So, it's come to my attention that some people (lindsey z., this is you) feel that I've been remiss in documenting the last 9 months of my life, baby-wise.
Here's the thing: I'm coy. It runs in the family (just try to get my mom to speak Spanish. seriously, try it). Also, I'm deeply, deeply superstitious. That runs in the family, too (I can thank my Jewish grandma for that and my tendency toward neurosis). So, I tend not to, you know, I don't know, talk about things.
But, I do like to be thorough, and I did spend the entirety of 2011 in, well, the family way, so allow me to take you through it.
Blissful ignorance. I return from Christmas in California so determined to not let east coast winter have it's way with me that even now I shake my head that I was ever that young. I go for an ill-advised run on a 17 degree day and give myself bronchitis, which leads to
which was, without a doubt, the worst February in recorded history. Picture this: I'm sick, very, very sick. I am also, apparently, newly pregnant, and I decide to take a trip to DC to hang out with a bunch of pretentious, competitive, grasping, insufferable writers (not james). I do not realize I'm pregnant and down a pharmacy worth of cold medicine and begin to grow physically sick at the sight of books.
I return from DC and spend the month in a profound stupor that requires me to mostly lay on my couch and watch Murder, She Wrote and do little, little else. I am in school, but only technically. As in, I show up. It comes as a legitimate relief to find out I'm pregnant, and not clinically depressed. I see my doctor who looks slightly bemused when he tells me I'm pregnant and I just kind of nod at him. It will take us a while to get used to each other.
I don't eat anything. I mean, I eat, but not exactly food. I go to the store and walk out with a bottle of sparkling apple cider which I down, by myself, in one afternoon, which is as close to drinking alone as you can get without actual alcohol. I pull myself, slowly, out of my February stupor, and my obsession with fruit begins. I start reading a biography of Sylvia Plath, thinking I'm safely out of my winter blues, but promptly, promptly stop.
I run a 5k in decent time, though it is harder than I anticipate. James takes a photo of the number pinned to my stomach, and I think of how I can call that "baby's first race", or something equally obnoxious. Luckily, my camera and my laptop are stolen out of my apartment the following Monday, so I never have the chance. On the camera are photos of me in early pregnancy. I mourn the loss of those more than the handful of stories and essays unsaved anywhere else except my computer.
I spend my spring break in Sag Harbor, continuing to eat mostly chocolate cake and pineapple. I remain astoundingly lazy, but begin paying a little more attention at school.
to be continued . . .