9.11.2013

Negative Six Days

It is a weird and gross feeling knowing there is a 6-day old baby swimming around in me, happy as can be, feeling no urgency whatsoever to leave anytime soon.  I can't say I blame her; I do give her lots of cookies, and an environment made up entirely of amniotic fluid may in fact be less humid than NYC is today.

*Actual sonogram photo.


Poor Sandy H. arrived two days prior to my due date and may ultimately spend two full weeks here with me before the baby even comes.  By the time I'm finally given the gift of a screaming newborn, she'll be so sick of being here she will hop on the next flight home.  Yesterday I made her walk 40 blocks in the heat and to her credit, she did it with minimal complaining!  Today she asked me what I wanted to do.  What do I want to do today?

I want to avoid as many friends and neighbors as possible who say "STILL????" whenever they see me.

No, actually, in fact, I was never really pregnant at all - this has all been a giant hoax for a social experiment to see how pregnant women are treated on the NYC subway.

No, actually, I was never pregnant, just smuggling 30 lbs of drugs.  Everywhere I go.  Just to see if I could.

No, actually, I had the baby and forgot to tell anyone.  I just still look pregnant for some reason.  *Head smack*.

These friends and neighbors will then go about the rest of their pregnancy-free days, immediately forgetting they saw me, grabbing a coffee before work, prancing around the office, grabbing drinks with girlfriends in the evening, and then they'll see me again tomorrow, remember I exist and say, "STILL????"

But not me - I will have been thinking about "STILL????" that whole time.  Every day feels like a week now, making me approximately 46 weeks pregnant.  I am 100% sure I have a one-way ticket to Induction Town this weekend.

My dear darling friend Jeff posted this Bossypants excerpt to my Facebook wall this morning and it was exactly what I needed.  I have probably read it 20 times since 7 AM and I will continue to laugh and cry while reading it over and over until this baby actually comes - if she ever comes.

"First, Lord: No tattoos.  May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it's the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach's eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called "Hell Drop," "Tower of Torture," or "The Death Spiral Rock 'N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith," and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.  Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.  What would that be, Lord?  Architecture?  Midwifery?  Golf course design?  I'm asking You, because if I knew, I'd be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.  Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit.  I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.  "My mother did this for me once," she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby's neck.  "My mother did this for me."  And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me.  And she will forget.  But I'll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen."

-Tina Fey




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