Posted by: emjb | March 25, 2005

my mind on my belly and my belly on my mind

Actually this letter is about politics. HA! just kidding. Let me just sum up my take on current affairs.

1. Schiavo case: obscene and tragic.
2. Delay, Frist, Jeb Bush: tools.
3. Florida, federal, and Supreme Court justices: doing their jobs.
4. Schiavo parents: deluded and sad.

What else? Well, there’s the regular environmental looting and pillaging; the Bankruptcy Bill that gives the average American a gigantic Screw You from Bush and co; and the scary fact I read last week that NYC may be under water by 2050.

To be honest, that’s all the depth of political thinking I am capable of right now. So if you want to hear from women more articulate than me, let me recommend the following excellent blogs:

All women, all highly intelligent, all funny and very readable.

There. I’ve done my good deed for the day.

Now back to pregnancy griping. In short, I’m not digging it. I’m not digging the fact that I have to eat all the time AND that I’m nauseous as well, so I don’t actually WANT to eat at all. Nothing really looks good. But if I don’t eat, my stomach feels like it will eat *me,* and also, the nausea gets worse. So…eating goes from fun to work. Eating being one of my favorite pastimes, I find this hard to bear.

Many people think pregnancy is a festival of approved eating. Women on diets, myself included at one time, will often think how nice it would be to have to eat a lot, for it to be good for you and socially approved. But when you are pretty much eating two small meals between the 3 big ones just to keep from keeling over, it’s a pain. You have work to do, but here’s your gut, saying, Hey MA, it’s time for some protein. Or else. I tried keeping snacks at my desk, but those kinds of things (granola, chips) are mostly carbs, and they don’t seem to stick at all. This kid wants protein, and he won’t be satisfied with a little oatmeal based mouthful. So it’s cheese sticks, then a little lunch meat, and then my stomach’s upset, so I need some saltines, then I’m thirsty but water seems to upset my stomach so I drink diet Sprite instead, then maybe some more cheese.

So blah blah pitycakes. It’s all supposed to get better at 12 weeks or so, so I will just stumble around crankily in the meantime, hungry as a bear and repressing the urge to puke on passersby. And you know, trying to work and not bite Matt’s head off and occasionally wash a dish.

When you are feeling generally unwell all the time, something that makes you feel good, however minimally, will always be welcome. Frustrated at my continued lack of pants, I finally broke down and decided to try on–not buy, mind you–a pair of maternity jeans,the kind that have no snap or zipper, just a big wide band of soft fabric-covered elastic at the top. They had it over the fat pants in that they were cut like normal jeans otherwise, and not huge in the thighs. So I thought, well, I’ll try them on; probably they’ll be too big, but I’ll have a better idea of when I’ll need them.

Then in the dressing room…oh, heaven. I didn’t know how much my old jeans had been pinching me. And these were so soft, and while still a bit big, the elastic band kept them up, and it was designed to slide down and ride under my belly when I got really big. Under a shirt, they looked completely normal. And they felt so fucking good I didn’t want to take them off again.

Of course, being Target, they only had one pair in my size, but who cared. They were mine, motherfuckers. I wore them all the rest of the week, and I’ll go back next paycheck and get another pair or two. Because I need all the good feelings I can get at this stage.

Did I mention my bellybutton is numb now? Yeah, that’s new. And weird.

Speaking of weird, this week was Purim, which I knew nothing about. Thus imagine my surprise to see everywhere little Hasidic children in costumes–clown, princess, Little Red Riding Hood. Children dress up for this holiday and go to parties, which is nice, especially since they don’t get to do Halloween. But the weirder bit is that the adults are supposed to, by tradition, get utterly sauced at Purim. As in, guys in frock coats and side curls, weaving down the sidewalk, or leaning over balconies yelling at each other. It’s very disorienting, considering that I often feel like the Whore of Babylon for wearing pants in this neighborhood. Last night we could hear music and loudspeakers from some kind of street party, and even this morning little kids were still going around in groups dressed up in their outfits. It’s all calmed down now that it’s Shabbos, but I have to think that all those devout men going to temple in their finery might very well still be drunk or suffering severe hangovers.

I don’t know if the women indulge also; I would guess not, but you never know.

That’s all for now; I have a book to finish this weekend and sleeping to do in about 5 minutes.


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