How Not To Entertain Yourself While Pregnant

Whatever you do while pregnant, don’t:

1. Google anything and everything about your pregnancy and/or newborns.

A personal low? I Googled “can my baby kick too much” because I was convinced I could diagnose ADD/ADHD in the womb.

2. Wander the aisles of Babies R Us or Buy Buy Baby wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. It's a very costly place to worry, and buying more wash clothes isn't going to do much.

Hint: You’ll be there daily in the first few weeks anyway, so you might want to wait.

3. Try on those tiny bikinis you see the sorority girls picking up thinking you will look OK (or even like a celebrity) because you’re “all belly.”

If you are super tiny, this might work. I don't wear a bikini when I'm not pregnant, so God only knows why I thought this was a good idea. When I put on that Target brand swimsuit one fateful March day, I did not look like a celebrity rocking her baby bump on the beach, and it still frightens me to remember how my ass looked in so little Spandex.

The Misanthropic Parent

Most likely, one day, my son will discover that I don’t really like people.

Of course, I like my family and my friends and most people depicted on ABC Family shows.

My problem is with other “people.” (And, just to be clear, I’m not talking about “you people” in some thinly-veiled racist way. However, racists are part of the “people” I don’t like.) I’m talking about “people,” like the guy that jumps in line when we’re all waiting for the next available cashier in an orderly fashion. (No, you are not the genius who figured out the line with no wait while the rest of us poor saps stood around like sheep waiting on Tanya on register eight.) It’s the unsolicited-advice-givers and I-don’t-know-what-to-order-at-the-top-of-the-line-during-rush–hour types that make me a tad crazy – and dark.

Where do I think my son is most likely to learn that I don’t like people?

The Zoo.

Like many families, we love an outing to the zoo. There’s fresh air, and cute animals, and walking. And on nice days, there’s also every other family within a 15-mile radius.

On our first trip to the zoo, I was enjoying the otter exhibit when a barefoot woman emerged from the lily pond to talk to me. (I have issues with feet and bacteria. We were already off to a bad start.)

“Have you seen the otters?” she said.

“Not yet,” I said. Then I proceeded to tend to my son – you know, the one in the stroller that I came to the zoo to spend time with. I was doing my best to mind my own business when I heard a kind of squealing noise.

“I found them!”

I did not acknowledge. I know myself.

“Do you want to see?”

“I’m OK,” I said.

“No, come see,” she said. Then, said stranger proceeded to grab my arm (I also don’t like to be touched) and pull me over towards the corner of the giant tank where the otters live. “Do you see them?”

“They’re all sleeping on top of each other,” she said. “It’s a pile-up.”

Friends, it was a pile-up alright. It was a pile of rocks.

But, I don’t like to engage with strangers, let alone argue with them, so instead, I stood there while a stranger held onto my arm and pretended to marvel at the rocks/otters.

“Neato.”

Later, when we went inside the monkey house (which I’m sure has a more scientific name, but I just learned the difference between tortoises and turtles, so clearly I’m behind on all matters animal kingdom), I encountered a middle-aged couple pawing each other in front of the lemurs. While myself and the children – please don’t forget about the children – watched those delightful little imps run around and swing from ropes, Ronnie, as I’m calling her, grabbed Ron’s crotch and whispered things in his ear more appropriate for HBO late night than daytime at the zoo.

(I’m guessing that they really wanted to do it like they do it on the Discovery Channel. Also, in honor of Ronnie and Ron, I will no longer say “go at it like bunnies,” but instead refer to those that want to get it on like visitors to the monkey house. Clearly, I’m not getting as much from primates as some people do.)

Then there are the unaccompanied minors. Please don’t get me started on the unaccompanied minors. I know it makes me sound old, but on this particular day, their clothes were so tight and their comments were so dumb.

I believe it was while four such youngsters were attempting to trap a peacock that I said, “We must move on now, and to somewhere they won’t follow.”

While I’d like to be my best self for my kid, and I’d like to think that motherhood has reorganized my priorities, helped me let go of the small stuff, show more compassion and on and on and on, it seems I’m still me – petty complaints and misanthropic tendencies and all. Is it better to just own it or try and be better? I’d like to say I’ll try and be better, but then someone steals a parking space I’d clearly stalked and claimed with my blinker, and well, we’re right back where we started.

I think I’d rather admit to most of my 20s than see that sweet face fall the first time he hears me yell at an aggressive telemarketer.

Because right now, my son looks at me like I’m awesome, and I don’t ever want it to be any other way. He thinks my singing, dancing, tickling ways are delightful. He has no idea that I’m tone deaf – let alone the rest of it.

When he looks at me with so much love, well, I, too, which I wasn’t the person who complained about “That Guy” at the pharmacy who always says that it will be 10-15 more minutes no matter how many hours in advance I called.

I wish I could stare at a pile of rocks with genuine wonder. It seems like more fun than cynicism. 

Maybe it’s enough to try. Let’s hope so, because that’s all I’ve got.

* Photo of actual otter, not rock. Photo by hotblack.

How To Entertain Yourself While Pregnant

So, here’s how long ago I initially planned to write this post. My original intro: In light of the recent snowstorms and Valentine’s Day, I thought I would prepare a helpful list for those sure to find themselves in the family way over the next few weeks.

Sorry to let you down, ladies. Those of you impregnated during the snowstorms and Valentine’s Day festivities are probably giving birth in November, so I’m way behind. Regardless, I wrote this, and now maybe I can help those of you overly affected by Facebook photos of cute kids heading back to school and Carter’s ads.

What no one tells you is how boring pregnancy can be. First and foremost, no alcohol is pretty limiting. Then, you throw in the fact that you’re the person at the restaurant asking whether or not there’s raw egg in the salad dressing, if the cheese is pasteurized and if they could heat your turkey sandwich to 140 degrees, and you’re just not a to of fun to go out and about with.

Next, factor in that you’ll spend almost three months in what I call “quarantine” because you don’t know what to say when your friends ask you why you’re not drinking (I was pretty sure people around me would assume rehab), so your social skills disintegrate. (In real life no one wants to know all of my feelings about Taylor Armstrong from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? What?!?!)

Last but not least, please consider the fact that you’ll spend most of your pregnant time trying to figure out what the hell is going on with your body. So, you’ve got a lot of new knowledge about the placenta that no one else cares about. (And, they want to hear about that even less than Taylor.)

It’s very easy to find yourself sipping Sprite, alone, next to a maybe-pasteurized-maybe-not cheese plate at a cocktail party while everyone else gets a good buzz on.

If you’re like me, you’ll also be unable to watch, read about or discuss anything that involves babies, children, sick people, puppies, exotic pets, the elderly, kids going to college, mothers, fathers, changing seasons, mean people, or small goats without crying (heavily and loudly, regardless of time or place). This will reduce your range of conversation topics by about 98%, leaving you to entertain your friends with tidbits about donuts and paint colors.

It isn’t pretty.

I read the entire Rizzoli and Isles series while pregnant. I don’t know why. (And I cried during the one about kidnapped pregnant ladies. I'm still ashamed.) No one wanted to hear about that either (except my father, who, God love him, had thoughts about the casting choices TNT made, but it’s entirely possible he was feigning his level of interest just because he loves me).

So, from my perspective, there’s not a lot to do. But, you can do these things that I came up with during the seven or so months I felt like there wasn’t much for me to do other than, you know, grow a human and all:

1. Pretend you don’t know you’re pregnant.

If someone says “Congratulations,” feign shock.

Tell them you knew you’d put on some weight, but still…Seem to be working out some math in your head. “It has been awhile since I got my monthly visitor.” (Yes, I also like to use antiquated terms in my play to up the awkward. Feel free to substitute “Aunt Flo.”)

2. When your friends are talking about where to go after 9:00 p.m., and you’re tired but know you won’t sleep, suggest the nastiest club in town. Then mention that you were there X months ago and need to look for someone.

(X clearly equals the number of months that you have been pregnant.)

3. Actually go to said club and try out the infamous Amy Poehler/Josh Brolin SNL skit. (Hide your belly while you make eyes at someone across the room and then, “Surprise!”)

This was one of my favorite pregnant lady fantasies.

4. Around Spring Break or anytime during the summer, visit your nearest Target or department store. Find the college girls trying on tiny bikinis for trips to Cancun. Without prompting, point to the tiny bikinis and say, “That and a lot of tequila shooters is how I got here.” [Reference bump.]

 Consider it a public service.

5. Pose for stock photos.

I learned a lot putting together this post. If you want to download free photos of pregnant ladies from the Internet, you're in luck! I think we call that a win for the fetishists. 

Good luck ladies!

On My Son And Dating

Note to you, dear reader: While I wrote this awhile ago, I never posted it, and I wanted to revisit the subject in light of Ohio State’s new sexual consent policy and Rush Limbaugh’s comments.

Seeing as my son is only fifteen-months-old, the SO and I haven’t exactly had a lot of conversations about how we’ll handle all of those important coming of age discussions – the birds and the bees, puberty, at what age it’s OK to date, etc. However, not surprisingly, I already have a lot of opinions on the subject.

About seven years ago when I was working in Nashville, a press release for the Date Safe Project arrived at my desk. Since I was the Lifestyles editor, this info fell under my Relationships sub-category, and was just one promotional material I received in a slew of weekly notices. (Previously, my submissions pile had included tips for online dating, how widowers could “get back out there” and one particularly uncomfortable piece on controlling rage within marriage.)

All I saw was, “Can I kiss you?” and I quickly dismissed the release. (And probably thought “tool” while I was at it.)

Then, as I am prone to do, I got bored. I was tired of writing Top 7 lists, and the Date Safe Project DVD was still on the corner of my desk. Figuring that I could at least kill an hour watching a video and call it “work,” I popped the disk in.

It was a pretty uncomplicated video that featured Date Safe Project founder Mike Domitrz talking to a group of school kids and their parents. Domitrz’s basic premise is that either partner should ask for permission before engaging in any sexual activity.

And he means any sexual activity, including kissing.

For some reason, I again thought this idea was kind of ludicrous. I don’t know if it was the effort – like taking an hour to get dressed for a party was worth my time, but talking about sex wasn’t – or the simple fact that I’d never thought about it, but I couldn’t really get on board.

Then Domitrz made one of his key points: If you don’t ask to kiss a female, she has one of two options – accept the kiss or push her date away. Either way, a female’s only options are physical.

That’s when I started thinking. Why do we expect women to have to push men away as part of our “normal”? Is that really the best way?

Buoyed on by the DVD, I called the number on the press release and arranged an interview with Domitrz.

We talked about dating. We talked about getting physical. We talked about what to do when you’re the parent setting the standard for your kids. (Yes, he recommends that you ask to kiss your spouse even if you’ve never done it before.)

One of my favorite comments from Domitrz is in the video. It’s something along the lines of, “People want to know, ‘do I have to ask right one and or left one’? It doesn’t have to be that particular. It’s about asking your date if she or he is comfortable going to the next level. “ For Domitrz, it’s about making sure everyone is on the same page.

So, regardless of what you might think about the Date Safe Project – or my recollections of it seven years later – here’s what I got from all this: explicit consent should be part of any romantic relationship from the get-go. Women (and men) have a voice that should be respected. Boundaries need to be clear. And if someone is too drunk to verbally consent, it’s a no-brainer that fooling around doesn’t even begin.

At this point, when I talk about my dating theories, I usually get one of two reactions from my friends:

1. “Asking for a kiss? What happens to being spontaneous?”

Now, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had too many spontaneous kisses in my life. Usually a lot of talking, making sure we were at the same party and hair flipping has gone into my makeout sessions.

I forget who says that fooling around happens when you run out of things to say to one another, but there’s a lot of that, too. Sometimes, I just couldn’t come up with one more comment on politics or The Challenge.

If the kisses were spontaneous, it often involved a lot of alcohol or wasn’t something I was prepared for. (With this latter point, therein lies the problem. Why should I have to shove someone off of me to avoid a kiss? And conversely, why should a nice guy have to get shoved just because he read the signals wrong?)

I have most always known when someone was going to kiss me, and it never took away from the moment.

2. “That kills all the romance!”

All I know is that if I want someone to kiss me – and I’ve put in the witty remarks, accidental brush-ups and mascara to make it happen – nothing can ruin that moment. The sudden act of asking about a kiss would not be a mood-killer for me. Bad breath? Slobbering? Slipping in a homophobic joke before making a move? These would ruin the romance. A simple question? No.

It’s fascinating to me that in an age when we talk about rape culture, gray rape, Stubenville and the like, we’re pretty quick to dismiss garnering consent as “unromantic” and even “unnecessary.”

I don’t think a little more communication hurt anyone, especially with the variables of libido, alcohol and still-developing brains in the mix. 

So, it’s entirely possible that I’ll be the weird mom who suggests her kid ask before he kisses someone. And asks before he goes to second base. And checks in again before considering any of those other bases, etc.

I know one thing: I would much rather be the weird mom who talks to her kid about asking for kisses than the one explaining why it’s not OK to post half-naked pictures of drunk classmates on Facebook. 

I also know there's a high probability that he won't follow my advice, what with being an adolescent male and all, but I think I'm OK with that, too. Because maybe, just maybe, if I make a big enough deal about consent, I'll at least have gotten most of the point across. 

What do you think? What do you plan to tell your kids about dating?

Image courtesy of Marzie. 

The Truth About Your Name

It was very easy to name my children when I was single and all of my children where yet-to-be-conceived.

If you’re female, I think you’ll know what I’m talking about.

“I’m going to have two boys and a girl, and they’re going to be named Bailey, L.B. and Isabel.”

Even when people asked about my fictional children’s hypothetical father, I had an answer. “He can have the middle name.”

So, you can imagine my surprise when, actually pregnant, I told the SO my idea for our baby boy’s name, and he said, “no.”

Sixteen years of planning, and it all came crashing down with one “no.”

After my disappointment/confrontation with reality, the SO and I began the baby naming hunt/game in earnest. For me, I think this process is best described by a woman I met at a baby shower: “I pick names and my husband shoots them down.”

I read a baby book.

I read a baby book with 10,000 names in it.

I highlighted my favorite names and created a working list.

I shared my working list with the SO via a Google doc that we could both edit.

The SO chose to yell things out as we drove or shopped at Target. (He didn’t seem to get the memo about my baby book or Google doc.)

It went something like this:

“Rock!”

“What? Am I going to hit a rock? Is there something in the road?”

“No, what do you think about Rock for the baby?”

“As a cheap toy?” I said. “A nursery theme?”

“As a name.”

“No.”

LeTron, Shogun and Lightning all came to my attention this way.

For the record, I am not someone who could own a cool, alt baby name. Some people fit with an Apple. I do not.

A hip baby name would only cause me deep shame and judgment every time I checked in at the pediatrician’s office or had something monogrammed.

“What would you like on the towels again?”

“Toaster.”

“Toaster?”

“You know, like the Instagram filter.”

And the idea of standing in front of all the other mothers with my non-cloth-diaper-wearing son while the nurse called out “Lysol” or “Legume” is too much for me.

For awhile, I was convinced my child would be named Samurai because the SO and I couldn’t agree on anything, and, at least, as a friend pointed out, I could shorten “Samurai” to “Sam.”

I vividly remember being very pregnant, driving around and crying thinking about the years ahead spent introducing Samurai to his teachers and coaches. (All of whom would be very disapproving.)

So, when, four days before I went into labor, the SO suggested “Benjamin,” I jumped on it.

Before that moment, Benjamin had not been in my top 5 or even my top 25. But, by then, I would have gone with anything to avoid a Samurai or LeTron (LeTronica for a girl).

This is also why I really think the SO played me for the long con. A note to the men out there: if you want to win the baby name game, just hold out any and all non-absurd names until your partner is in labor. Darth, Leppard and Gandolf sound a lot more appealing when you think your alternatives are Drapery and Hopscotch.

And while Benjamin might not have been in the top 25 names during my pregnancy or the first 33 years of my life, it quickly rose in the ranks as my favorite name once it was attached to my favorite little person.

I fell in love with the name as I fell in love with my baby, and now, I can’t imagine wanting a Bailey or L.B. instead.

This is also why you don’t tell people your baby names. Nobody loves Esther or Grayson in theory, but everyone loves it once it’s attached to 10 pounds of cuddly, squirmy baby.

So, getting back to my title, the truth is that your name might not have been your parent’s first choice at first, but it probably is now.

“We always like the name ‘Benjamin,’” is a far better story than, “I used to curse your father and cry thinking you’d be called ‘Samurai.’”

Photo by mwookie.

On Organic Baby Food

Me: The baby just threw up.

The SO: Do you think he’s sick?

Me: No, I think he didn’t like his dinner. There was lots of gagging before he threw up.

The SO: Really? What did you give him?

Me: Sweet potato, mango and millet.

The SO: So the baby doesn’t like millet? I’m shocked.