the pieces of my life

First thing I should say here is I’m a big fan of acupuncture. I went for the first time when I was in my early twenties, having tension headaches of a massive sort. I went first to a guy in Chinatown (in New York) who creeped me out because he used the electric variety of acupuncture (where the needles are hooked up to something that sends a tiny electrical current into them). I’m sure it’s a perfectly valid form of acupuncture, but the whole thing reeked too much of shock therapy for me, so I quickly left him. However, I found another acupuncturist who used a more traditional needle method, and he worked wonders for me. My headaches went poof! He showed me some herbs to take to tame the headaches should they come back, and I left raving about the wonders of acupuncture. I tried acupuncture again in Seattle, and for the life of me I can’t remember what for (as those were my Amazon days, it was most likely stress), but I didn’t stick with it (and I can’t remember if it’s because I moved to Boston or because the appointments were more stressful to get to than whatever it was that was ailing me). But I’m still a huge fan. In fact, my cousin in Miami studied acupuncture, and frequently when I’ve been home, I’ve asked him to stick needles in me (that’s just the kind of person I am).

So, last night was attempt-to-turn-the-baby acupuncture. Actually, what it was was mostly moxibustion, in which the acupuncturist puts these tiny pieces of herbs on my toes and burns them with incense (no, really! It’s a real thing!). (Betsy described it best to me in an e-mail: the moxa makes it “smell like a Dead show in the office.”) The acupuncturist was a really nice woman with that low, soothing new agey kind of voice. For those who haven’t been to acupuncture, it’s a little like going to a psychic. She’ll touch parts of your body and make these absolutely true statements. “This is tender for you right here.” Yep. “You really crave sweets. Always have.” Bingo! The first thing she did (after checking me out) was a bit of the pokey poke with a gold needle on my belly. It wasn’t the traditional acupuncture I’m used to in which needles are placed in my body and left there for ten or fifteen minutes. This was just a light pricking with a single needle that was not pushed in very far and didn’t remain in me. It doesn’t have that cool electrical sensation of the other kind of acupuncture, but that was sort of welcome as I’m a little paranoid about the treatment/pregnancy thing. Then she did the moxa. Apparently, despite all evidence to the contrary, I’m really an insensitive person. “Do you feel that?” she’d say, holding a lit stick to my toe. “Nope!” I’d respond. I’m not sure what she was doing as I was laying down and their was the huge hill of my belly blocking my view, but she kept doing something and said, “Let me know when you do feel it.” After a while I’d feel a tiny burning sensation and say, “There it is!” Apparently, my channels are quiet blocked and it’s preventing the energy from going through my legs. Anyway, I’m not sure if this thing worked–the baby hasn’t yet turned. He’s been really squirmy last night and today, but then he’s often really squirmy, so I can’t tell if it’s just coincidence or a direct result. I made another appointment for next week in case he remains stubbornly breech. We’ll see!

There really are two types of people in this world: card people and non-card people. I come from a diehard tribe of the latter. Cards in my family were only acceptable if they were handmade or really weird. Adam’s people are the former. They don’t just send cards, they send cards in bulk. We receive not just the birthday variety (which I understand and try to do myself to my friends when I can remember–it’s hard to convert to cardom when you’ve been raised an acardeist), but the Passover, Halloween, Mother’s Day for the Mom-to-Be, anniversary, and just about everything else variety. It creates sticky situations as I often have to ask Adam, “Are we expected to send a card for that?” And, yes, it is expected. For example, we sent out a Hanukkah card/gift that arrived on the second day of Hanukkah. But the lecture about not being thoughtful came on the first day of Hanukkah (it was rescinded immediately the second day).

What am I getting at? I’m getting at the “Oh shit” feeling that struck this morning when Adam called and said, “You didn’t do your job.” Huh? “You forgot to remind me that it’s my mother’s birthday today.” Let’s count in how many places that sentence is simply wrong. On second thought, let’s keep marital harmony and not count the ways. If this were my family, a quick trip to an Amazon wish list and a simple phone call of “Happy Birthday, your present is going to be late,” would suffice. But this isn’t my family. So instead of his gourmet meal and walk around the swan pond during lunch, Adam will be scurrying off to buy and deliver a gift (this is probably the one time he’s grateful he works in New Hampshire). And I can be grateful that for all the flaws my family has (yes, Peter, you people have flaws!), at least we’re not card people.

Is anyone else addicted to Salon‘s Match Made in Heaven, Match Made in Hell column? It’s the best part of Wednesday and almost as good as reality TV.

Normally, I’d never blog during work hours (ahem), but really all there is for me to do at the moment is begin to clear out my cubicle, as this coming Friday is my last day here. As I’m not in a cleaning mood (so much for that nesting thing that’s supposed to kick in), I figure I can blog with impunity.

This weekend was a delightful weekend, with Jenn making it up from the Hamptons. There was some concern she wouldn’t make it, as the power outage affected the ferries, but arrive she did, only about five hours or so later than intended. We spent much mellow time together, starting with a leisurely breakfast at Zaftig’s. Next Jenn had a manicure and I had a pedicure (even though I can’t see my toes anymore–I was just looking for a good foot rub, which I got). Then, a few of the HBS partner gals threw a small dessert baby shower for me at the Harvest in Cambridge. Mmmm, I’m still thinking about the mocha pot de creme I had. It was a lovely event, and it was so sweet of them to do it. Never mind the fact that Brown Brown got a ton of fabulous gifts, including some cute cute cute outfits, a Baby Bjorn, a monitor, toys, and a great diaper bag. I spent the next day playing with the toys myself–I’m not sure I’m going to want to let them go long enough for the baby to play with them. After the shower, we rented a couple of flicks and spent the rest of the evening vegging. Unfortunately, Jenn had to leave at the crack of dawn on Sunday to make her ferry, so we didn’t get the waffle breakfast I had planned. But it was just as well. One day of activity was apparently plenty for me, and I spent the entire day either lying on the couch or in bed. I got some stuff done–finished a knitting project, addressed baby announcement envelopes–but nowhere near what I had intended. I think I may be done with the productive stage of things. From here on out, I’ll either be at work or taking couch time. Adam, on the other hand, has been amazing, fixing things and making sure everything’s prepared for Brown Brown. He went pretty much nonstop all weekend.

One thing I do need to do–tonight!–is pack my hospital bag. That magic 37-week point that seemed like a lifetime away is just Wednesday, which means Brown Brown could blow at any point. Yes, he’s still breech, but who knows? Maybe he’ll turn at the last minute (and I’ll be sure to report on tomorrow night’s acupuncture appointment). Point is, we’re really at the “at any moment” point. Of course, that “moment” lasts for five weeks, but I refuse to think about that (la-la-la-la-la-la-la, I can’t hear you!). I follow the Baby Center September 2003 message boards fairly religiously at this point, and a lot of women have already had their babies. I’m having an extremely difficult time wrapping my mind around the fact that one of these days there will be a real live baby in our lives. I still always half expect the doctor to say to me, “Oh, we made a mistake. You were never really pregnant. You’re just fat.” It’s just all so surreal! Of course, the other thing I expect is that instead of a baby some weird pokey alien is going to emerge from me. But then again, baby, alien–is there really that much of a difference?

Today’s the Tweedle Twirp’s birthday! I wanted to phone her and wish her a happy birthday, but I’m not allowed to call her apartment for five and a half hours. Although Adam pointed out that maybe I could call her because chances are good that she’s still up from last night. Maybe she’ll soon no longer be the last of the August birthdays in our family. And she certainly soon won’t be the Brown who’s up the latest at night. (But she’ll certainly always be The Littlest Brown. Because if Brown Brown is her size, we’re going to put him on growth hormones.)

I haven’t blogged in a while because there’s been nothing to say. I realize, though, that we’re getting to the point where if I don’t pop in and say hi, people may think I’ve, well, popped. (“This is day number 254 and you’re 36 weeks pregnant! You have 26 days or 4 weeks left, and are 90% of the way there.”) But I haven’t. Really everything is the same (baby hasn’t turned, my ankles are still gone, my mid-section is ever-increasing) except that perhaps I sleep less and I’m more cranky. The wedding dress sale at Filene’s Basement is happening today in Boston. That’s the one-day sale where all the wedding dresses are on racks and priced at $249; from the store’s site: when the doors open at 8 a.m., “it takes less than 60 seconds for the racks to be stripped bare. Shoppers grab as many gowns as they can carry and drag them off to a corner, strip down to their underwear, and start trying on dresses. Minutes later they begin a complex system of trading.” The site even includes ten tips for success. I have a coworker who’s getting married next year and I tried to convince her that we needed to go to the sale, really more so I would have something new to blog about than out of any altruistic feelings of wanting to help her find her dress. But she found the whole thing rather intimidating and decided to pass. There was also much talk of “Is it really safe for a woman who’s nine months pregnant?” but I figure I’m the safest one there: I’ve got extra padding and a bonus layer of annoyed chutzpah.

So, with my friends as little help, there’s nothing to report. My pregnancy calendar at Baby Center no longer has a “next month” for me, which is mildly freaky. Adam and I took an infant CPR class last night, but nothing of excitement there. And in just five days, I’m officially full term, which means the little guy is cooked.

Jenn’s coming to town to visit this weekend. So I’ll put the onus on her to be interesting so I have something to blog about. No pressure, of course, or anything.

Let me say that if Brown Brown is born with a negative self-image, we can actually blame it squarely on Adam. Because of Brown Brown’s big butt in my pelvis, Adam has taken to calling him the “J. Lo of babies” and “Bubble-Butt Brown.” There’s even a catchy little song that goes with the latter. It’s nice to know that I won’t be the only one doing irreparable damage to our child’s self-esteem.

After yoga class on Saturday (the very same yoga class that at one time I said, “Oh, it’s so easy,” and I now break a sweat in when it comes time for leg lifts. The same class where I laughed every time the teacher said, “Only do what you can,” thinking who can’t do this? and now, hey, I can’t do half the poses and I just sit there in a tailor pose while the rest of the class bends. The same class where I marveled when the teacher would look right at someone and say, “Women in their last month will need more modification,” and I’d think, “Wow, last month, that’ll never be me,” and now, it’s me!), Adam and I hit Target to purchase yet more baby and mom supplies (how much crap do we need?): baby wipes, diaper cream, infant Tylenol, breast pads, syrup of Ipecac. We need bottles, because I plan on pumping enough that Adam will be able to feed as well, only we got to the bottle aisle…and froze. All the advice our breastfeeding teacher gave us shot clearly out of our head. “Is it better to get this nipple or this nipple?” I asked, staring at the array of bottles and nipples. “What was it she liked? The Gerber bottle with the Playtex nipple? Or the Playtex bottle with the Gerber nipple?” Adam just picked up package after package after package, reading the backs and putting them back down again. His most helpful comment was the one-word utterance, “Idunno.” “Do we need shaped or straight? Is the wide nipple what we want? Or the curved?” “Idunno.” After fifteen minutes of just staring, we finally gave up and decided we better actually read the pile of handouts we got in all our classes that we merely stuck in a pile and said, “We’ll get to this one of these days.” I think this week will be a major reading kind of week. And we’ll get the bottles another time.

I’m covered in food, because I’m clumsy and apparently Lean Cuisines are hard to eat. I’ve hit my belly with doors three times today, because I don’t have an sense of my girth anymore. My back hurts, my belly hurts, my heartburn hurts, my feet are sore, I’m tired. But this does not–does not, I emphasize–give you leave to ask me in that simpering tone (or any tone, for that matter), “How are you feeling?” I’m so sick of people asking me how I feel. I’m still standing, right? Then I’m fine. It’s hard to keep the snarl out of my voice when answering. Adam is trying to deal with Ikea because the stupid twits gave us the wrong dresser (keep in mind the nearest Ikea is four hours away, so it’s not like we can just go exchange it). We said we wanted the Malm five-drawer dresser in birch. And in fairness, we watched the guy type in, “MALM, 5-draw, bch” (or something like that), not realizing that “bch” is actually beech. A color that works not at all in our nursery. Luckily, the Malm three-drawer dresser was in the correct color (we picked that one off the shelves ourselves), so we do have some place to put the clothes. Anyway, the point is, I’m tempted to tell Adam that I’m the one who should call Ikea because I am just cranky enough to go absolute nuts on them, as I’m now itching for a fight. Which, I suppose, is all the more reason for Adam to be dealing with it. Best bet for all of you is to keep a wide berth. And the first a-hole who e-mails/calls to ask “How am I doing?” just to be cute is the first one to receive a string of obscenities back from me. That’s only if I’m feeling nice. If I’m not feeling nice, it could be worse. Like dead-horse-in-your-bed worse. Don’t try me.

Forget not telling you people Brown Brown’s real name: I can’t seem to remember it myself! Adam and I were setting things up in the nursery and we were debating where to put all our wonderful new books. “We could get those cute book ends that are letters,” I said, “and put the books on top of the table. You know”–and I’m sticking with Xavier as a first name here (no people, not the real name!)–“an X and a B.” Adam looked at me, smiling. “And what would that stand for?” he asked. I looked at him strangely. “You know. Xavier Brow– Oh. Um, I mean an X and an M.” I think not remembering my own son’s name could cause some serious psychological damage. But considering that the damage has to be done in some way, I guess that one’s not too bad.