ultrasound bytes

the circle of life

2011-10-06T12:31:00.002-04:00

the girlie with auntie

(written september 12, 2010)

watched the lion king with the girlie this afternoon. it was hard to break the intricacies of the story down to a three-year-old level (jealousy, deception, ancestry), but she got the good, ol' fashioned good vs. evil plot of simba reclaiming the throne from scar, so we were good. the final fight scene really got her riled up, and she was absolutely delighted at the end, when rafiki presented simba and nala's cub to a restored pride rock. the smile on her face was the best part of the experience for me.

i go outside myself for a moment, watching her as she watched simba. it seems sometimes as if she's growing up as quickly as he did in that music montage with pumba and timon. i feel like it's all getting away from me.

just yesterday my grandmother was taking my sister and me to see the lion king in the theater. my sister wasn't even 10 years old yet. she was more interested in the chicken fingers she was getting after the movie than the movie itself. now, she's 25 and married. my grandmother has become one of those ancestors watching over us, as mufasa teaches simba. i am a mother, trying to teach my daughter. and she is of an age when she can really understand and retain what i tell her.

time, man. and life. it is salt and sweet.

Three Is The Magic Number

2010-08-16T23:30:00.001-04:00

7/25/10

This Friday the Thirteenth was spooky for me, but not because of the superstition. M turned three. And even though I was there, in the bed at MacDonald Women's Hospital on August 13, 2007, it came as a bit of shock to me. Time just keeps ticking, and in every second, this little girl of mine becomes more of a miracle to me. I become more grateful for her presence in my life and grow deeper and broader as a person, spiritually and emotionally.

Still, the peril of time is that it affects memory. And so many of the adorable or downright funny little things that she's done are already starting to fade. I keep meaning to read this novel called The Professor's Daughter by a writer named Emily Raboteau. In it, a mother keeps a notebook of all the things her precocious son says. I keep saying to myself I should do the same thing. It'd be halfway full by now; that's how extraordinary this girl is.

I have so many stories . . .

When she was one, she would kick up a terrible fuss whenever it was bedtime (this hasn't changed much actually). Her grandfather would throw up his fist and say, "Tell Mama, tell her 'Free the Twinsburg One.'" After a few nights, that's all he'd have to say, and up would go her little fist. My little militant.

One afternoon, when I was picking her up from her great-aunt's, Auntie and I got into it about her afro puffs. I'm a fan; Auntie isn't. I told M, "Tell Auntie 'Black Power'." Of course, she repeats it. Later that day, we're in the grocery store with her Nana, and I am telling Nana the story. When I get to the part where M says "Black Power," she yells it at the top of her lungs, in the middle of an aisle filled with white patrons. I was flooded with horror and amusement. The girlie? Couldn't have been more pleased with herself.

Black Power Pt. II: M's father, who's her self-appointed music teacher, is trying to get her to yell out that famous James Brown refrain during one of their "lessons."

He points at M.

"Say it loud . . ." he prompts.

"Black Power!" she replies.

More about music: M, like generations of black babies before her, discovers the magic of Michael Jackson via her great-aunt. They dance to his greatest hits daily. One evening, I come to pick her up, and the neighbors are blasting MJ. I ask M if she can hear the music, and she says yes.

"I love Michael Jackson," she tells me.

"Do you?" I ask.

She nods her head solemnly.

"Everybody loves Michael Jackson, Mama. He's a star," she says.

Nobody ever told her this. She just knew.

We go to brunch with her grandparents. The restaurant is a diner on Shaker Square called Yours Truly. There's a wooden train set in the middle of the dining room for young patrons. M is all over it. While she's playing, a little boy comes over, and they strike up a little friendship. They have themselves a ball while we adults eat. Finally, though, it's time for them to part ways. M politely says good-bye and doesn't put up too much of a fuss as we leave. When we get about a foot from the table, she says, "I like that little brown boy. He was looking at me."

The Leo daughter of a Libra mom. 'Nuff said.

We're leaving her great aunt's, and since she hasn't mastered potty, there is the obligatory garbage can in the garage designated for her dirty diapers. It's a typical Cleveland day in July. Hotter than hell. So the stink is rising. As we step into the garage, M sniffs and frowns up her face.

"Yucky, Mama. It smells like ooey and gooey and stinky and phew and mud."

Well, whose fault is that, little girlie?

There are so many more stories like these. M singing "Wikked Lil' Girls" by Esthero word-for-word in the backseat of the car on the ride home. M answering that she's wet herself "just a little bit" when I ask if she's broken her latest promise to go potty. M patting my back and telling me not to worry when I fret about her needing to eat her vegetables or go to bed at a decent hour.

"I going to be O.K., Mama."

It's funny, but somehow I believe her.

At three, M is brighter, funnier, sweeter, and more dear to me than I ever could have imagined when I was pregnant. I tried desperately to picture her, project who she'd be and what our relationship would be. And though I give myself credit, as a writer, for coming up with some pretty lucid, and even lovely, images, the reality of being M's Mama surpasses anything I had in mind. When I said I wanted to be a mother, that I thought it would bring me joy and make me better, I had no idea.

This is a magical time for M. She is growing like a sunflower, and I feel blessed to be her partial gardener and guardian. I am still so greedy for all of the little kiddie moments that she has. I am so eager to give her all the love, support, and wisdom I can. I am so determined to be the mother and friend (someday) that she needs and desires.

I kissed her Friday and told her "Happy Birthday," but I didn't tell her what I really wanted to, which is "Thank you."

She is the best gift I have ever gotten. I thank God for her. And hope to be a blessing to her, too.

The cutest little flower girl you ever did see...

2010-08-04T14:24:00.000-04:00

At The Official End of Babyhood

2010-01-02T01:29:00.000-05:00

As the expression in the picture denotes, the girlie, though sweet, is not suffering from a shortage of attitude. I can't be angry; she gets it honest. Both of her parents are bright, passionate, pretty damn impossible people, when we want to be. Some parents might be disheartened or even disgusted that they actually have to have "discussions" with their two-year-old about the merits of bath and bed time in order to get her to make those moves, but I actually find it reassuring.

Most expectant mothers pray for a certain hair texture or skin color when throughout their 40 weeks. I just wanted her to be healthy and have a high functioning intellect. The fact that we can actually hold conversations says to me she is both. And since the DNA gods did see fit to make her yellow and curly-haired, I think (hope) that the intellect will keep her from being a poster child for post-racial America's unresolved plantation issues.

But I digress...

Even though I am completely gratified that M is already showing signs of that she will be as bookish, inquisitive, and assertive as Mama Bear, the fact that she isn't your typical two-year-old in terms of intelligence or force of personality is presenting challenges on two fronts.

One-discipline. Even though I can "talk" to her about what I'd like her to do (get into the tub, pick up her room, eat her veggies), and she nods and even repeats my ideas back to me, doesn't always mean she does what I've asked. Because she is so keyed into her wants, so accustomed to having them met, and so fearless when it comes to pushing back against anything that makes her angry or uncomfortable, M is just as likely to not do what I've said as to do it. And sometimes her refusal just isn't an option. And I have to act.

I am really ambivalent about it, but I do have to admit that I have begun spanking her when she flatly refuses to do what she needs to do. When there is room for choices or alternatives, I allow them, but when her safety ("Hold mama's hand while we walk through this parking lot") or well-being ("It's almost 10pm. Time for bed") are at issue, I make the call and require her to fall in with it. If she can't be convinced, then I give her some good ol' fashioned coercion. But I'm conflicted. I am.

One of the things I said to myself when I found out I was having a daughter was I would help her to discover, appreciate, and use her power at as early an age as possible. My early childhood was idyllic, but my preteen years and adolescence were marked by bullying and boy craziness. I was run by everyone and everything except my own wishes for myself and my life. I don't want that for her.

I don't spank often or for every offense, but each time that I do, I wonder whether I am inadvertently teaching her that her wishes will not or need not be respected. I worry that I am actually showing her how easily her power can be taken, and making it seem pointless for her to assert it. This fear, of course, is counterbalanced by the knowledge that she is a toddler and completely incapable of knowing all that she needs to do to remain healthy and even happy at this point in her development.

So even as the pendulum swings left then right, I can't seem to move forward with any sort of certainty about how I should discipline my strong-willed girl. I continue trying to reason with her as much as possible, persuade her in the instances when I can, and nudge her in the right direction when she refuses to go on her own. But the fact that I am not convinced that spanking is the best way--her sweet little face crumpling in the aftermath--does make it difficult.

The second issue is linked to this one: toilet training. Even though I have been asking and urging and even sitting her down on her beloved Elmo potty off and on for the last six months, she has absolutely no interest. Even though she finds the mess and awkwardness of diapering "too yucky," she still says "no, thank you" every time I invite her to skip it for a nice, sanitary sit-down on the throne. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do when she so adamantly and politely refuses. Although, I must say, giggling is probably not the best response. I know.

All of the literature that I have read on the topic say don't force it. Her doctor says don't force it. But this voices of being drowned out by all of the old school black mamas in our lives that say a baby should be toilet trained by two at the latest. M will be three in August. We're already getting eyes rolled and tongues clucked at us. She is oblivious, but I am feeling the pressure. And the expense of diapers, the inconvenience of changing someone as active and assertive as she has become, doesn't make it easy to ignore the admonitions.

Also, I would like to put her in day care within the next few months. She needs the socialization. But I am afraid to make a stranger responsible for her toilet. I worry about everything from the person's slovenliness to his or her pedophilia. Still, I think that going to school in diapers and seeing kids her age go potty might be just the encouragement she needs. Again, I'm stuck as to what's the right move to make.

This last year has been the most challenging of our time together. My little baby has become a little person, and she is a strong one. I have had to learn to step back, shut up, and let her be who she is. Yes, this early. And I have also had to learn that even though she is bigger and more capable, she probably needs my guidance more now than before. These are the years in which the foundation for who she will be for the rest of her life will be lain. I want it to be sturdy and able to serve her well. I don't want to smother her spirit with rules and rigid expectations, but I don't want to give her the freedom to grow into a person that cannot function effectively in the various systems that make up our society. I want her to enter into these systems and change them, improve them, not become grist for the mill.

So I weigh these heavy decisions. I try to be wise and think forward. I try to prioritize her health and happiness rather than my own ease. I pray that I am doing the right things and that they are having the desired effect on her mind, heart, and spirit.

At this--the official end of babyhood--I try to get us both prepared for all the new challenges coming our way. And I keep believing that we'll make it through OK, because we have so far, and because we're both of us tough, smart little women. Like Mama, like girlie.

A Series of Hairy Situations

2009-08-08T09:17:00.000-04:00

I have an aunt that can braid. When I was younger, she would tame my "happy" (my misinterpretation of the word "nappy") hair into neat, intricate cornrows. And all of the women in the family would give a collective sigh of relief, assured that even if I didn't inherit their "good" hair, I wouldn't be walking around looking bad.

That was nearly thirty years ago. Now, my aunt does my daughter's hair. A couple of weeks back, I asked her if she could switch from the cutesy ponytails she likes to give M to the cornrows that I remember from my own girlhood. She was reluctant.

"Her hair won't hold them; it's too soft," she told me.

No, I insisted. It's not that soft. Just try it.

Well, turns out baby girl's hair is too fine for cornrows. She did inherit the "good" hair gene that passed her poor mother over.

I say this with my tongue tucked blithely in my cheek, because the truth is I don't consider my hair "bad." Like so many women today, I don't buy into the good/bad binary at all.

Yes, I got my first relaxer at five, and remained dependent on the creamy crack until I was 22. I did the big chop and went natural then, but have gone back and forth between natural and relaxed easily, willfully since then. Over the last 10 years, my hair has been natural as often as it's been relaxed. And I appreciate it both ways. I regard my hair as an ornament, not a political or cultural statement.

Even still, I understand that hair represents more than aesthetic preferences. Aside from signifying that American blacks are a unique and beautiful mix of African, European, Native, and any- and everything else that has landed on these mythical shores, hair is also a symbol of the conflicted feelings many blacks have about their biology.

Case in point: I had terrible carpal-tunnel in the last trimester of my pregnancy. After I delivered, instead of going away, it intensified, making it extremely painful to handle the girlie. I went to the doctor, and was sent to a physical therapist to be fitted with braces. While sitting in the waiting room, girlie in tow, an older black woman with a sizable afro walked up to the stroller and peeked in.

"Oh, he's pretty," she said. When I corrected her assumption--the blue stroller used to throw off many an admirer before she began wearing braids and barettes--she nodded and went on with her fussing.

"She's got good hair. Where did she get all that good hair because..." she lifted her eyes and scanned my short, curly taper. "...she sure didn't get it from you?"

This was the first of a series of hairy situations in which the girlie and I have found ourselves since she was born.

Before I had her, a friend asked me, what will you do if she's "one of those girls"--light skin, good hair, oddly colored eyes? This was a distinct possibility; her father, paternal grandmother, and paternal grandfather are all light-skinned, and her maternal grandmother and great-grandmother both have very long, fine hair.

I told her that I wouldn't care if she had the finest or nappiest hair in the world; I could never begrudge my daughter any gift she was given, genetic or otherwise (By "gift" I mean beauty, not light skin or good hair specifically).

My concern would be making sure that black people didn't use her hair, or any aspect of her looks, to work out their "plantation issues," whether she landed on the so-called "good" or "bad" side.

I am a brown-skinned girl that carried a great deal of resentment for lighter, assumedly brighter girls when I was younger, and I didn't want her to be a victim of that same sort of jealousy, or the ugly arrogance that many of my old classmates developed after years of hearing how "cute" they were because of their "good" hair or "pretty" (i.e. not brown) eyes.

She came out with my face and her father's complexion; she got hair that is a mixture of his mother's long, wiry hair and my mother's long, downy hair. I think that my daughter is beautiful. I understand that by societal standards, she is a pretty girl, and I do get a certain level of comfort from that. Still, the regularity with which people comment on the texture of her hair and tone of her skin really worries me. It is constant and unmistakable in its deification of "good" hair.

A couple of weeks ago, I was wheeling her through Wal-Mart. We passed a cart carrying two slightly older, darker girls, with the "happy" hair that I had as a kid. They couldn't have been any older than five and three, but the envious look they gave the girlie, the palpable collapse of that envy into despair, was instantly recognizable. I felt protective of the girlie and extremely empathetic to these girls at the same time--split into two.

I could imagine girls like them snipping one of the girlie's offending braids off in art class one day when a boy that they like decides he likes M instead, punishing her for something that she can't help and didn't ask for, and I could channel the dejection that they would be feeling as they snipped that braid, the desire to erase all things that negate the beauty of their browner skin and coarser hair, which they can't help and didn't ask for.

I wondered how to help all three girls escape the plantation paradigm.

A couple of days ago, I took the girlie to the ER with a rash. The black woman in admissions fawned over M, going on and on about how pretty she was. The culmination: "She has some good hair."

M is two. This woman was probably 35. I thought to myself, it never ends.

The trailer to Chris Rock's new movie is circulating on the internet this week. It's called "Good Hair," and promises to be an insightful, if comedic, exploration of the ways that the binary damages black women of all shades and textures.

I can't wait to see it.

I am not so eager, though, to start helping the girlie navigate the treacherous sea that is black girlhood. I am so determined to keep her from defining herself by her appearance, buying into the binary, that I worry that I may thwart her from developing any appreciation for her beauty. This is just as crucial to a healthy sense of self as groundedness. So balance, I guess, is the key.

But how to effect that, when black people's attitudes remain so wildly out of proportion when it comes to hair?

If only mama knew.

I do know that I will work as hard as I can to make a new mold for M, one that doesn't lock her into debilitating beliefs about her looks or anyone else's.

Wish us luck.

In Search of Serenity

2009-06-28T00:57:00.000-04:00

I recently wrote an email to the Girlie's father about the state of our relationship, which has been languishing in some weird limbo between together and apart for over two years now, a space not unlike purgatory.

And it's fitting that I'd invoke Catholicism when talking about us because I have a lot of guilt about choosing to be with him now, since he's proven to be a poor father and an even poorer excuse for a partner.

Still, over the last couple of years, I have tried--mightily--to save our relationship. I have tried to make us into the family that I envisioned when I first discovered I was pregnant.

Needless to say (I'm sure the elegiac tone of this posting says it all), my efforts have failed.

He has continued to live his life as Peter Pan, the original lost boy, while I have become the overworked, overwrought single mother.

It's like he lives in a Pixar movie, while I'm trapped in a John Singleton joint.

And even though our relationship has always been about two people in very different places trying to love across the rifts that separate them, at this stage in the game, I still haven't been able to accept his refusal to make the journey to adulthood.

I am still violently angry that he keeps refusing to make us into that little black bobo family that we both said we wanted so badly.

The emotion has me trapped.

Every day, I mentally retread the path that got us here. Every decision, every argument, every twist and turn of the soap opera. Every day, I complain to my friends and family. I wake up wishing that things had worked out differently. I go to sleep feeling not just abandoned and disillusioned but horribly responsible.

It is that sense of responsibility that keeps me going back, trying to get him to do the "right" thing, make the "right" choice.

I feel that just because I made a foolish decision about who to date, who to love, who to have a baby with, doesn't mean that the Girlie should suffer. She shouldn't have to be a statistic because her mother allowed her low self esteem and other unresolved issues to prod her into a relationship with a selfish, underdeveloped asshole.

I keep trying to fix it by taking ownership of all of it, as if by making it all about me and what I've done I can somehow confer onto myself the power to fix it as well.

But it hasn't been working. And I am beginning to realize that it never will.

I didn't create this situation alone, and so I cannot correct it alone.

It's so funny... My grandmother gave me this tiny framed copy of the serenity prayer for my bedside table when I moved to Chicago for grad back in 2003. I am such a skeptic when it comes to religious dogma that I took it, but really only treasured it because it came from her, this woman that had always been my biggest cheerleader. I didn't pay attention to the words or the message. It sits on my dresser to this day; my eyes pass over it every morning. And this moment, right as I am writing this, may be the first in which I've ever seriously contemplated it.

Because I just spoke to my mother a few minutes ago about the situation, and she told me, after I went through my usual litany, that I cannot make the Girlie's father into a better man. I cannot make him want what I want for her. I can only give her all of the love that I feel she deserves, and shield her from any hurt or pain his absence or heedless presence may cause in her life, and even in doing that, I have to acknowledge that my power is limited. She told me to control what I can control, which is how I love her and how I love myself. She said know what it yours and handle it, and know what is his and return it to him.

She says I've been carrying the entire weight of this situation on my back for far too long when it isn't all mine to carry.

In other words, I have been showing a decided lack in wisdom. I haven't been able to to determine what are my obligations and what are his. I haven't been able to tell what is worth fighting for and what isn't.

But I am beginning to gain some clarity, through my mother's words, and her admonition to take care of myself, and to give myself space to grow not just intellectually but also spiritually into a wiser version of the Michelle I was before the baby--to change the things that I can.

And that is what I intend to do, going forward. I will begin with my concept of family. The Girlie and I make a pretty sweet one, if I do say so myself. She is a wonderful daughter, so bright, funny, strong-willed, and adventurous. And I am a good mother, I think. I try hard, I want much, and I do all that I can for her.

We are not an incomplete unit. We are not a failure. We are not victims. We are survivors of a nasty civil war that I am willing to concede in order to shift my focus from fighting to becoming a better person and moving forward, out of this cavern of disappointment and self-recrimination. That is a much more productive use of the power that I have to make change than trying to twist her father's arm. He can do whatever he likes. And when it comes time to face the consequences of those deeds, he can do that alone as well.

I will be enjoying the serenity that I hope to gain by surrendering to the truth--the thing that you can never change, no matter how hard you try.

He doesn't want to be any better or do any better than he's doing as a father. But his unwillingness to be a full, nurturing participant in the Girlie's life or mine will not destroy us.

She can be happy, I can be happy, and we can be a happy family without him.

Merry Christmas, Baby

2008-12-26T01:50:00.000-05:00

As the terrified expression on her face indicates, M wasn't necessarily a fan of Santa. And though she didn't take the traditonal, cutesy pic in the lap, I like this one better. It's a much more accurate representation of her personality. My girlie is watchful with people and doesn't fake her reactions. Though she senses what would be the more pleasing thing to do, she does what she wants instead, without compunction.

Though I know this is going to haunt me when she turned 13, I really admire this trait in her. I wish I had more of it myself.

So my gift this Christmas is another opportunity to appreciate this precious gift I've been given--a daughter that does please me by being her own interesting person.

Love it.

If she looks like a toddler, walks like a toddler, talks like a toddler ...

2008-07-10T22:08:00.000-04:00

I never figured myself for the type that would cry when my little one took his or her first steps.

But when Littles pulled herself up on her adorably fat little feet and toddled across my mother's living room a couple of weeks ago (July 10th to be exact), I did. I burst into tears.

It was such a bittersweet moment. Those first steps were the crossing of a threshold, in a sense. Girlie will never be as dependent upon Mama as she was, and that's a bit of a relief. She'll start talking, feeding herself, playing with other kids, and I'll regain a modicum of time and space that you sink into caring for an infant.

Those steps gave me something, yes, but they also took something away. When Girlie started walking, she struck out on a path that is only going to take her further and further away from me - out of the range of my watchful eyes, the grasp of my protective arms.

As I watched her, I realized that she wasn't my little bundle any longer. She's this little person, filled with curiosity, bravery, ideas and ambitions of her own, even if they are tiny in this stage.

They will only get bigger. She will only get bigger. And she will not want or need me around as much as she has over the last year.

I don't think that I could have been more choked up, watching her, if she'd been striding across the stage at her high school graduation.

There hasn't been a day since the 10th that I haven't paused for a second and just stared at her in wonder, been amazed by how big she's gotten.

I am proud of her. She is attentive, bright, sweet, and surprisingly single-minded. She learns quickly, retains well, and actually seems to have a sense of humor.

She's my sweetie, my buddy, my pookah, my Littles Skadiddles. I rush home to her every time I leave, and I jump out of bed to get to her every morning. She is the single greatest source of joy in my life.

Seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, these things just ... warm me from the inside.

But watching her little lopsided walk, her tumbles, her falls, her tantrums ...

These things make me afraid of all the challenges that she will face, that we will face as she grows.

I keep telling myself she's only one. She's still a baby.

But that's not true. As badly as I'd like it to be.

My baby has become a toddler somehow. I blinked, looked away for a moment, and time got her. It got me.

Whenever I complain about a upcoming birthday, my father has this line. He says, "Consider the alternative." It always roll my eyes when I hear it because even though I understand that mortality is real and time is limited, I am young, healthy, and have just had a baby. I feel too hopeful to seriously entertain the thought of losing my life.

However, when I put Littles in my place and think of the alternative to watching her grow up - not having her, someone else raising her - I shut up my complaining immediately. I go over to her and give her a hug.

There's losing and then there's losing.

Littles and I may be losing the intense bond that babies and mommies have in infancy, but I tell myself that we are also gaining in the process.

A chance to grow and rediscover each other.

How could I ever regret that?

Pretty on the Inside

2008-06-25T12:49:00.000-04:00

My daughter is a princess.

She is the first baby born to my mother's side of the family in 23 years. She came right after the death of my grandmother, which threw my family for a loop since she died just three weeks after being diagnosed with lung cancer. She is a great-great grandchild (to my 93-year-old great-grandmother), my parents' first grandchild, and the first grandchild for her father's parents as well.

She is fat, rosy-cheeked, curly-haired, and always laughing. She does adorable things like clap her hands over her ears when she's playing peek-a-boo and put up her black power fist when my father calls out "Free the Twinsburg One" in protest of her early bedtime. She knows how to bat her eyelashes and give hugs and kisses to get out of trouble, and she looks so sweet in her barettes and frilly little sundresses that I have had more than one person use the words "Gerber baby" to describe the picture she makes.

And I am of two minds about her beauty.

As the mommy of the pretty little baby, I'm proud. It's silly really, because her looks are actually just a mistake of genetics - happenstance. Still, I see bits and pieces of my face in hers and sometimes flatter myself that when people are complimenting her, they are talking about those twin angles and planes. I smile even wider than she does, a confession that might seem like a given, except at ten-months-old, my girlie knows the meaning of the word "pretty" and will grin, flash her dimples, and smooth the skirt of her dress whenever someone says it within two feet of her.

I am not only proud to have a pretty baby, but I am also relieved. She didn't have to be pretty, and I am not one of those people that believes that a child is always beautiful to his or her parents. I think parents love their children unconditionally, but that's not the same thing as failing to see or realize that their child is unattractive. I hate to admit it, but I am superficial enough that I would have been disappointed if my daughter wasn't "cute."

Another reason for my relief is our society's rigid standards of beauty. It's hard enough to be black in America, but to be black and not conventionally attractive - that's brutal. So I can't lie. I breathed easier than I had in months when I peeled back the blanket in that labor room and saw the little face featured in the blog banner. I fell in love with it instantly and didn't have any trouble imagining others doing the same thing.

But there's something dark underlying these shiny, happy feelings about my little girl's looks. An icky, undeniable fear.

As a brown-skinned girl, I grew up resenting light-skinned girls just a little. I lived in an all-black neighborhood, which was tantamount to a plantation in terms of the intraracial issues that were always roiling. The light-skinned girls were the "pretty" girls in my neighborhood, my school, whether they were actually pretty or not. Even after high school, I held to the belief that light-skinned girls think they are better that brown-skinned or dark-skinned girls and need to be brought down a peg whenever possible. I grew out of it eventually, but the right look from a lighter skinned woman on the wrong day can always bring those feelings right back.

I worry about my daughter being subjected to nasty attitudes and abuse from brown-skinned girls who have had the same type of bad experiences as me. I hate the thought that she may be labeled "stuck up" or "saddity" just because she has her father's light complexion and scapegoated. I want her to be able to appreciate her looks in the way I wish I'd been able to appreciate mine. I don't want her to have to apologize or downplay them. I want her to be able to celebrate them.

I worry about her self-image. As it is, we cannot make it through the vestibule of a mall without being stopped by someone who wants to ooh and aah over the pretty baby. And she loves the attention. I want her to be confident, to appreciate her beauty, like I said, but I don't want her to be defined by it. I want her to understand that she is and can be so much more than pretty. I want her to be as concerned about her personality as she is about her appearance. I don't want her up on that weird pedestal where our society places pretty people - way above the rest of us - where even when they are being absolute assholes they can do no wrong.

There are times when my daughter and I are alone in the house, and she is playing or exploring, turning something over in her hands with a smile on her face, and I think that I could watch her for hours. Yes, millions of babies are born everyday, but I only have the one, and she truly is miraculous to me. I often look at her and think that just a year ago, I couldn't see her. I couldn't hold her. It amazes me that she is now learning to stand and walk and talk. Of course I think she is the sweetest and best baby. And I am tickled when other people see that sweetness, that goodness.

But I am always thinking of how to keep my adoration of this first, this only, this special child from making her into a monster. I believe that it is possible to be beautiful and ugly at the same time. As her great-great-grandmother is fond of saying, pretty is as pretty does.

I may be ambivalent about her looks, but I am certain of this.

I want my girlie to be pretty on the inside.

That's more important than any dimples or good hair.

Ball of Confusion

2008-04-02T12:20:00.000-04:00

The song with this title is either a classic 1970 Temps song, or what the zany nuns in "Sister Act II" sang, depending on your era. For me, it's an apt description of my mind right around now. The world is crazy, just as it was when Dennis, Eddie, and 'nem were two-stepping in flares with mutoon chops. But this blog isn't about the state of the world. It's about the state of my world, in which, I have to admit, things are as chaotic as they are everywhere else, if on a tinier scale.

The new job is a lot more challenging than I thought it'd be, I am seriously, SERIOUSLY thinking about quitting my Ph.D. program - why? - to earnestly, EARNESTLY start the writing career that I've wanted since I was nine years old.

The boyfriend and I are back in negotiations i.e. we're talking about moving in together AGAIN and possibly even - *gasp* - getting married.

I am having major weight issues, per usual.

And I really want to overhaul my dynamic with a couple of the most important people in my life - my mom, my sister, the boyfriend's mom, my friend A.

I have a lot to sort out, and not a lot of energy or time to sort it. But here's the thing ...

The one thing that I am not confused or worried about is motherhood. And that is the thing that I thought would drive me craziest of all.

It's the most peculiar thing.

Even though there is nothing more important to me than doing the right thing by my baby, being what she needs, giving her what she needs, mothering with passion and care and commitment, of all of the things I am trying to do, I am least wracked by taking care of her.

I'm not saying that it comes naturally, but I am saying that it is the only part of my life in which I've been able to let my intuition guide me without being completely terrified and fighting it every step of the way. And ta-dah! - IT'S WORKING.

I'm getting it right for the most part.

And it is so gratifying. It feels good, coming through for her.

I'm not saying that I'm not making mistakes, but I'm rebounding from them in a healthy, productive way when I do. And on the whole, I'm keeping her safe and happy (as evidenced by the picture). I see that face, smiling, those eyes dancing, and I know that we're good.

Baby Girl is getting her first two teeth. She is eating solid food. She is scooting ... backward ... but scooting.

She is standing up with help. She can take off her own shoes and socks. She can splash in the bath.

She laughs. She sings. She recognizes and adores Elmo.

She recognizes and (seemingly) adores Mommy.

She's thriving.

So I figure that if I allow my heart and soul to guide me in the other areas of my life, then, Mommy may soon be thriving, too.

Man ... I've always heard that kids teach parents ...

My Body - Beautiful?

2008-02-12T10:09:00.001-05:00

A newsroom is a fascinating place to work - not necessarily because of all of the things you hear, but more because of the people you meet.

I am not talking about politicians or activists or criminals or other so-called newsmakers. I'm talking about my co-workers - the so-called everyday people.

They are all definitely as interesting as anyone that the station reports on.

The most interesting of the assortment so far is a fellow news assistant - let's call her J.

J has the looks of a Hollywood starlet - full weave, five-inch stilletos, impossibly thin body, incredibly big ass. She has a show wardrobe that rivals Carrie Bradshaw's. But despite the image, she is a devout Christian and - da-da-da-dah - hardcore vegan.

This is where it got interesting for me ...

I'm not certain whether her weave is human hair or yaki, but I do know that her various, candy-colored stilettos and pumps are leather, so I was pretty tickled by her lectures on the inhumanity of the meat industry when we first met.

She tried to school me to the dangers of preservatives, hydrogenated fat, high fructose corn syrup, artificial sweeteners, and of course, the usual suspects - red meat, dairy, and white carbs.

She asked me, "If you knew what these things did to your body - in detail - would you stop eating them?" I told her no.

I thought to myself, You give up your yak, I'll give up my pork and beef.

Still, J struck a nerve when she started listing all the effects of the junk I eat.

Truthfully, in the years leading up to my pregnancy, when having a baby was an idea I was bouncing around, I thought I would give up all of my bad eating habits when I became a mother - easily and happily.

I am a fairly intelligent woman, and through my endless diet experiences, I have read way more on nutrition than my figure would suggest.

I have known since seventh grade health class that good nutrition is important during pregnancy, and I've had a pretty decent understanding of what comprises "good nutrition."

Regrettably, I didn't have the willpower during my pregnancy to eat healthfully.

I ate junk, then, repented by eating fruit and salad, only to break down and eat more junk.

I was caught in the same sick cycles as I was before the baby, disordered eating that doesn't involve starvation or vomiting, so doesn't seem so "bad."

It made me worry about the baby's health and my own and was one of the things that I look back on and wish I'd done differently.

I was always anxious that my daughter would be the case study for some mysterious link between prenatal Pepsi consumption and autism.

Anyway, J tried to convert me. She shook her boxes of gluten-free this and vegan that in my face and preached on the virtues of tofu, soy, and agave nectar.

And I gave up the ghost. I promised to give up Pepsi and reduce my red meat. I agreed to try eat healthier overall.

But I digress ... slightly ...

Though J couldn't get me to give up my beloved bacon, she did get me to think about my body again in a way that I hadn't since I was pregnant.

When you're pregnant, you actually begin to think of your body as more than the thing that can win you a boyfriend or hang a cute outfit.

You actually begin to focus on its functions, its condition. You begin thinking about that heart - whether it's strong enough to sustain you and your baby. You think about your lungs, their capacity to breathe for you both.

You think about the miracle of your reproductive system. You develop new respect for your body, despite its cellulite, scars, sags, bags, flaps, and flab. You come to understand that it is a wonder, a marvel.

You are glad for it because it works, not because it's skinny or supple.

Eating has always been problematic for me. Intellectually, I get that food is really just fuel. It should taste good, but you shouldn't necessarily eat for the taste. Rather, you shouldn't eat for pleasure.

Pleasure should come from other things in your life. Food should be the thing you take in to maintain your body.

But food is, and has always been, so much more than that for me. I do eat to feel pleasure. It pushes out a lot of other things I don't want to feel or experience.

I eat to fill time. I eat away anxiety. I eat to reward myself. I eat to celebrate. I eat and I eat and I eat. And rarely do I think about what the eating--the greasy, fatty, sugary, artificial food--does to my body.

If eating is supposed to sustain you, then, I have to admit that I am eating completely wrong. I am not honoring my body. I am slowly destroying it.

The implications of this are much more serious now that I am a mom, too. I have a little one watching and potentially modeling the way I mistreat my body. If my body breaks down, then, my baby has a sick mommy ... Or a dead one.

People are funny. They float in and out, and sometimes, they leave something that sticks.

J is funny, with her weave and heels, but she's also insightful in her own way.

She has made me see that my body can be beautiful. If I take better care of it, it can become a haven for my big heart.

And I have to love that.

Work & Worry

2008-01-06T22:44:00.000-05:00

I always thought that I'd be a working mother. Even when I fantasized about being a full-time writer, and working from home, my imaginary self was working - spending at least six hours a day holed up in a home office, bent over a computer, while the kids did ...

Well ... I have to admit ... I spent more time thinking about what I'd be doing than what they'd be doing.

The entire time I was pregnant, I was job searching. I actually began job searching the minute I landed back in Cleveland, in December of '05, and never stopped - not even when I got the full-time job at the Jewish school.

It only took me about a month to realize that probably wasn't going to do it for me. So I slogged on, trying to find something that would.

I decided that I wouldn't apply for any job that I didn't really want, and so I didn't apply for a lot of jobs, but I was applying consistently. And I kept searching, even when I wasn't finding.

It was tiresome, but I believed there would be a light at the end.

When I had the baby, it didn't slow me down any. I just kept going, hoping to find some satisfaction along with the job of my dreams.

Finally, I've found a job that I want. I've found a job that excites me. I am going to be working as a news assistant for one of the local television channels. It's entry level, not enough money, but the opportunities to learn, grow, and advance are incredible.

So why the post?

You guessed it ...

I don't know whether I am ready to leave the baby and go back to work.

One part of me is excited and eager to get back. I think it will help me to feel more like myself than a bottle-making, burping machine.

Michelle has always had a job, since the week after she turned 16. In fact, Michelle has often had up to three jobs at once. Work is her thing. Financial independence, participation in the public sphere, feminism, yadda, yadda, yadda.

But Mommy is completely infatuated with her baby girl and adores being able to spend long, lazy days playing with her, watching her, bonding with her.

She doesn't want to miss one smile, one laugh, one opportunity to comfort her girl when she cries.

She is afraid that as the months pass, and her girl gets bigger, she'll miss those milestones - first steps, first words.

She is feeling really possessive - doesn't want her girl to become closer to her babysitter than she is to her mommy.

And she is feeling guilty, because her girl is so young and because so much of her desire to remain home has to do with wanting to be the most important person in her girl's life. She is not worried about whether her girl will receive suitable care, but about whether she will come to prefer that care to mommy's.

I am very grateful to have found a job that I believe I will enjoy. But I am also worried that I may be leaving my baby too soon, before she knows me as Mommy. I feel like someone is playing tug-of-war with my insides right now.

I understand that deep down, this situation will work out. My mother was a working mother, who went back to work when both my sister and I were three months. We are both close to her. I believe that the working mother thing can work.

But my heart still skips every time I think about spending a whole eight-hour day away from my girl.

Oh, the drama. No one could have ever told me that I'd have one pang of regret about going back to work after having my baby. No one.

But there it is ... Motherhood changes you.

I don't know that I will ever feel the same about work again. Or that I will find work as fulfilling as I have in the past.

I think that Michelle will always be partially defined by her work, her work ethic.

But I also think that Michelle is going to have to take a back seat and let Mommy drive.

She's a pushy thing, but in this case, she's going to have to surrender some of her control, alter some of her ideas.

Mommy's going to be on her job, the most important job, for the next eighteen years.

Fear and Actualization

2008-01-03T10:06:00.000-05:00

I can't even count the times that someone has said to me over the last few years, "Don't say that! Words have power."

I am a writer, so certainly I believe that words are incantations.

I just don't know that they necessarily make things appear and disappear like magic.

To me, words are just one of the forces that create reality. And I don't even think that they are the most powerful.

Still, I realize that I got pregnant after a long period of obsessing over motherhood and working through my fears about missing my chance verbally. On and on I went, to my boyfriend, my mother, my other friends who were just as worried as I that they reach 40 and have careers, houses, cars, cash, but no kids.

There were times when I even got on my own nerves.

It started on my 29th birthday. I looked at my life and began panicking. Not because I was a year away from 30, but because I hadn't accomplished half of what I wanted. I hadn't written a novel. I wasn't financially stable. I wasn't married. And I wasn't a mom. I began to fear that none of these things would happen. After leaving Chicago, where I had fizzled out in my Ph.D. program, coming back to Cleveland, a dead-end job, a deadbeat boyfriend, I was feeling hopeless.

I think that my fear of failure transmuted to something more manageable - this intense desire to "settle" the whole mommy matter. Conquering all of the insecurities that keep me from pursuing my dream of becoming a freelance writer seemed too daunting a task. Curbing my compulsive eating and spending seemed impossible. The economy made finding fulfilling work feel like mission impossible.

But with a long-term boyfriend and a fairly healthy body, a baby was something that I could have. So I let the fear of failure, the convenience of my romantic situation meld into urgency. I began to feel like out of everything on my list, the baby was the thing that I should focus on. I had to make sure that I had the baby.

I told myself that as long as I was fairly vital, I could sit down and write a book, I could rid myself of my habits, I could buy the house, build the career. But I wouldn't always be able to have a baby. I had to figure that out before my body figured it out for me.

I said that words don't have that much power, but I think that fears might. Because in the year leading up to thirty, and for many months after that "important" birthday, my fear that I would end up making nothing of my life really changed my life.

It put a definite strain on everything, made me feel like I was living with a bomb ticking in my mind. Or maybe I should say in my uterus.

At the same time that my bomb was ticking, so was my grandmother's. She had lung cancer, had been suffering with it for years, except no one knew. Around the time that she was diagnosed, a month or so before my 30th, my birth control pills - which I'd been taking since I was 17 - same prescription - started making me incredibly nauseous.

It was probably psychosomatic - worry pushing a crazy sequence of buttons and levers in my mind.

Or maybe it was serendipity.

Or it might have been my fear that somehow made this thing happen with my body. That whole thing of fear and actualization ...

I'm sure that you can probably guess the rest of this story. It's a tale as old as time.

On mornings when I didn't want to be bothered with the nausea, I wouldn't take the pills. My grandmother was sick. My relationship was strained. My self-esteem was low. I had a new job, I was dealing with the kids, being an outsider (black at an Orthodox Jewish school) - it was one more thing.

Then, other mornings, I would begin worrying about skipping the pills, and I would take them. Two in a day, three in a day. I thought I could get away with it because, at the time, the boyfriend and I weren't living together or having what I termed "that much sex."

I kept telling myself, asking him to remind me, to go to the doctor and get a new prescription.

And when I finally made it to her office, and peed in the cup, I was told that I no longer had anything to fear in regard to missing motherhood.

I was ten weeks pregnant.

That happened December 10, 2007.

I have had some really bad moments over the year since then, wondering if I made the pregnancy happen.

I understand that I technically made it happen. I didn't take the pills according to the instructions on the package. The rest is biology. But I guess I am making a distinction between making it happen and willing it to happen.

I never made a conscious decision to get pregnant, but I wonder whether my soul made a move that mind couldn't, wouldn't acknowledge.

Or maybe those intangible aspects of being - words, thought, emotion - do have the power that people acribe to them and they spurred it to happen.

Or maybe it was serendipity - happy coincidence - one soul entering the family right around the time that another was slipping out, helping to ease the pain of that loss.

I don't know.

I say that I've had bad moments because the birth of my daughter hasn't just changed my life, but my boyfriend's too. And I often suspect that this change has been much more difficult for him to weather than me - for a lot of reasons.

He's much younger than me, and I don't know that parenting her hasn't put pressure on him that he isn't equipped to handle.

It's unfair to change someone else's life without their consent, even if it is sometimes unavoidable. I realize that, and I feel guilty to have done just that. Even if I didn't do it on purpose.

Still, despite my misgivings, I am thankful that I ended up pregnant. Motherhood gives me the freedom to love without that dreaded enemy - fear.

As you can see, he sticks pretty close to me. I've been working to shake him since I learned his name, and this is the first relationship I've had in which he doesn't rule my actions. I am never afraid that my daughter will stop loving or needing me. I am never afraid that she will outgrow me or shed me.

I am thankful for the opportunity, the privilege of experiencing a love this sure.

I am enjoying it.

That's my new thing. Trying to welcome growth - without fear.

From now on, I don't want to worry that the things happening in my life are just my fears being actualized. I want the gratification of choosing, then, making my dreams come true.

Having my daughter taught me that.

New Year, New Approach

2007-12-30T06:35:00.001-05:00

So A. asked the other day whether I would have another baby. And instead of doing my usual sarcastic deflection thing, I answered her honestly.

Yes, I said. I would have another baby, if I were in good health, stable financial condition, and a happy marriage.

Then, I went even deeper. I delved into the reasons for these conditions.

A second pregnancy, for me, means a second chance. I want that. To experience a pregnancy without the stress, the confusion, the guilt that took away from the joy of carrying my daughter.

My pregnancy was not bad - no. But I was extremely anxious. Over my job situation, my living arrangement, my relationship with my daughter's father.

I wanted to be one of those pregnant women that seem to float on air, but instead I was bogged down because my mind was filled with worries.

I have to say; after emptying all of this out, I hung up the phone feeling rather pensive.

I started rethinking my pregnancy and all of the things I'd done surrounding the birth of my daughter up until that conversation with A.

When I started this blog, I expected to be having these mind-blowing revelations about myself, motherhood, womanhood, life, and wanted to share them with whoever cared to read them.

I meant to do some serious writing because I believed that bringing my daughter into the world would be one of the most meaningful things that I would ever do.

I wanted to honor it.

But when I reflected on the content of this blog - after my conversation with A. - I realized that I hadn't really treated the experience with the gravity and mindfulness it deserved.

I did my usual sarcastic deflection thing.

And so I have committed to writing seriously, revealingly, thoughtfully, about being a mother in this next year.

I want to try to capture all of the beautiful, terrifying, and complicated ways that this experience has come to bear on me - how it has changed me and in some ways made me.

And I want to give, if I can, just a glance of the beauty of being my baby's mama.

It is truly a beautiful thing.

(Drum roll) ...

2007-08-22T12:19:00.001-04:00

I am ecstatic to introduce my angelically beautiful, ridiculously brilliant, and immeasurably precious daughter Littles Skadiddles (yes, I am going to be that parent to call her baby by nonsensical nicknames).

Though she only sleeps in three-hour shifts and has puked and pissed on me more times than Lindsay Lohan has her personal bodyguard, I am head-over-heels in love with her. And very proud to be her mother.

So, after 40 weeks and three days, 26 hours of labor and 15 minutes of animal pushing, my pregnancy has ended and motherhood has begun.

I wish that I had written more, and I'm thinking that now that I have time and hindsight, I may add to the blog.

But even if I don't, I'm glad it's up. I'm glad I made an attempt, at least, to chronicle the experience.

Because it really was huge. It was a kind of miracle.

I don't think I've ever had a better grasp of sacrifice, patience, commitment, and love than I do now.

And I expect that my time with Littles will only teach me more and more about becoming a better person.

Well, enough of this sentimental blah-blah-blah.

The baby's crying ...

Gotta run.

Nesting and Nosediving

2007-07-23T05:46:00.001-04:00

Last weekend marked it - the last month. The due date is less than a month away - August 9th. The birthing class has been attended. The shower has been had.

Today, in a fit of nesting, I coerced my mother (who should have been working on an article for a journal) to help me put together the Tummy's playpen, changing table, and hamper. It was weird - assembling and arranging these nursery things with no nursery. Placing furniture in a house that's not mine.

And it really started messing with the giddy mood I've been in, looking forward to the birth and everything. It hit me over the head, like a hardbound copy of the Moynahan Report.

I am a single mother.

And all the cutesy, couple-y things that you see new parents doing on commercials and in romantic comedies ... I'm not going to get the chance to do.

I realized - as I folded, unfolded, and refolded all of the tiny, adorable clothes stacked up around me, as I contemplated bringing my baby back from the hospital to her roomful of pretty pink things - my baby had everything she needed - stroller, changing table, bassinet - except a day-to-day daddy.

The thought really took the shine off my pleasant afternoon.

Though I didn't plan my pregnancy, I hoped that it might make my boyfriend and I into a family. And I'm really, really hurt that it hasn't.

I'm not saying I want the shotgun wedding, but I guess ... I thought that my boyfriend and I would do this thing together. It's what we talked about, even if the scheduling is off. And though he's been around, I still feel like this is happening to me and me only. I still spend five out of seven nights alone in my apartment with fear gnawing at me, and it makes me think ... What have I done?

The baby kicks, and I am thrilled at the prospect of meeting her, raising her. She punches, and I am terrified that I have made her into a statistic, doomed her to a life of attachment and abandonment issues.

And we won't even get started on how deeply the prospect of single motherhood has tapped into my own absent father, stepchild issues.

I recently joked with my mother that because the baby and I are going to be living with her and my father (until I get another full-time gig), the baby is going to call her Mom like I do, call my father Dad like I do, call me Mikki like they do, and call her dad "that negro" like my mother does. It was funny when I said it, but thinking on it now, it makes me blue.

I don't devalue the single parent thing. My mother was a single mother for the first, formative years of my childhood. Her mother was essentially a single mother (grandpapa was a rolling stone). Her mother was a single mother. I think that they were all wonderful parents, and I can only hope to do as well as they did.

I even, in my modern woman, feminist arrogance, thought that I might choose to have a baby on my own. Take control of my own reproductive destiny. Unplug the biological clock and close it up in the junk drawer.

Yet, I have ended up like a million other women before me. I guess I had that ridiculous notion that the pregnancy would act as a linchpin in my relationship. So stupid. So ... just ... stupid ...

Makes me wonder if I have any business becoming a mother at all.

Ultrasound Update

2007-06-25T23:17:00.000-04:00

So ...

We're in the home stretch - Week 36.

I am beyond excited.

I'm going to have a baby!

I'm going to have a baby?

I'm going to have a baby.

And yes, finally, I'm as big as a house.

No, truthfully, my weight gain is still holding at 12 lbs. Pretty good considering the number of fries I've consumed in the last seven months. Enough to buy a Idaho farmer a new tractor or silo or something, I'm sure.

Still, I only have about five weeks to go, and the goal is to keep the weight gain below 20. That said, just today I ate a bowl of Lucky Charms, a chicken sandwich, wafer fries, steak, baked potato, wing-dings, two big glasses of soda, and a partridge in a pear tree (not really, but if someone had served up a little partridge, I probably would have sampled that bad boy). Oh, and a peach, some grapes, and a salad. Real healthy, right?

No, seriously, the weight gain is not bothering me. The acne, however, is messing with me really badly.

I was one of those lucky teenagers that got the occasional zit but didn't have bad skin. Now, I am paying for all of those years that I breezed through. I have four very large zits on my nose - one in the center, one on each nostril, and one on the bridge. I have pimples all over my cheeks and forehead. I have a sprinkle of scars over my chin from all the pimples I got during my second trimester. I even have pimples on my chest.

A friend told me, back around the time of my ultrasound, that baby girls take their mother's good looks from them. I laughed this off as an old wives' tale at the time. Now, I'm beginning to think there's some truth to it.

I just hope that baby girl gives them back when she gets here because - hey - I'm still a single woman, technically. And with the stretch marks and National Geographic, aboriginal boobs, I'm going to need a clear complexion. All the help I can get ...

But you know ... Aside from the acne, the stretch marks, the odd aches and pains that keep me from sleeping comfortably, the flatulence, the fact that my Tummy Girl likes to practice her karate in the earliest hours of the morning, this is really a fairly easy pregnancy.

No, it really is.

I had zero morning sickness in my first trimester, and aside from a hardcore butt cramp that I kept for most of May, swollen feet, and the skin stuff, I haven't had any physical problems.

I know it probably sounds corny, but I actually believe I have my grandmother to thank for it. She passed away just a few months before the baby was conceived, and I think she may have had a hand in her coming. I feel like she has been watching over me and the baby. She's been in my dreams constantly since December, and it makes perfect sense to me that in this craziest time, she's been giving me the same love and protection from the other side that she gave while she was here.

I am praying that she gets us through the delivery as safely as she has gotten us through the pregnancy.

Stick 'Em Up

2007-03-25T14:42:00.001-04:00

Today marks my second time dealing with the health care and insurance industries since I got the news about Tummy and getting smacked over the head with the realization that, as the late, great James Brown yelped in that famous old-time hit, this is indeed a man's world.

First time, I decided that I needed insurance coverage beyond the student wellness plan provided by U of C. This is before I got my little, or rather my giant, X-mas surprise.

I was just thinking about my own health - the fact that I have Crohn's Disease, astigmatism, that cancer, hypertension and diabetes run in the family - and level of preparedness in case of an emergency. Then, I got the pregnancy news, and I knew that I was going to need extra coverage.

Well, too bad for me. Because guess what? Insurance companies don't sell health coverage to pregnant women. Apparently, that's a pretty consistent policy in the insurance industry. A consultant I spoke to informed me of this as delicately and apologetically as possible, but he didn't waver on it at all. "We don't extend coverage to expectant mothers," he said. Pregnancy is listed among the pre-existing health conditions that insurance companies don't cover.

WHAT? Only in America would you find that pregnancy is conceptualized as an effing illness.

I tried to rebound from this without internalizing any negative feelings, but then, last week, I take my first prescription for prenatal vitamins to Walgreen's and turn it in. No problem, I think. I'm in the computer, I have my student insurance, everything is set. I should only have to pay $15 for the brand name under my coverage, and I can swing that. But oh no! OH NO!

Because guess what, people? Prenatal vitamins are not covered by the insurance. Let me say that one more time, in case you didn't catch it...

A NECESSARY PHARMACEUTICAL TREATMENT PRESCRIBED BY A DOCTOR FOR THE DAILY CARE OF A PHYSICAL CONDITION THAT COULD AFFECT MILLIONS FROM WHAT I DO BELIEVE IS THE LARGER SEGMENT OF THE POPULATION AT THIS POINT IS NOT COVERED BY A STANDARD HEALTH INSURANCE POLICY.

So instead of paying $15 for my pills, I ended up paying $25.99.

I thought that I had put my anger over this away, too. Then, last night on the local news, there was a story about a woman on the west side of Cleveland, in her thirties, going around to local pharmacies and sticking them up for Oxycotin. Just making the rounds very quietly, inconspicuously, showing the men behind the counters her gun, and walking out very calmly with the pills.

The visual got me to thinking...

What if a very visibly pregnant woman started sticking up pharmacies for free prenatal vitamins? Or what if a poor pregnant woman charged into the most state-of-the-art hospital in her area with a shotgun and demanded quality assistance in the birth of her baby?

What if women started sticking up the system for what they need, since the system won't give it? What if they started sticking up for their rights more? Because I do believe that adequate health care is a right, not privileges, don't you?

I guess it's just like me to want to start a revolutionary army of angry, disfranchised pregnant women now that I am in the fray.

But really ...

If you see me on the national news, facing off with a CVS pharmacist, wearing camouflage and brandishing a baseball bat with a belly out to here, don't be surprised...

There's only so much a sore, swollen, hungry, hormonal woman can take ...

Ms. New Booty

2007-03-14T23:13:00.000-04:00

Though I am terrified that I will never lose the 25-250 pounds that I stand to gain bringing Tummy Girl into the world, I have to say...

I was hoping that one of the upsides of the pile-on would be a booty like the one Scary Spice is sporting in yonder photo.

I mean, look at how she's filling out the fleece. She looks like a video vixen from the back, and it's so not fair.

Not fair? No, it's not fair, because while she humps around Beverly Hills with the sort of backside that inspired the Black-eyed Peas, I am as flat as my computer monitor and ten times as wide. And it isn't like Mel B. didn't have a helluva booty to begin with...

Oh well ... I guess I shouldn't envy her too much. She's got Eddie Murphy going on talk shows denying paternity, demanding blood tests. At least I don't have to track down my baby's daddy.

I have him hog-tied in my linen closet so he won't get away.

I'm just kidding...

Now that I'm five months and in full bloom, all I have to do is throw myself across his lap.

He couldn't move me if he tried.

Is You Is Or Is You Ain't...

2007-01-16T21:19:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, for many baby mamas, when this question comes up, it is usually in relation to paternity.

Luckily, for me, the question has to do with my stubbornly flat belly.

See, the thing about early pregnancy is, you've got the boobs, you've got the cravings, you've got the dull, endless headache, the fatigue. But you don't have that tell-tale sign - you don't have The Belly.

If you read the gossip mags like I do, then you know that The Belly, or "bump" as it is called, is the thing.

The first trimester is made tricky by this absence of belly. You want to tell people, and maybe you do tell a few co-workers and friends, but they look at you sort of dubiously. They look down at your midsection, back up at your face, and shrug. "Congratulations?"

You flip out on your man about eating the last ice cream sandwich in the freezer, and you catch him looking at the belly, wondering if you aren't just playing a really, really sick joke on him.

Anyway, until last Monday, I was feeling decidedly un-pregnant, pouting about my lack of belly, wondering when it was going to come. I was stuffing my face at every meal, then, looking down eagerly, only to be disappointed when my slight gut peeked up at me.

Then, I went to the doctor and heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time. And in five seconds, five weeks of anxiety, fear, and doubt melted away.

Underneath my own booming heart, I heard the tiny, rapid pitter-patter of the baby's. It was clear as a bell, steady, you might even say insistent. I heard this incredible thing, and I knew in my bones, for the first time, I'm going to be a mom.

It's hokey, I know, but it was pretty effing amazing.

This post isn't nearly as exciting as an episode of Maury Povich, I know ("Tayshon, you are not the father of Equitisha's six-month old son"), but reliving that moment in the doctor's office, as I have a dozen times over the last weeks, really does leave me breathless.

And now that I know the baby's doing O.K., I have to say... I could actually wait a while for that whole belly thing.

I'm actually sort of proud that I can still fit into my regular Gap jeans.

The Booby Prize

2007-01-08T22:24:00.000-05:00

So, the booby prize is generally reserved for the loser. A small, often inadequate consolation for coming in last place.

But, in the context of pregnancy, the term takes on a whole other meaning. Or I should say, I have ascribed it a new one.

The booby prize is getting nine months to enjoy bigger, fuller boobs before your baby comes, and that unique torture known as nursing robs them of any elasticity, shapeliness, and/or "perk" they may have had.

Before the baby, I had heard many women ranting and raving over their booby prizes. I have a friend, who has a friend, whose pregnancy marks the first time in her adult life that she's worn larger than an A cup. She's ecstatic.

Yours truly - I'm pretty lucky. I was already coming in at a whopping 38D before I got my booby prize. Now, my cups overfloweth at a ridiculous 40E. And I'm only three months along. Who's to say these puppies won't keep going like the Energizer bunny?

Anyway, at the risk of providing TMI, the booby prize is pretty effing great. Especially if you're not having morning sickness (like me) and your energy level is the same as it was before the baby (like mine).

All of sudden, foreplay - which used to be such a bone of contention between you and your love - is so not a problem. And the extra attention that you're getting makes you feel like a sex symbol, instead of one of those secondary, expendable characters in "Alien."

The downside? Mom-to-be boobs do tend to hurt a little. Maternity bras are even uglier pieces of lingerie than panty girdles. If you're a stomach sleeper (which I was)...ummm... not so much anymore. And sometimes, when you move too quickly to this side or that, you feel like you just might topple over.

And if the boyfriend and/or husband is still an overgrown adolescent when it comes to boobs, there are times when you may end up feeling like a stabled cow instead of a sexy mommy.

Anyway, I'm trying really hard to enjoy my booby prize and push thoughts of its real meaning - that I will actually become a cow - out of my head. I am really conflicted over the nursing issue. I know the health benefits, but hey... I'm vain. I don't know that I want to spend the rest of my life with my breasts bouncing off my knees.

I've got to quote Justin on this one. I'm definitely going to need my sexxxy back when this thing is wrapped.

On the First Day of Xmas...

2007-01-08T03:10:00.000-05:00

Well, for those of you that didn't get a personalized phone call, I'll give you three guesses what my true love gave to me this Xmas...

Yes, folks, Saf is officially knocked up. I'm like Katherine Heigl except I'm not blonde ... white ... tall ... rich ... annoying ...

Anyway, since I am a shameless extrovert and haven't had anything to consistently blog about for the last year or so, I thought - why not exploit this thing?

So, here you have it - ULTRASOUND BYTES. We're at eleven weeks and counting.

Hope you enjoy the next seven months.