NOTICE OF EVICTION
Tenant,
YOU ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED of the termination of the lease of the premises of my womb, situated in the City of Austin and County of Travis, State of Texas, together with all organs, shared blood supplies, buildings, sheds, garages and other structures used in connection with said premises.
YOUR LEASE OF SAID PREMISES WILL BE TERMINATED ONE DAY AFTER SERVICE OF THIS NOTICE.
Dated this 30th day of August 2009.
Signed,
Landlord
So when I went to the doctor yesterday to find out I was only at a 2.5, "disappointed" was an understatement. I was so "disappointed" that I left the doctor's office in huff, and had to delay writing anything about the fact that I am still pregnant because I had nothing to write other than cuss words.
Today, I decided to change my outlook. Instead of being mad about waiting (mad at Jason, my doctor, Lemon, myself, passers-by), I have decided to stop waiting for Lemon to be born. I am thinking of these last few days of pregnancy as borrowed time. Time where I can sit quietly by myself and listen to NPR. Get my car washed. Read a book. Go for a walk.
And boy, it's good thing I changed my outlook, because when I was on that walk, I fell down and TWISTED MY ANKLE. Without that better attitude, being laid up in bed with an even puffier left ankle and foot would REALLY SUCK.
But I do thank those kind folks at the bus stop who saw me fall down and did absolutely nothing to help me. You have given me someone I can really be mad at.
I hesitate to even write this post, because so many pregnant women go to their due dates and beyond (I know because people have delighted in telling me these stories), but as of last night, I have reached the state called "Coyote Pregnant."
Midori introduced me to the concept a couple of weeks ago. She described it as "being willing to perform one's own C-section." She would know, she has three kids.
I searched home remedies for inducing labor last night, and while I won't detail them all here, because they are guh-ross, I will say that a favorite is castor oil. I had thought of castor oil as some old Appalachian remedy (they were always administering it on "The Waltons"), but apparently it can be purchased and consumed by modern people...desperate, pregnant, modern people who start to expel the contents of their intestines and hopefully uteruses within hours of taking it. For now, I will pass.
Yesterday at the office, people seemed disappointed to see me, like, oh you're still here. I'm now a fifth-season dramedy that people have stopped watching for lack of plot advancement. It is getting embarrassing to still be on the air.
While I confess today to being Coyote Pregnant (and not yet Castor Oil pregnant), I realize that if I stay pregnant until Sunday, I will have nothing to write about. I may be inventing a new category of pregnant that describes being willing to take castor oil and perform your own C-section with safety scissors.
Lucy started kindergarten today. She marched up the ramp to her portable building without so much as a goodbye. While I wanted to make her slow down and savor the momentous morning, I knew we shouldn't make it into too big a deal for her. It can just be a big deal for her sniffling, emotional mother.
So you can imagine I am in a really great mood.
Lucy was born 15 days before her due date. That would have been Friday for this baby. And while I am not "ready" or even in a particular hurry (despite the medicine cabinets, there is work stuff not wrapped up, a room not done, kindergarten not started), it is weird and uncomfortable to be more pregnant with each passing day. And all signs indicate I will only be more so. Good lord.
There are people who delight in organizing. Sorting everyday objects into plastic tubs, labeling their phylum and species, is a calming activity that imposes order on the chaos of things.
I am not one of these people. I am organizationally retarded. It's not just that I don't have patience or interest for these tasks, which would imply I am somehow above them: I have zero aptitude for them. I begin organizing only to be found flummoxed amid cute, well-meaning storage containers, pondering old photographs or receipts. One of my college jobs was filing for a research institute — sometimes I just went into the basement to "file" and ended up absorbed in back issues of "The Journal of Philanthropy." Sure, I own a label maker, but I use it to print out smart remarks. I have never actually labeled anything with it.
I only tell you this so that when I describe the fit of organization that overtook me this weekend, you will understand that I am not well. My bathroom cabinets are in an abnormally perfect state. In case you were wondering, the "grooming" category encompasses razors and nailcare, and that 10-year-old bottle of Ativan that you were hoping to score from for your next overseas plane ride is no more.
So now that my bathroom cabinets are clean, I am ready to have a baby.
This is a photo from our ultrasound last week. In addition to this baby's general beauty and brilliance, the ultrasound tech also noted some HAIR. Pie says it looks like me.
I sat in The Room tonight amid piles of tiny clothes and plastic containers of stuff I have forgotten what to do with exactly. I made Jason join me and discuss where to put stuff and hang stuff, forcing him to make plans for the weekend and next week surrounding, you know, the Major Life Change.
He started shuffling nervously in what little floor real estate is available in the room, and finally said, "You're making me nervous. All you want to do is talk about it, and all I want to do is not talk about it. Do you think maybe you could stew quietly in here by yourself?"
And the poor guy has been such a good sherpa/painter/gofer/parent/saint of a man, that in a rare moment of hormonal balance and generosity, I said, "Yes, babe, I can stew quietly by myself."
As I type this, I am sitting in the chair that will be my bed, my prison, my refuge for the next several months. We had it on loan to friends for the last year, and I have to wonder if ushering this chair out of the house brought the wave of nostalgia that tricked me into wanting another baby (well, and Tully and Solly, those rascals).
So here I sit. By myself. For now.
