Vivacious?
Crossword puzzles have their own syntax: the tense of a verb or the plurality of the clue must match. Quotes stand in for another way to express the sentiment. And the use of a question mark denotes literality: don’t take this hint in its usual sense.
After a few months of playing the New York Times games every day, Robert and I finally subscribed. He made us a joint email, so he can start the day's harder puzzles on the morning commute, I can take a turn in the morning, he plays at lunch hour, and so on until we finish them together in the evening.
Thus, I now spend a lot more time solving crosswords. I'm "vivacious?": full of life. Not lively. The life is taking up space, tweaking around, strumming my organs like instrument strings. It's a lot of weight to slide side to side if I roll over. It's feeling like a baby.
Wild as it is to grow a human from scratch, it feels wilder now that there's a whole creature inside me.
My intestines move, and it has nothing to do with me. One of the books describes the sensation of C-section as "someone doing the washing up inside you," but it kind of feels like that already. And though the fetus is tracking exactly average growth, I feel sure it's going to come out huge. Neither parent is small, and it's got our energy already.
Weirdly, it isn't the creature kicking around my organs that makes birth feel imminent, though. It's the online shopping: now, in our home, we have baby bottles, breast milk collectors, diapers for both me and baby post-birth, lanolin cream.
"I guess," I tell Robert, "we'll have to have it, now."
By appearances, he's going through his own complex set of emotions. He compares various unrelated event dates to the baby's due date. He asks me how I will make decisions during labor about various interventions we'd rather avoid.
"But what if we do that and the baby dies?" He asks.
I shrug. What can we do but set ourselves up for success? I've typed out a set of birth preferences notes, big typeface, clear bullet points: yes to intermittent monitoring, no to cervical monitoring, yes birth pool, no epidural. Our doula is bringing a bag of comfort aids. The care has been good so far; to some extent, we have to trust.
In Convent Garden last weekend, we stopped into the outdoors shops that are all lined up in one block, just to ogle the Arc'teryx and Fjallraven things we aren't going to buy, and see if there are any brands of climbing shoe Robert doesn't already own. I covet a lovely warm coat that won't close around my belly.
In one shop, there are Osprey baby carriers out on the showroom floor. I've wondered about these: they seem heavy. I bend to pick it up (mobility is decent these days) and swing it on.
Not bad! With the hip strap cinched below my uterine protrusion, it's actually a support. I dance around and offer it to Robert. The store assistant shows us how to adjust the back size so that in theory the same pack might be worn by both of us. He brings out a ten-kilo sandbag for added realism and weights Robert's back. We could definitely hike with baby in this.
At the moment, I simultaneously want to go hiking and go immediately to sleep.
Going out for a day is wonderful, and exhausting. I want to enjoy the gorgeous days and pre-baby freedom. But I also don't want to move. I'm not writing my book, though there are only about 2.5 chapters to finish. I'm reading a lot, knitting, learning to crochet. Lifting weights still feels good, but rising from a reclined position does not.
Cycling is great. I rent one of the city bikes to get to a free NHS breastfeeding class. Though I have a bike lane the whole way, I end up crouching on the pedals, mountain bike style, to keep my belly from bouncing too much on bumps and cracks.
Nights, I learn, are going to get harder. I'm already awake often. But the lactation specialists inform me that newborns are nocturnal, and my body will produce the most prolactin around 2am to match.
"Nap during the day," one of the consultants tells the circle of women. "Don't do the laundry or the washing up when you have a spare moment. Put yourself to bed as often as possible."
The fetus already likes nighttime. We have a bedtime game now. It presents a hard lump against the inside of my skin—a fist or something. I poke it. It slips away and appears someplace else.
It's a weird interaction to have with your own belly: new meaning to the phrase "navel gazing." But it's not just my belly, is it? There's something alive in there now.
Previous: Harvest Season | Next: Milk
