Preggo Politics

If it were any other physical ailment, impairment or struggle, people would never be so forthcoming.

"Oh, my, that rash sure looks terrible.  Hope you get that herpes treated soon," or, "My, my, getting rather large, aren't we? Maybe we should cut back on those tasty cakes."

Not only would such comments be in bad taste and socially unacceptable, they're down right mean. But it doesn't stop there.  Not only would we never dream of saying such pejorative statements to someone who obviously is either praying his/her condition goes undetected or is hoping that people will be kind and compassionate, but we wouldn't kick them while they were down by rubbing in how great our lives are in comparison- would we?

"Awh, man.  Stomach flu? That's the worst.  I don't ever get sick.  Wanna finish my hot dog?", or,
"Lost your job? That sucks.  I love mine.  And I just got a raise!"

I'm not really sure how the human instinct of societal compassion goes out the window when it comes to pregnant women.  Now, surely, there are some pregnant women who exist (see previous posts) who revel in their roundness, glow in their new skin and lustrous locks and adore all the new attention- albeit from strangers who seem to follow a strange strain of Buddhism as foretold by all their belly-touching rituals.   But for some of us, this road's been hard enough to travel without being given sly winks when we reach for a second piece of pie, tales of numerous women's pregnancies that seem to be untainted by the morning sickness that has colored my last six months- "You're STILL sick? Wow, I was NEVER sick for that long!" Gee, thanks.  You're so helpful.  Pass that paper bag, please?- coos over how excited I must be to pick out a new stroller, the echos of, " Wait! Did this and that happen to you YET? Oh, God, just wait...."

I can't tell you how many times I've been asked if I was carrying twins.  After I have politely laughed in response and delivered my well rehearsed, " My husband's 6'4, she was bound to be big!" Insert tight smile here, someone had the audacity to ask me if I was sure.   Strange old ladies at Shoprite seem to think it's their grandmotherly duty to give me homemade remedies for swollen feet- I didn't even think my feet were swollen.  Never in my life has the word "vaginal" gotten more mileage.  How did that become common place vernacular?  I do not need to be told that I look tired- I'm incubating a human life form and feeding her all of my nutrients.  Of course I look tired.   Sigh.  Is it too much to ask to be treated with the same consideration as a non-fetus carrying person?  Chances are, if a non-pregnant woman would be slightly affronted or hurt by a comment, she's not any different than a pregnant one.

People take for granted that the joy of carrying a child will override the fact that all of these strange things are happening to one's body and mind during the process.  And yes, it does- most of the time.  But for the times it doesn't, just do every preggo a favor- tell them they're beautiful and move on to the weather, not the three boxes of oreos in her cart.

Lists

I am a list maker.  I've tried to avoid it, I even made it a resolution one year to eradicate all forms of lists from my life, thinking they were the source of my stressful and anxious desire to be "accomplished".  Sometimes, that is still true.  Though, I was reading through some of my old journal entries and quickly discovered that not all lists are bad.  Like the one that listed all the best pubs in Temple Bar, Dublin.  Or the one that began with, "Vegetables I would like to buy more of".  I still have yet to purchase an endive or celery root, but I still, months later, think it sounds like a good idea.  There are others like, "Things I will do before I turn 30," and "Top Ten Jobs that would be cooler than mine", but there is one list that struck me as perhaps one of the most important lists I may ever write. Though I'm quite positive it's not done, and may never be, that's the one I'll share with you today.

Things I Want my Daughter to both Know and Experience

I want my daughter to grow up in a home where God's presence is an active reality that makes up the center, loving core of her life ; not a distant, peripheral idea

I want her to be totally and completely appalled at how much her gross, old parents still love each other and kiss in the kitchen

I want her to be sensitive and aware of herself as a social, communal being; one who needs others and who is needed by others, as part of God's design.  I truly want her to love people- all kinds.

I want her to be fearless in her pursuits, knowing in whom her confidence and assurance comes from.  I would rather be up all night worrying about whether she'll get Malaria in Uganda than watch her suffer silently at home, too afraid to take chances.

I want her to live in a constant state of "awakeness", knowing that every decision she makes matters from where she purchases her food to who she defends on the lunch line or in court and that she could have a great influence on other's decisions as well.

I want her to see her flaws as beauty because they make her who she is; but know and understand fully that she is not perfect nor is she expected to be, and will make mistakes and even fail.  Often.

I want her to be conscious of the earth we were given and how we are to care for it.  I want her to appreciate it's beauty and be awed by creation; know that the land was given as a gift to build on, to cultivate and appreciate.

I want her to enjoy her life and live it abundantly- and love whatever she does with all she has and never hold back.

I want her to remember that her parents were young and dumb when they had her and did the best they could.  I want her to sift through all of the ways she will believe we have been unfair or unforgiving and know that it was all, truly and indefinitely because we love her.

Dick

What? Has someone hijacked my blog that is usually about useless musings, chronic complaints and family stories uninteresting to anyone other than myself( and maybe my mother, if she even reads it)? What is this profanity strewn carelessly in modern text across the title? The answer is much simpler and innocent than it appears.  In one word, it's my grandfather. Or, that's what people called him.  Behind his back.  No, just kidding. Maybe.

To clarify: my Pop-pop's name was Richard, and was called Dick for short- though I'm sure due to his knack for sarcasm and down-right rudeness on occasion, he may have earned his knick-name for entirely different reasons.  No matter how many character flaws he may have had ( and we all have them), as this is the first Christmas we'll be spending without his belly laugh, dirty jokes or the wiggle of his eyebrows I thought it only appropriate to remember him with words.

This Christmas I will miss his fart jokes, remember his love of peanut cookies, and how he'd razz my grandmother about inviting his girlfriend from the "home" to Christmas dinner.  I'll remember how he gave me my first beer- a Heineken around the campfire in New Hampshire when I was nine, how his shirt pockets always had root beer barrels and smelled faintly of the cigars he only smoked when my Nana wasn't around and how he taught me to run my hand down and not up the spine of a sunfish so that I didn't get stuck with the prickly fins when taking it off the hook.

We'll talk and laugh about how he fell in the lake and scared the fourteen year old dock boy enough to try and jump in save him- he, being 5'3 and 95 lbs soaking wet, my Pop-pop well over 6'1 and pushing a cool 300 lbs without the water.  Someone will tell stories of he and my Uncle Gir's escapades that we were never supposed to hear.  My sister and I will recall the sleep-overs when Pop-pop (who worked nights at A&P) would trample through the side door at 7 a.m. and eat two whole bowls of Honeycombs with a banana as a snack while Nana sizzled three eggs in bacon fat on the stovetop for his real breakfast before he went to bed. How he was the only man I ever met who kept the fridge in the basement well stocked with RC cola.

It was Pop-pop who taught me how to order a steak in fancy restaurant ( should be medium-rare, but I couldn't handle it until after he had passed.  He'd be proud of me now), how to gut a fish for dinner and how to mix a proper Bloody Mary.  It wasn't until after I was old enough to drink that I learned that only he could possibly drink his version of a "proper" Bloody Mary.  I learned how to crack open a lobster by his looming, crackling fingers and once spent 12 hours in the car with him on what should have been a 6 hour drive.  Life with Pop-pop was very experiential. He wasn't a "thing" guy, he was a "do" guy.  If nothing else,  I'd like to remember him for that.