Here you'll find current musings, as well as the archives from two blogs of yesteryear: YoungMarriedMom and What I Learned While Writing a Novel. Please comment and share. We love well when we are in conversation with one another.
Yesterday was the anniversary of my due date with Jacob. I’m not sure if there’s a word for that, but there it is.
It’s incredible how much we’ve learned about this little guy over the last year. Twelve months ago, we didn’t even know Jacob was a Jacob, and not a Sarah, although I had a hunch. Now we know he’s a kind of accidental vegan (no eggs, no dairy) who loves meat, blueberries, and headbutts as a sign of affection. Who would have guessed?
Because I’ve had his entire birthday celebration planned for about three months—from his gift to the party menu, down to what he, John, and I will wear—this last week or so I’ve had plenty of opportunity to reflect on where I was this time last year. My mom does this around my birthday, too. She’ll tell me about when she knew I was coming, what my dad’s reaction was, how she took out the trash and gave my brother a bath before going to the hospital, and then how I was born early the next morning. I love that story. And a birthday needs to be celebrated, so best to start early, right?
A couple of close friends have had babies this year, so I’ve relived my delivery story enough for the time being. Instead, I’ve been happily reflecting on how huge I was last year. Sure, I appreciated when people said it was all in the front, and you couldn’t even tell from behind (which is not helpful in getting a seat on the subway, FYI), but let’s be honest. I was huge.
Considering Jacob was nine pounds, three ounces, and twenty-two inches long, this isn’t really that startling anymore. Except it kind of is. Apart from the few stretch marks—and the child, of course—now there is very little about me physically that shows I am a mother. Whenever I go out by myself, I walk down the street thinking, most of these people probably wouldn’t guess I’m a mom. Most people probably wouldn’t guess I’m married either, but that’s a story for another day.
If you’ve seen Madagascar 2, you know the scene in which the sweet lady hippo, Gloria, is being wooed by Moto Moto, a male hippo whose name means “Hot Hot”—“The name’s so nice, you say it twice!” he says. Honestly, the Madagascar movies are not my favorites (sorry, Michael). But this scene cracks me up.
So Moto Moto, a shallow, suave dude lookin’ for a lady is into Gloria. Because they’re hippos, his way of complimenting her is to tell her she’s big. The first thing he says to her is, “Goodness, girl. You huge!” She’s flattered, but asks what else he likes about her. He comes up with a couple more ways to expound upon her girth, but that’s it. She sees him for what he is, and as she should, she leaves. I like this scene for its recognition that whether the compliment is based on girth or slenderness, there’s more to a person than that. Well played, Gloria.
In the meantime, while we’re not being serious, and when my hands and feet were so swollen my rings and shoes didn’t fit, we had all these great lines about giant women to make me laugh. For the record, these lines may only be applied to a pregnant woman by herself or, in my case, by a husband with express permission.
“Okay, so … what is it about me that you find so interesting?” Gloria asks.
“Well, you are the most plumpin’est girl I ever met.”
“Okay. Other than that.”
“Let’s see. Yeah, well … well, you know, you chunky!”
“Uh … My gosh. Girl, you huge.”
“You said that.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s right. We don’t have to talk no more.”
Now, all I can think is, gosh, I was huge. And now that I’m back in my old jeans, I can clearly see what a blessing it was.