Achievement Unlocked

Achievement unlocked: getting woozy at a dinner party during hostess's account of her C section, and having to excuse self to lie on the cool tiles in the guest bath with feet propped on toilet until fainting spell passed.

First Anatomy Scan

Scan report: Succotash was curled up deep in my pelvis, but when I jostled him a little and said "Succotash - SATs" he stretched out his little legs and we got a good look. All is well. Six ounces, growing right on schedule. Nose. Spine. Heart. Umbilical cord. Nads. A good shot of a hand. He seems to be using my bladder as a pillow and my fibroid as an ottoman. Elbowed me a few times and the tech said "Oh boy - you're really in for it with this one."

Also - we settled on a name two days ago. I wrote it in the baby book.

It's starting to feel real. 

Berf

Dude.

What are you *doing* in there? All the internets say that the second trimester is easier. Oh, it's sooooo easy, they say. It's like you forget you're even pregnant at all, they say.

And yet here I am, parked on the couch, having gotten in the shower at 4:30 in the afternoon and then changed directly into fresh pajamas. I did get a decent chunk of work done today.

But I'm also slowly sipping a glass of grapefruit juice in the hopes that it will help me stop thinking about barfing.

Because I am thinking a lot about barfing.

Like. A whole lot.

It gets worse at night.

Cut me some slack, Succotash.

I mean, I love you, don't get me wrong.

But I could use a little slack over here.

Daydreams

I have started fantasizing about you. Who you might be, and what you might do.

I have looked up summer camp in Marblehead. Short day camps start at 4. Childrens' Island starts at 7, where you head off on a boat with a packed lunch and run wild on an island with a swimming pool and an arts and crafts shed.

Intro youth sailing starts at the Pleon at 8. Last night your father dreamt about us sailing with you as a little boy, so by the time you go to Pleon you'll have already gone out afternoons with us on the Ensign. I am imagining buying you your own Opti when you are seven, wading out into Little Harbor and watching you muck about in it when the tide is low and going, so there's no chance of you getting in over your head.

I became very focused on thinking about names with your father this weekend, and made a large spreadsheet, and bounced several names off of him. Some he liked and I didn't (Abner), some I liked and he didn't (Adonijah), but we have a couple lined up now that I think could be good. I have a strong preference for one over another. It comes with a good nickname. I wonder if it's the name of a boy who is tall and confident, or the name of a boy who is bookish and shy. Or of a boy who is maybe a little bit on the spectrum, as I always suspect I am, who has to be cajoled to look people in the eye and who talks too long and with too much focused interest on obscure topics without understanding the boredom of his listeners.

A blue eyed boy? A brown eyed boy? Your father's are blue. Mine are brown. But three of my four grandparents were blue. I'd be lying if I said I didn't always want blue eyes. Internalized racism? Anti-semitism? Colorism? I don't know, but I'm still pleased to think that you have a 50/50 shot.

I'm already puzzled by the assumptions other people are bringing to you, as if mine aren't bad enough. Your step-granddad planning to buy you Astros onesies. Wondering what sports you will play. Because you're a boy, I guess. Never mind that your father hated sports, and still does, and of the two of us I'm the one who likes the World Cup and America's Cup and half-heartedly keeps up with the Red Sox just because I feel as though I should. Gender is a prison, little male person who is coming into being inside my body right now. I don't know how I'm going to free you of it. I probably can't. I can try to help you. Listen closely to what you tell me. Pay attention to your passions as they bubble into existence.

"We will have this kid for the rest of our lives," L said to me the other day. "This kid. Our son."

Our son. Succotash, still, for the time being.

You.

Pressing the Coffee

I had just gotten back from walking the dog and giving him some fresh kibble and I was pressing the coffee when the phone rang, and it was a 212 number from an official-looking place.

It was NYU, calling with our NIPT results.

They said that Succotash was at a "minimal," i.e. 1 in 10,000 risk for chromosomal abnormalities, and that they had information on the sex if I wanted it. Did I want it?

"Yes please," I said, still pressing the coffee.

"You ready?" said Olga, the nurse on the other end of the line.

"Yes," I said.

"It's a baby.... boy."

"Oh. Oh my gosh," I said, and I immediately started to cry. I think she congratulated me, and I know I thanked her for calling, and then we hung up and I was done pressing the coffee and I had to call L immediately and tell him that not only are we having a baby who is healthy, but he's a boy, and he's going to be a real person, out in the world.

This is really happening.

You. You are really happening.

Dream

Last night I dreamt that I had a 1965 Pontiac Firebird that I forgot I owned, that had been sitting in a garage for ten years. It was covered in tickets and one of its tires was flat, but when I got in it was perfectly shiny and clean, and I found two pairs of sandals and a couple of bras of mine that no longer fit. Small, delicate, and lacy. The car started right up when I turned the key. A convertible.

When I woke up I wasn't sure if there was such a thing as a 1965 Pontiac Firebird. I looked it up, and there was, and my dream reconstructed it with complete accuracy. 

It's not unusual for me to dream detailed architectural dreams, but they are usually rooms I discover in my house that I didn't know where there, or alternative arrangements of basements in apartments where I no longer live. Sometimes I dream about boats. But this is the first time that I know of I have had a detailed car dream.

It makes me wonder what other things I don't know that I know. And what these forgotten and rediscovered spaces might mean.

Outing

Well. Here we go.

Today in discussions with editor and agent about revised delivery deadline for a second novel, I had to out myself as someone who will need an extra year on the deadline because lo and behold, but I am having a baby come October. I had reasons for wanting to keep the news to myself, but keep it I could no longer.

And because my colleagues now know, I have told my parents that they can tell their friends and family if they want to.

You are very shortly to be a secret no longer, Succotash. God help us all.