Oh hey, does this haircut make me look pregnant?
My tummy seems to be getting a little pointy, which a lot of people have told me happens when you're carrying a boy, but which I am far more likely to believe is because I've been eating a lot of those mini Toblerones recently. Because Toblerones are pointy, right? I mean, that totally makes sense.
Speaking of having a boy, it took me about 24 hours once we'd found out last week to really believe it was true, just because I'd been so convinced there was a little Hamishette (Hamishina? Hamishabelle?) in there. Now, of course, I can't even imagine having a girl, and Hamish seems so totally.......Hamishish already, that I feel I already know him. I keep smiling at little boys on the street, which probably looks a lot creepier than I mean it to, and the other day Sean took me to a Knicks game in Oakland and all I could think, as I gazed up at these giraffe-like giants bounding about on the basketball court under the flare of flashbulbs, was "awwww, their mommies must be so proud of them."
(Speaking of mother-son bonds, have you read this essay in McSweeneys? I think I really should have known I was having a boy, actually, because I read it when I was around 14 weeks pregnant and I just couldn't stop crying. I read it a few more times in the days after that, and every single time, I cried again. Sometimes I even cried when I was just thinking about it. I don't know exactly what got me about it, except to say that maybe some deep part of my subconscious—some buried clump of cells, way in the back of my brain—knew I was having a boy and started mourning, already, the awkward teenage years when he'd pull away from me.) (Oh god, now I'm weepy again.)
I went down to visit my parents in San Diego this weekend, where my mum and I had a lot of fun cooing over tiny knitted sweaters in Baby Gap, and my dad and I had a lot of fun eating the blue frosted cupcakes my mum had made to celebrate the latest news.
I can't stress enough how totally wonderful both of my parents have been throughout my pregnancy so far, taking such good care of me when I'm with them and always making sure I'm happy and comfortable. During the Festival of Bread that was my first trimester, when all I wanted in the world was an egg salad sandwich on french bread, my dad ran out to the grocery store—the fancy grocery store, even, because it was closer—to buy full-fat mayonnaise after I'd discovered we only had low-fat in the house, and my mother whipped up batch after batch of egg salad. Friends, there is nothing like my mother's egg salad, which has been the Main Sponsoring Partner in my pregnancy so far. Just the other day, in fact, as we were strolling through the mall in San Diego, she suddenly pulled a foil-wrapped package out of her purse. "Oh, I just remembered," she said. "I made you some egg salad sandwiches and brought them along in case you were hungry."
Hamish, this is your grandmother. She will always have a sandwich for you in her purse.
The only other exciting things that happened this week are that a) I discovered I have an ANTERIOR PLACENTA, which for some reason I have felt the need to write in all caps when telling various people about it by text (I mean only, like, Sean and one of my friends, it's not like I'm messaging my plumber or anything) and b) I thought I 'd got my first ever stretch mark the other day, summarily freaked out about it, and then got home to examine it closer and discovered that it was only a scratch. How did I get a three-inch scratch on my stomach? I have no idea, but after I made Sean stare at several hi-res images of stretch marks on Google, then back at my tummy, then back at the images again—look, he signed up for this marriage, alright?—we both concluded that I was being slightly alarmist for no reason at all and agreed to pretend that the whole thing had never happened.
The ANTERIOR PLACENTA, however, is slightly more exciting, even though all it means is that my placenta is at the front of my uterus rather than the back—sorry about all this talk of my uterus, by the way; I feel like I haven't shut up about it since I got pregnant—which means the baby's kicks may be a little, to quote my doctor, "muffled" for the next few weeks. To which I say MUFFLED? Really? Because this little boy has been kicking up a storm recently, and in fact he just kicked me again when I typed that—somewhere low and rather unpleasant, actually, possibly my bladder—so I can't imagine what it's going to be like when he's un-muffled by the ANTERIOR PLACENTA and I start feeling him for real.
Oh, but I love it, especially late at night when I'm lying in bed, just on the cusp of sleep, and can feel all his little squiggles and turns. For now, those are just between me and him—they're not strong enough that Sean can feel them on the outside yet—and I think of it as our quiet time together, just us two, when I'm the only person he knows in the world. We're halfway through this now, and I can't even imagine a time when he won't be a part of me. But I guess he always will be, won't he? I'll carry him in my heart even when I can't carry him anywhere else.