try to grow, but they won’t survive. Sad, I know. We all know
The night of the flying corn, exhausted from the husks and kernels, I did some research. This was Tuesday night. Right before I did my secret pregnancy test. I found a site which explains that one strand of corn silk is attached to each kernel in an ear of corn. If you take the husk off carefully, you can see it. Teacher geeks like myself get excited by this stuff. I kind of stopped short when I got to this sentence, “Each kernel of corn is an ovary with one ovuole.” I don’t know why, exactly, but it made me cry a little. Poor corn. Poor ovaries. Everyone’s poor ovaries. So well-designed. Yet so screwed.
I did the test. It was positive. I got my beta. It was nice and high. Friday, I had a cup full of germinated kernels saved from the cobs. I had no soil. I didn’t know what to do. They’d mold. I put them in the fridge, most likely sending them to an icy death. Then I remembered my one germinated seed. I went over to the plastic bag hanging from the window. The little dickens even had a sprout of green leafiness forming at the top. I took the spider-like seedling in my hand. I couldn’t put it in my bag or my pocket. I carried it home in my palm. I couldn’t help but think, if this seedling doesn’t make it home alive, you’re screwed, pregnant girl. It made it home alive. I put it in a pot with soil. I watered it. I hope the thing grows.
Thanks for listening, chicas. Y’all kick some fertility ass. I wish heaps of morning sickness and stinky diapers and little socks and first haircuts for each one of you. It will happen. It must.