I'm done.

As of Tuesday at 12:30 pm or so, I finished submitting all my final grades. That means I'm done. The semester is completely over, and I have no additional work responsibilities until next August. No more class prep. It's all baby prep now.

Or at least it should be. At some point I'm supposed to get blindsided by a "nesting" instinct that is going to make me go crazy cleaning and making sure everything is perfectly ready for baby's arrival. But so far, all I've been doing is loafing around the house in an ill-fitting robe, drinking vanilla caramel tea and reading a novel on my Kindle. 

I'm definitely aware of baby. I know that his arrival is imminent. His movements feel like he's stretching inside me. You know how you wake up in the morning and stretch? That's what he does. I can feel the bulk of his body parts rolling up against the inside of me. I can look down at my belly and watch it literally move, pulse, poke out and roil. He's in there. He is a living being who is inside of my body, making his presence known. 

But for some reason, I just can't fathom giving birth. Like, I know logically that he's going to come out of there somehow, but it seems like it's not going to happen. Whenever anything changes about your life you sort of adjust to it, usually. Right now, I don't think of my pregnancy as this temporary state with a purpose—incubating a human in order to add one more member to the planet's population—I think of it as these gradual changes in my body that I've just grown accustomed to. Well, with the exception of feeling the baby move. I don't think I will ever get used to that.

I can't picture myself as a sweaty woman writhing in pain, straining to push a baby out. I can't see myself as that. I guess kind of like when I couldn't see myself as an obviously pregnant woman with a big old baby bump poking out. When are you due? Do you know whether it's a boy or girl? Do you have any names picked out? The questions now flow forth in more or less that order. Apparently, according to some expert observers, I'm "all baby." In other words, I don't look like I've gotten significantly fatter aside from the baby bump. Thanks. I guess.

I am in love. I can't stop looking at the pictures of my son. My son who looks like me. My son who is a part of me. I know he looks like me, or at least my side of the family, but I suspect there may still be some possible surprises in store. We still don't know what his hair or eye color will be. The odds are that both will be brown, but I have a secret hope that he has red hair. Not fire engine red, but that coppery red. The Irish might decide to pop out there, who knows? I also really want him to have at least one dimple, like his dad. I guess we'll find out in a little over a month from now.

Coffee Shop Musings at 33 Weeks

I gave my last final yesterday. I still have to grade my final exams. I'm at a coffee shop trying to stay out of my husband's hair because he has a Skype interview this afternoon. I don't want to even be near when the interview is going down because I feel like he needs absolute me time and I don't want my presence to add to his stress.

Right before I gave my last final, the last final I will give until next fall, my students presented me with a thank you card. It had a picture of a pear on the front and on the inside they all signed it around a message that said "You and JoJo will make a perfect 'pear'." I held it together, but it was so sweet and unexpected. It really felt like the perfect last day.

Speaking of JoJo, one tiny mystery of my son's existence has been solved: How does he look? Who does he look like? I had a growth scan Wednesday, and the technician got some freakishly clear images of my son's face. He is undoubtedly, unequivocally my son:

His baby face. His baby nose, baby lips, baby cheeks. This is who I will be bringing into the world in about 7 weeks, give or take. He has a name. He has a face. A Bernini sculpture of a baby face. What is he thinking about, dreaming about, in his dark, warm world? He moves in me, alive. He is mine.

Grading is boring. I really hate grading. How are you going to be a professor and hate to grade? Like, it's one-third of my whole job. These exams are the last thing I will have to grade for 8 months. What are exams, grades, the strokes of a red pen when you have a beautiful human inside of you?

I read a terrible article yesterday. Actually, I read part of a terrible article because I couldn't bring myself to get through the rest of it. Black women die from childbirth and childbirth-related complications at three times the rate of white women. Well, the article itself wasn't terrible, but the facts it related are and the story it centers upon is heartbreaking. As with other outraging, disgusting race-related things that are realities in our world, I'm kind of over extensively expressing my feelings about them. It's tiring. JoJo's going to wear me out when he comes on the scene. I have to reserve my energy for him.

My husband. This man who is already over the moon about our son. He's a methodical man. When he prepares, he thoroughly prepares. He doesn't do off-the-cuff. He is a perfectionist. He reserves his harshest criticism for himself. My husband. This man who loves profoundly and steadfastly. He is earnest, sincere, sensitive and strong. This man whose child I have inside me. We, in a human imitation of God, created a being in our own image. A living soul who will breathe the breath of Life. I want to fully grasp who my husband is, especially in the mornings when he's still asleep beside me, radiating heat. I know him and I love what I know. But there are parts of him beyond me, that will always elude my grasp, that I will never be able to hold up to the light and examine like a precious stone. We are one, but he is still a singular person who exists apart from me. It's strange to ponder how our wildly divergent paths crossed, the events in our lives that led to us meeting, then joining. There's still something unbelievable, wonderful and strange about it to me. Why did we decide to take such a chance on each other? Sitting at the table eating leftover spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that I married a good man and that we're starting a family together. At one time, I desired those things. At one time, I was afraid those things were somehow unattainable for someone like me. I hope I never get to the point where I take these fulfilled desires for granted.

Thanksgiving Eve

It's early in the morning. I've been awake since 4:30. My husband is soundly asleep beside me, and my son is awake inside me. His movements have become less fluttery, less like individual jabs (although there are still those) and more like stretches. He presses against me, turns. I watch my belly pulse and ripple.

We're leaving in a few hours to go to my husband's side of the family for Thanksgiving. We alternate holidays: last year, Thanksgiving was with my side of the family, Christmas was with his. I've learned to say "my side of the family" and "his side of the family" instead of "my family" or "his family." You know, since my family is his and his family is mine and all of that. The wisdom that comes with two years of marriage.

In past years, when it was his side of the family's turn for Thanksgiving, we've spent it with his mom. This year, we're spending it with his dad. There are people on his dad's side I still haven't met, and my husband wants me to meet them.

I washed and straightened my hair last night (well, it was already more or less straightened from the last time I flat ironed it a few weeks ago, but now I got that fresh press) in part because I'm about to be around a lot of white people. My natural hair is great and I love it, but in certain contexts, it can be a spectacle. And when you have a spectacular thing like natural black hair around lots of white people, you stand out even more than you already do and people may be so bold as to ask about it or even touch it. And I don't want to talk about what I do to my hair to people who have no concept of what it means to have my hair (National Geographic voice over: The black woman, in her natural habitat, pulls a wide-toothed comb through her damp, conditioner-laden hair...), and I certainly don't want anyone to try to touch it. Well, I might let you if you're one of my little nieces or nephews. Aunt Chantell, you have fluffy hair. Yup, I sure do.

So, after Thanksgiving, we will spend time with my mother-in-law, and she wants to do a little family baby shower for me. That will be nice. I just need to manually update my Target registry so I don't get yet another baby monitor or bottle rack. The thing is, if you aren't ordering things online, the registry doesn't update when you're in store unless you bring the registry thing up there for the cashier to scan, and lots of people fail to do that. I know, because I failed to do it when I bought a few items at Target right before someone else's baby shower who was also registered there.

In a little while, it'll be road trip time. NPR podcasts, gas station stops, fast food. I'm looking forward to getting a chicken biscuit this morning, truth be told. We don't have a Chick-fil-a in our humble town.

30 Weeks

So, today officially marks the 10-week countdown. That is utterly ridiculous. 10 weeks is nothing. Like, it is so scarily close, but at the same time, I know I have no concept of how radically everything is about to change. And soon.

How did the baby go from the size of a tomato seed to a butternut squash in such a small amount of time? It's like, for the longest time, I was quasi-pregnant with a barely noticeable bump, and then one day, BAM, I wake up with a soccer ball stuffed inside me, unable to completely bend over and waddling when I walk.

And I do waddle when I walk now. Ugh. I'm still walking to and from work, and I'll do that for as long as humanly possible (we only have like, two more weeks of class before finals anyway), but still, I can feel the change in my gait, and it's totally unavoidable. I also stumble more often than usual (so embarrassing). Sometimes I'll be in the shower crying because I'm daydreaming about my son getting picked on when he goes to school (why?). Sometimes I'll be in the middle of teaching and just straight up forget words. In Spanish and English. Pregnancy brain? Every dumb little thing I do, I blame it on the pregnancy. That's what I tell my students to make them laugh, anyway.

Since my last post with Curious George in the swing, P has now put together our pack and play, bassinet and stroller. The last thing he'll contend with before our little guy makes his entrance into the world will be the crib. (There's also the high chair, but we have a little more time before we'll need that.) I didn't know I had such a handy husband.

I guess part of this industriousness was prompted by my waking up one morning a week or so ago freaking out because I was seized by this feeling of things "not being ready for the baby." My husband, ever calm, suggested we make out a list of what we needed to do. It's now up on the fridge, and we've since crossed a few things off.

One of the things on our list that I'm dreading is checking out childcare options. It's a small town, so it's not like there are millions of places, and I've already talked to a lot of my colleagues with children to get recommendations so it's not like we have no guidance whatsoever, but the idea just makes me nervous. The idea of leaving my child somewhere, the idea of the kinds of people who would be caring for him and the kinds of kids he would be surrounded by, the idea of finding a good "fit," the idea of the financial concerns tied into childcare. The whole thing makes me nervous and makes me want to put it off. But we totally can't.

We're also taking childbirth and breastfeeding classes this month. So far, they've been helpful. The instructor is a woman who's been a nurse for like 20 years or something and she's really funny and upbeat. But the other couples who are attending the class, white kids in their 20s (possibly teens?), make me feel like an old, exotic oddball. Like, are there NO other black women giving birth around the same time I am in the entire city?

There are several of my fellow co-workers who are also having babies in the spring or have just had babies, and I came up with the idea to have a "mom's group." In my former life, I would have been so not down with anything even approximating a "mom's group" because it just sounds so basic and trite, but I think we, as professional women at the same institution, should stick together and encourage one another, and moms who have just had little ones can give us advice. Most everyone was really open to it, so we'll see how it goes. Maybe we'll meet at the little coffee shop in town at the beginning of January, once we all get back from winter break.

I'm obsessed with what our child is going to look like, what he's going to be like. There's an entire human in there who is going to come out and be a complete person existing in the world. What does that even mean? We'll get a sneak peek at what he's going to look like in a few weeks with a 3D ultrasound, another one of those things I used to disparage (because they look so freaky), but that I'm looking forward to now. Will I be able to tell whether he'll have my husband's eyes, eyelashes and cute little dimple? Guess we'll see.

Nasc & Nat

1. There's a yellow cake baking in the oven. I'm using a bundt pan and once it cools, I'm going to drizzle it with chocolate glaze. And then I'm going to get a chunk of it accompanied with a cold, tall glass of milk.

2. I came home from work to find my husband assembling our baby's swing. So, once he was done, of course, I had to do this:

3. I couldn't even get past the first half of Moana without having a meltdown. 

4. Zoning out more often than normal, I keep thinking about how weird it is that I married P, a guy I had barely spoken to before we had coffee that one time, and then we were engaged 8 months after that. It's weird that we've only been married for 2 years, and now I'm carrying his child. I'm not saying I feel like I don't know him or anything. I'm just saying, one day, he was this unknown guy in a hoodie, and the next, he's my baby daddy. It's weird how quickly things can change. Like, one day I was a student in Georgia worrying about comps, and the next I'm a professor in Kentucky with a soccer ball belly and a really Irish last name.

5. P and I read Baby J a story in Spanish. He can hear now and will be able to recognize our voices when he enters the world. We read him Huevos verdes con jamón, the Spanish version of Green Eggs and Ham, alternating pages. (Spoiler alert: Sam-I-Am's hispanophone alter ego is Juan Ramón. They had to make it rhyme with "jamón.") I really think little boy listened and liked it because after we finished, he started moving around like crazy. Like maybe he wanted to hear another. 

6. I'm going to get another piece of cake.

Gentle Man

A gentle man makes me cry. He's reserved, unassuming. He's soulful, creative. I think some people mistake his quietness for passivity. But I know the passion. The wells of empathy that ache. We all come with a backstory.

I came downstairs, ready for work, and he pulled out French toast kept warming in the oven. Vanilla caramel tea with the right amounts of sugar and milk were already in my to-go cup. These small things. They're scribbled messages like the ones I used to leave him propped up on the computer when he taught a class in the same room right after me. I am grateful. I appreciate you. I do not take you for granted. I want to take care of you.

The crib that my father-in-law told us he'd buy arrived. It's only a big box in our living room now, but what it's for is what made me cry. It's for our baby. We put a crib on our registry because we need it for our baby. Because he will need a place to sleep. Those are things I know, logically. But the big box in our living room is tangible. Physical. Bodily. Like the little boy inside me. My gentle man, comforting. Smiling his shy, knowing smile.

A couple invited us over for dinner last night. A kind professor on my hall whose gray hair belies her girlish face, married to a gentle man, also a professor, who has the same name and is the same kind as my husband. Their brown, curly haired, dimpled daughter. It was an open adoption, she tells me. The one thought that moved me to tears: How does a mother say goodbye?

I learned about the former wife at a previously attended dinner party. An off-handed comment. I learned that the former wife died when the kind professor took a short walk down the hall and chatted with me for a while. Her husband, the gentle man like mine, is also a poet, like her. An accomplished one. The book he published was a part of processing his grief, she said.

The former wife was mentioned again last night after dinner. No details, but a sad story, I surmised. When my body got up this morning at 6, unable to sleep any longer, I looked up the gentle man's work. After reading just one poem, I knew. Even though he didn't give explicit details, I didn't need them. I knew. I knew what happened to the former wife and at least a piece of why. And, once again, I cried.

Now I understand a part of his quiet passion, of his wells of empathy. When he smiles the same shy, knowing smile my husband does, I understand a part of the ache. We all come with a backstory.

The Tipping Point

That's the title of a book by one of my past writerly crushes, Malcolm Gladwell. I even emailed him once and he wrote me back. It made my entire life.

So, I'm getting to the point where certain articles of clothing I have that aren't maternity wear but could still work as maternity wear are beginning not to work as maternity wear anymore.

So, yeah. I have the feeling that this is the last week or so I'll be able to wear this non-maternity dress to work.

I'm 100% knocked up now. Not like I wasn't before, but this week it's just straight up girl, you pregnant. My walks to and from work aren't as brisk, but I'm still loving it and I guess enjoying my still relatively unlimited mobility.

The only area where my mobility is starting to be limited is bending down. Is this the bending down tipping point?

I have a nice hand rest while I'm teaching now. I just kind of interlace my fingers and just prop my hands up on my belly while I'm explaining the nuances of the progressive tenses or what have you. It's kind of nice.

What's not nice? Seeing those numbers on the scale. Every time I dare get on the blasted scale, as my students would say, I'm shook.

Gummy bears and brownies. Are they healthy? Nah. Shall they be consumed tonight? You better believe it. And no, I'm not "craving" them. As if I have some sort of inexplicable primal desire for them. Ain't even gonna lie. I just like brownies and gummy bears and now I have a pretty solid excuse to stuff my face with them.

There is a living thing inside me

and it is a feeling I will never get used to.
Sitting at my desk responding to a never-ending stream of emails, and the little guy inside me is practicing tae kwon do moves. Right hand strikes and snap kicks to the uterus.
It's not painful, but it's just weird. And constant.
He's getting bigger and stronger.
I can feel the extra weight when I walk. Not quite a waddle. Yet.
Today I looked like I stuffed a cantaloupe under my dress.
Things annoyed me today:
Students unhappy with their C papers.
Girl, it was a C paper. Take responsibility for it.
Unending hammering outside. All last week, too.
And I like to work at work and relax at home, but when I can't concentrate at work because of incessant hammering...
So, I walked home earlier than usual.
And my feet are swollen. I have cankles.
When I bound upstairs or even just flex my toes, I can literally feel the fluid in my feet.
Getting up from a seated position is no longer the fluid motion it used to be.
It's an old-lady, creaky getting up. Gotta hold on to something, push off of something, steady myself while getting up.
I want freshly baked French bread dipped in olive oil. PF Chang's crispy honey shrimp. Cheese fries. Warm chocolate chip cookies with a tall, cold glass of milk. They are not "cravings." I don't believe in cravings. They are things I already like that I just happen to want.
I think over 50% of pregnancy is an old wives tale. "If you carry high, it's a girl, if you carry low, it's a boy." "If you crave salty foods, it's a boy, if you crave sweet foods, it's a girl." "If you have heartburn, that means your baby is going to have a lot of hair." Get outta here.
I'm already a skeptic, and for whatever reason, pregnancy is just making me want to side eye things (and people) more than usual.
Or cry.
This morning I cried before going to work because I was sad that having a baby would mean that my husband and I would have no more relaxing weekends like the one we just had.
Don't worry about that honey. It'll be okay.
What is our son going to look like? What is he going to be like? How much of who he is will be up to me (okay, us), and how much will be up to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?
What does it mean to create something that is part of you?
Is that just a slice of what God feels like?
There is a living thing inside me.
And it will never be normal.

Just Adjust

I remember the first time I went to the doctor. At the time, I didn't look pregnant in the least bit and was in the waiting room with a few other women who obviously were. I remember thinking to myself that I couldn't picture myself looking that way. I couldn't imagine myself in any way other than the way I looked at that time. But here I am, at 22 weeks now, looking pretty pregnant:

I'm adjusting to my new reality, because I have no choice. I feel like that's what actually having a baby is going to be like. Right now, I don't know what it's going to mean to have another human being that my husband and I created living with us. I can't conceive of that reality. (As my friend would say, "Well, you've already conceived it." har, har.) But that reality will come, and then we'll just adjust to it.

Little Song for Little Boy

Little Jo
Little Josiah
You are our little boy
Little Jo
Little Josiah
You are gonna be born
You are gonna be born
Cuz you are our little boy.

Don't you know that Mommy loves you?
You know that Daddy loves you
You know that Mommy loves you
And you know that Daddy loves you

You are our little boy
And you are gonna be born
You are gonna be born
Cuz you are our little boy.

21 Weeks or Mean Mommy

The magic pregnancy number is 40 weeks, so I'm more than halfway there.

My belly is popping and the little one's kicks are such that my husband can now feel them from the outside.

I did the most un-feminist thing ever today: Barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen, I made my husband a sandwich.

At a "Friday Faculty Hour." Mingling and making small talk, when she, the professor who asked "why I spoke Spanish," approached. How's my year going? Great. I started talking about teaching upper-level classes for the first time and how excited I was about teaching an Afro-Hispanic Identity topics class. "Oh, so are a lot of students in your class...like, is that, you know, part of their heritage?" Girl, whet? Are you asking about the ethnicity of the students in my class? Or worse yet, suggesting that they would only be in there if it (Hispanic-ness? Afro-ness?) were a part of their ethnicity? If you don't go sit YO self down somewhere...I kind of nervously laughed and was like, "Um, no, I have two Latino students who are heritage speakers, but for the majority of my students, it's not a part of their heritage at all." More awkward small talk ensued, wherein she asked me to describe my classes to her in Spanish so that she could practice her rusty Spanish. She talked about how she led a trip abroad to Mexico back in the day and brought her daughter along when she was a little girl and she picked up Spanish like a little sponge. Good for her. And then she was like, "She's 20 years old now, but have I ever shown you a picture of my daughter?" She whipped out her phone and there was a picture of a cute little biracial girl. I could see her waiting to see my reaction, like it was some kind of fabulous reveal. I did everything I could not to side eye her so hard. Like, do you want a trophy because you have a black child? (I already knew from offhanded comments from another professor that she had adopted a biracial child back in the day.) I can't explain why it was so annoying to me. Like, as if she were trying to say See, I get it, I'm on your side, I'm not racist, I understand, I want you to know that I'm a good, socially conscious person. Here's the proof. I have a biracial daughter. Be proud of me. Homegirl, why don't you stop worrying about proving your non-racistness to random black people and instead start learning how not to say problematic stuff to them?

Now, I will admit to taking some glee in my own phone picture reveal when someone asks about my husband. Well, the glee usually comes from seeing the surprise on white people's faces. But some black folks seem unfazed, as if it confirmed what they already suspected, and then I get my feelings hurt.

My new annoying question is "So, do you have a name picked out yet?" Like, 1. What makes you think if we did have a name that we'd want to tell you, particularly if I don't know you like that and 2. What makes you think I care to have your feedback on whether or not you like the name? See, these are the things going on in my mean little head. But P and I decided that we're just going to tell people if they ask, because we're pretty decided on the name, it's going to be our son's name whether they like it or not, and we don't really care whether someone scrunches up their nosy face if they happen to not like it, because...we don't really care. I think I should start a new blog after the baby comes called "Mean Mommy."

I'm really looking forward to my baby shower in my hometown next month. We still haven't finished with the registry...it's still super overwhelming to me, to be honest. There are so many products, so many choices, so many things you need...I want to be a mom, but I know in my heart of hearts that I have no idea what I'm in for and it's unsettling. Somehow the registry is like, representative of the unknown. Representative of there's no turning back. You can't just put a baby back. Graduate from parenthood like it's another degree. Not this time. Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to my baby shower because I'm excited about seeing friends and family and celebrating with everyone. My best friend reminded me that this is a pretty singular event. Your first child. You're going to want to look back on this and remember it.

Today, I sent cards to people that I've been meaning to send cards to for a while. If you want to express something to someone, you should do it, no matter how long it's been since you first intended to do so. There are so many people who have contributed to my life. I don't take it for granted.

A couple of weeks ago I had lunch with an internationally known black feminist, bell hooks. She spells her name in all lowercase letters. She was born and raised in Kentucky and has an institute at a college similar to and not far from the one where I teach now. I did refer to her work in my dissertation, but I can't say I'm a bell hooks expert or anything. I was just grateful to be able to spend time with her. Many times, when I tell people where I am now, they turn up their nose. Kentucky? Why? I mean, I get it. Kentucky is not this cosmopolitan place. But there are little treasures here, and getting to meet bell hooks was undoubtedly a Kentucky experience. When I walked into the restaurant where she and another colleague were waiting, I just teared up. At first, I chalked it up to pregnancy hormones, but after thinking about it for a while, I realized there's something about being pregnant, about the prospect of bringing a new life into the world, that makes you want to be among your own—surrounded by mothers, grandmothers, aunts, women who are like you and who have the wisdom of years to share. And in that moment, I felt like I was among my own.

Kicks

Here's the most recent picture of my little guy:

And here's a recent picture of me:

My pregnancy is definitely noticeable now. I went for my "20 week check up" this week, (even though I was technically only 18 1/2 weeks) where they check all of the baby's vital organs, etc. The first couple of ultrasounds we had were kind of emotional...hearing the baby's heartbeat, seeing him look like an actual baby, then finding out the gender, but this time we were just sort of in awe. It was like an anatomy lesson. I could see all of our son's little vertebrae, his brain, the chambers of his heart, kidneys, bladder, arms, legs, fingers and toes. It was simply amazing. Every time the technician moved the wand to get a better look at him, he would squirm away, and it was ridiculous to see him move. I'm afraid we're going to have a little wiggleworm on our hands. I praise God that he's healthy and that everything is normal.

I've started to feel him move and kick. He's especially active after I've eaten and I'm just sitting still. They say that the baby's first movements feel like flutters or bubbles, but to me, the best way to describe it is a like muscle spasm. Like, have you ever had a tiny involuntary muscle spasm? That's what it feels like on the inside of my belly when he moves. I'm sure that will change as he gets bigger. I can't wait for the kicks to get strong enough so that my husband can feel them, too.

The first week of classes went very well. Somehow, God always steps in and helps me get it together in time. It still amazes me how I've gotten this far with such reluctance to get things done. I have a great group of motivated students. This is the first time I've taught intermediate and upper level classes, so most of them actually want to be there and are not just there because it's required.

Next up on the to-do list is to start our baby registry. My mom and best friend are planning a shower and we need to get a start on the registry soon so that my mom can include info for it with the invitations. To be honest, I'm kind of overwhelmed with where to even begin, but I guess we can find guides somewhere to help us decide what the essentials are. What I don't want to do is get a bunch of silly, gimmicky stuff that we aren't going to need or use. We'll figure it out.

Baby Boy or Musings of a Constantly Annoyed Pregnant Girl

For the past week, I've been on vacation at the beach with my husband's side of the family. The day we left, we found out that we were having a son. I shall not present the proof, but will instead post a non-TMI picture of our little guy's profile:

We already have a name for him and I cannot wait to meet him. Within the next couple of weeks, I should be able to feel him move. I'm really looking forward to that.

Dad, future grandpa

My poor Dad got so excited about finding out the gender that in his future grandfatherly zeal, he posted it to Facebook—before we had a chance to tell the rest of our family. I get a text from my husband's, er, informative stepmother essentially letting me know that my dad posted about the baby's gender. I was annoyed and panicked. I was annoyed to get that text from her and annoyed that we didn't have the chance to tell everyone ourselves and I was panicked that precious information was out there and that I had no control over how it spread. The gender of our child was just not something I wanted on social media at all. I didn't want anyone to have a reason or opportunity to say anything weird or make any "pronouncements" over my unborn son. People can be real weirdos about gender. In the end, I called my dad and he apologized and eventually deleted his post, but then I felt bad. He's just an excited grandpa-to-be.

Charlottesville
While planning our trip to the beach, my husband and I decided to stop a little more than halfway to our destination to spend the night before continuing our trip the next day. We booked a place in Charlottesville, VA. On Friday night. The same Friday night that Nazis and white supremacists paraded around UVA's campus with torches chanting racist slogans. Thankfully, we didn't venture downtown for dinner that night and we were blissfully ignorant of anything that was going on until after we had already left town. I don't feel like exploring my feelings about it, frankly. What can I say? There are facts: 1. Racism is alive and well in 2017. 2. If you're surprised about that, you've been living with blinders on in a privileged bubble. 3. The current president was reluctant to denounce racist violence and the particular extremist groups responsible for perpetrating it. 4. There is absolutely NO equivalence whatsoever between white supremacists and Nazis representing hatred, ignorance and intolerance (e.g. being proponents of ideology desiring to wipe out entire races of people not like them and/or desiring to establish an all-white nation-state) and anti-racist activists who oppose said hatred, ignorance and intolerance. 5. I'm having to use the word "Nazi" in a sentence in 2017. 6. Removing Confederate monuments is not "erasing history," it's simply refusing to celebrate and glorify a historical faction which fought to uphold a white supremacist system. If you do not accept these facts, then there's nothing I could say to convince anyone otherwise. At this point, I refuse to take on that burden. I will do my part as an educator to educate and inform my students and make my classroom a place where we will confront "difficult" issues. However, although racism has and will continue to affect me and my family and soon my innocent son, it's not my problem to solve. It's the problem of the ones who continue to perpetuate, uphold and benefit from racism and racist systems to solve.

Eggs, milk and bread
Since I've been pregnant, I've eaten scrambled eggs almost every morning for breakfast. I don't know what it is about scrambled eggs, but I really like them, especially with cheese, and I beat them with a little bit of milk to make them fluffy. I also usually like to have a piece of toast with my eggs. One morning this week I went to the refrigerator to make my usual breakfast—No eggs.  No milk. And all the bread was gone, so no toast. It tends to happen when you have a house full of hungry people on a family vacation. I had already even put a pan on the stove to heat while I beat the eggs. I was so ready for my perfect breakfast, and my perfect breakfast dreams were dashed. I took the pan off the stove, turned off the burner and made a beeline for our room before anyone could see the tears in my eyes. My husband did see me, though, and followed me to the room. He made it his personal mission to make his pregnant, hormonal wife happy. He immediately went to the store and got the eggs, milk and bread I required. As soon as he got back, milk jug in hand, he stuck his head in the room and said, "I got the stuff you wanted," with a big grin on his face. Sweet guy.

Us
When my husband and I are out in public, we make note of the couples which fit into two categories: "us," white man/black woman couples, and "reverse us," black man/white woman couples. For reasons I shall not attempt to elaborate upon here, suffice it to say that "reverse us" is much more common than "us." So, seeing "us" in public is a pretty rare and, dare I say, satisfying (?) sighting. It's probably silly to other people, but to us, its like a validation, proof that we're not alone and that other people out there, albeit rare, know what's up. So, on our night to make dinner for the army, we went to the grocery store together and spotted "us" in the produce section. "Honey, look, there's us!" I whispered. I could not wipe the silly smile off of my face.  He looked like he had some Irish in there like my easily-sunburnt husband, and she looked like a younger, athletic version of my mom with her natural hair pulled up into a curly ponytail. I tried not to become obsessed with them. I wanted them to see us, too. I suggested that we pretend to look at some bananas and walk past them so they'd notice us. I'm not sure whether they did or not, but I felt like a mischievous child. Would we have had anything to say to one another? Did we really have that much in common? Would the woman and I have become fast friends, chatting about life married to white guys over coffee? We'll never know.

Nursery
The question I used to get annoyed by when we got married was "How's married life?" I know, it's an innocuous, small talk question just meant to make conversation and show interest in your life. But I couldn't help myself. Although I would smile politely and give a polite, banal response, deep in my soul, I shivered at the inanity of the question. My new annoying question is, "Are you going to set up a nursery/Have you thought about colors/a theme for the nursery?" *shivers* I know, it's just another innocuous small talk question meant to make conversation and show interest in your life. And I really don't have anything against anyone who has asked me this. But the reason I'm bothered by it is because just as I wasn't into the frou frou of a wedding a couple of years ago, I'm not yet into the frou frou of nesting for baby. And it's annoying that I'm expected to be. It's just assumed that I'm going to have a nursery (or that I should) and that it's going to be exquisitely decked out and color coordinated and perfectly set up before baby comes. Get away from me, get out of my face and saddown wit that. All the baby is going to need for the first few months is me, my husband, a place to sleep, food (again, me) and a constant supply of diapers. To be honest, another reason why I bristle at the nursery question is because we're renting and where we're living right now is not ours. It just feels small and temporary and not-mine. And it doesn't make me want to go all out on a nursery. Maybe I'll feel more excited about that aspect of being a new mom once we have a place to call our own.

Pregnant Girl Reflections

I'm planning on telling my students on the first day of class that I'm pregnant just to get it out there, so that there'll be no speculation or anything like that. I won't be gigantic, but I think by the time classes start in a little over 3 weeks, the pregnancy will be somewhat noticeable. Anyway, I was just thinking about the prospect of telling my students, and for some reason I'm preoccupied/uncomfortable with the idea of my students thinking about my having sex. If being pregnant is anything, at its most basic and fundamental level, it's physical proof and a tangible manifestation of an undeniable fact: You had sex.

On one hand, it's ridiculous to care about that. Who cares? It's a part of being human, and my students aren't hormonal middle schoolers who giggle at anything even approximating the word "sex" (like when I taught ordinal numbers to 6th graders and they discovered that the way to say "I'm in the 6th grade" in Spanish is "Estoy en el sexto grado"). But still, the knowledge that your professor is a sexual being is weird. Not completely unlike when I was in grad school and my students were weirded out when they saw me riding the campus transit just like they did.  You...ride the bus? When you're an educator, you're put in this non-human category, like, your life only exists in the classroom and if anything interferes with the schema of you existing in the classroom, the resulting cognitive dissonance is too much to bear. I don't want my students to view me in a weird way, and I most certainly don't want anyone to creepily ponder what I did (as if it were some sort of salacious crime) to end up this way (as if being pregnant were a way to "end up").

I guess I'm also concerned whether being a pregnant professor will affect my classroom authority as well as the perception of my competence as a professional and a scholar even more than it is already affected. Let's be honest, being young-looking, female and black at a predominantly white institution are already strikes against me as far as perceptions of gravitas are concerned. I enjoy where I am and I have been praised for my willingness to participate in the campus community and for engaging my students, but one of my needs-improvement areas is "rigor." Essentially, my grades are too high. I get it, grade inflation is a thing. I was already paranoid about being seen as an "easy professor" and in a way, my fears were confirmed.  I don't want to be the prof that the kids love because I'm smiley and bubbly and upbeat, but don't make them work hard. What does being pregnant have to do with anything? On top of not wanting to be seen as "easy," I don't want to be seen as somehow unconcerned about professional advancement because I'm supposedly kicking back, having babies and am more focused on setting up a nursery than attaining tenure. To be fair, there are plenty of women at my institution who are successful professors and mothers. I'm glad that I'm at a place that is considered "family friendly" overall.

Nevertheless, my professional preoccupations notwithstanding, I am completely happy with accepting my most important job right now which is taking care of myself, having a healthy pregnancy and giving birth to a healthy baby. I can't believe that a week from today, we will find out the baby's gender.  It'll be nice to finally refer to the baby as "he" or "she" rather than as a not-quite-human "it."  We'll finally be able to refer to the baby with his or her name. I'm slowly starting to dip my toes into the baby product waters. My mom is champing at the bit to buy things for her first grandchild, so why not indulge her? I want one of those strollers you can just snap the car seat onto.  No getting the baby out of the car seat or carrying that mamma jamma like a boulder attached to your hip.  Snap off, snap on, let's go.

This is what I need me to understand...

Listen, you. Stop it. You know what I'm talking about. Stop doing this dumb, embarrassing thing where you get concerned about other people's lives. You want people to let you live, so let other people live. Someone else's happiness is not a detriment to your own, even if that someone else deeply hurt you in the past.

Can you please maintain your focus on the blessings in your life right now? You married a good man.  A man who loves you, respects you, adores you and truly wants to make you happy. A handsome, honest, sincere, sensitive, hard-working man.  That is a straight up blessing.  Can you stop and remember right now how God sweetly introduced this man into your life? You are starting a family with this good man. You have a healthy, acrobatic baby growing inside of you right now that will be a combination of you and this good man. There are people in this world who would love nothing more than the chance to conceive and start a family. You've been given that chance. It is a gift.

Even though you didn't necessarily plan to conceive at the time that you did, God knew what He was doing. You just had a meeting with the Dean, and to make a long story short, you will be allowed to have the maximum possible time with your baby and get paid. You will have all of January, February, March, April, May, June, July and August to be with your child after s/he is born.  That is a blessing.

Girl, if you don't stop. You are beyond blessed. Being blessed doesn't mean everything is perfect. But you are undoubtedly blessed.

Cat's Out the Bag...

Here ye, hear ye...this is the little picture we ended up sharing via FB to announce our pregnancy to the world at large:

I was a little annoyed that it came out slightly off-center, but hey, let's say this can be the beginning of my journey of letting go of insignificant things.

There was a little paranoid part of me that was afraid that once our announcement was out there, I would wholly expose myself to a myriad of cray comments and unsolicited advice, but I was pleased to see that people responded pretty normally. Simple variations of "Congratulations." There was that one stray comment that I declined to like from a colleague who just had a baby himself, which is why I guess he felt emboldened with his newly acquired status of fatherhood to write, not "Congratulations," but "Sleep now and often." Boy, saddown.

Like, I get it (not really, but theoretically), when the baby is born, you don't get any sleep because it wakes up and cries and needs to be fed and is uber needy and you're walking around like a zombie.  You're not telling me anything I haven't already heard.  "You're not going to get any sleep" as a response to a pregnancy announcement is the equivalent to "Marriage is hard" as a response to an engagement announcement. It's kind of like, just as I was aware that marriage was not going to be this everlastingly glorious love cloud, I'm quite aware that caring for a baby is not going to be this cornucopia of warm snuggles and precious cooing, so, can you just wish me well and shaddap? Surriously.  Anyway, it is nice to openly talk about it, not have to think about who knows and who doesn't know.  Let the info just float around out there and spread, as such info is wont to do.

I'm getting a tiny little pudge.  Baby bump-ish.  Enough to wonder if I'm pregnant or just chunky around the middle:

In less than a month, we'll find out whether we're having a little me or a little P!

From Bean to Humanoid

So, I'm currently 11 weeks along and I had another ultrasound yesterday.  I mean, if you compare the last time we saw the baby to this time...it's ridiculous.  I mean, the last time we saw it, it was a little beany blob.  This time it's like a legit little human.  I swore I would never put ultrasound pictures online (still won't on FB), but I can't help myself.  Like, the baby looks like...an actual baby:

Straight up little baby

Hey, guys!

I can't believe this little being is literally inside of me right now.  And the second picture!  S/he's waving at us!  It's all just amazing and overwhelming and unbelievable.  During the ultrasound, the baby was even moving and jumping around like a little acrobat. I can't feel anything yet, but I guess I should get ready.  In about a month we'll be able to find out the gender.  We do not want to be surprised and we are NOT doing a gender reveal party.  I don't want to knock it for people who think it's cute.  There's nothing inherently wrong with the gender reveal thing, but I just can't.  To be honest, I think it's kind of silly.  I'm just not into the whole, boys are all blue and trucks and girls are all pink and frills.  It's just irritating.  Anyway, ahem, excuse me as I step off my soapbox...

Here's something I realize I really need to get a handle on before the little one comes along...my need for things to be done a certain way (my way).  When the little one arrives, what's going to matter is that things are done, not necessarily done the way I would have liked them to be done.  It would be a very big mistake to make my husband feel like he's not doing things "the right way" when it comes to caring for our child.  I'm going to have to super let that obsessive urge go.  

In a little over a week, I'll be officially past the first trimester and we'll finally make our grand announcement to the world!

Gummies and Other Musings

I finished a bottle of prenatal vitamins that weren't my favorite.  Horse pills with a nasty aftertaste.  So, this time I decided to get those gummy vitamins.  Besides, I had a coupon for them.  I had flashbacks of the days my mom would give us those Flintstone vitamins that tasted like candy.

Boy, was I wrong.  Those things are revolting.  I much prefer the horse pills.  But now I'm stuck with a giant bottle of ghastly tasting gummies and have to take two a day.  Boooooo!

Saturday starts week 11 of the pregnancy. I'm nearing the end of the first trimester. My three apps compare the baby's size to different fruits: one says it's the size of a prune, the other two say it's the size of a kumquat.  According to the little picture it shows of the fetus (it graduated from embryo status this week), it actually looks like a little human and less like a reptilian alien with a tail.  I have another ultrasound on Tuesday.  I'm looking forward to seeing how much the little one has grown since the last time.

I'm really trying to get it together.  I've been pretty sluggish and fatigued lately.  I don't feel like doing anything, going anywhere or talking to anyone.  I've been a little lazy hermit lately.  But I have things to do...classes to plan for, articles to revise...ugh.  Not to mention a move next week.  It's not a major move, just 10 minutes across town, but moving is always such a hassle.

Sometimes I can't believe that this is who I am.  Like, a married, pregnant professor.  I look at my husband sometimes and think, how am I married? Like, there's a grown man I wake up next to every morning that I will supposedly wake up next to every morning for the rest of my life. How am I literally carrying a human being inside of my body?  How am I a professor?  I mean, I know how, but as I was scrambling eggs this morning, I was overcome with this sense of How did I get here?  I was suddenly struck with the fact that we make choices and one thing leads to another and we end up in certain places.  It's not a negative thing, but it's just the realization that there is no way I could have ever guessed that I'd be in this particular place at this particular time.  I mean, if someone had told me back in 2010 when I was going through the worst time in my life working at the job from hell that in a few years I'd be married, in Kentucky with a PhD and a better job and a baby on the way, I couldn't have imagined it.  A PhD? (I swore I'd never get one.)  In Kentucky? (Why?)  Married to a guy you had barely even heard of 8 months before you got engaged? (Who does that?)  When I say I couldn't have imagined it, I don't mean that now I'm at some sort of a golden place that is the end all, be all, I mean I couldn't have imagined it because none of it would have made sense to me at the time.

It's hard to see my present soon becoming my past.  It's hard to see because although I realize I have come a long way, I want more.  I'm grateful for this place, but I don't want to stay in this place.  It's hard to see that I've never stayed in a place, so why would this present be my indefinite present, when none of my "presents" ever have?  I want a good job for my husband.  I want a house with lots of room to grow.  I want a garden.  I want to travel internationally with my family.  In time.

Nice Guys Finish First

I remember being a stupid teenager and thinking that I didn't like guys who were "too nice."  And now that I'm married with a bambino on the way, I'm like, what does "too nice" even mean?  I wish I could go back and inform my stupid teenage self that if I were ever planning on getting pregnant in the future, a "nice guy" is precisely the kind of husband you need.

Seriously.  I would NOT want to have to rely on a dude bro right now.  I'm dead serious.  I am so grateful for my nice guy.

When I say my husband is a nice guy, what I mean is that he's caring, kind and nurturing.  He always asks how I'm feeling, he always asks if I need anything or if there's anything he can do, he often talks to the baby, saying how much he loves him/her and how he can't wait to meet him/her,  he's educating himself on how my body is changing and how the baby is growing.  He's all in.

The latest thing he did was investigate a body pillow for me.  We were visiting with a friend and she suggested getting one as soon as possible because we didn't want to wait until I actually needed it to think about it.  It was a good idea, but I sort of forgot about it.  My husband didn't.  He started looking for the best brands and later told me that he even messaged my friend to ask about the kind she used and ordered one for me.  It was just sweet.  It's a relief to know I have a partner who cares about my comfort even more than I do.

Hi, my name is Baby.

Mommy and Daddy went to the doctor today and saw me for the first time.  There I was, up on the screen.  Well, at this point, I look kind of like a bean-shaped blob and less like a human, but Mommy and Daddy could hear my heart beat.  It was so loud and fast!  Mommy started crying.  The lady took pictures of me and told Mommy and Daddy my birthday.  January 27.

I'm about a week younger than Mommy thought I was when she first went to the doctor, so today, I'm 7 weeks and 2 days old, still the size of a blueberry.  Daddy talks to me a lot.  He says, "I love you, Baby, and I want to keep you safe and warm."  Mommy feeds me.  Sometimes she gives me healthy food like avocados and bananas and blueberries and yogurt and spinach and tomatoes and salmon and eggs and red peppers.  But sometimes she gives me junk food like Tostitos and cheese dip, orange creamsicle ice cream and brownies.  Hee, hee.  Mommy can be naughty sometimes.

I can't wait to meet Mommy and Daddy.  They seem nice.  They said they were going to teach me Spanish and Daddy said he was going to teach me how to play the guitar.  Mommy already has books that she wants to read to me.  She has a whole book of Curious George stories for me and even a Curious George doll.

Mommy says she's really glad I haven't been making her sick.  I have been making her tired though.  And hungry at weird times.  And sometimes I keep her up at night.  Sorry, Mommy.  The next time Mommy and Daddy see me will be in 4 weeks.  Meanwhile, I'll keep eating and growing and becoming a strong, healthy baby!

It's 4:00 a.m., I'm Up and I'm Hungry

So, here I am, simultaneously blogging and making a grilled cheese sandwich.

Apparently, first-trimester insomnia is a thing.

I'm just tired all the time and it's really tempting to nap during the day, and I think that's part of what's messing my sleep cycle up.  That, and always having to get up to tinkle.

Still no major symptoms, but there are a few little oddities: I have a stuffy/runny nose which I noticed right before I found out I was pregnant and still hasn't gone away.  I'm always sneezing and blowing my nose like I have allergies. I've since learned that that's known as pregnancy rhinitis.  Great.  I also get itchy from time to time.  Supposedly that's a thing because of "increased blood supply to the skin."  Also great.  One other thing, I used to inadvertently skip meals if I got distracted by work or whatever, like, I'd get hungry, but never like, I-need-food-this-instant kind of hungry.  But now, my stomach literally hurts if I don't eat.  I'm totally like, "Get in my belly!" I have to admit, though, I'm very thankful I haven't had to deal with nausea or morning sickness.

Let's see if I can get at least a few winks before the sun comes up.

Unreal

Today my baby is the size of a blueberry.

It still doesn't feel real.  Like, I don't feel like I'm pregnant (whatever that's supposed to feel like because I've never been pregnant before) and I don't feel like in a few months an entire human being is going to come out of me.  I just can't fathom it.  I even took another pregnancy test a few days ago just to make sure I was still pregnant.

When we first found out, we were really excited.  We called our friends and family and received lots of well-wishes, and it was our anniversary and everything. A perfect day to find out.  It felt really special and new and exciting.  But since then, it's like, life goes on.  I mean, I have my little apps and we checked out a few pregnancy books from the library that we leaf through every now and then, but I haven't really felt excited about it since the day we initially found out.  

I suppose I should be thankful that I haven't experienced any morning sickness or any major discomfort yet.  But my lack of symptoms is a part of what is making me feel like it's not real.

Maybe I'll feel differently about it when we go back to the doctor in a little over a week from now and actually get to see the baby.

Even though the whole concept of having a baby feels extremely abstract and theoretical right now, I will admit to being a little preoccupied with what the child will look like.  I had a dream that I had a son and he looked exactly like my husband. Very white, with freckles and hazel eyes.  I remember feeling sad that the baby didn't look like me at all and thought that people wouldn't believe that he was my son.  It's one of my fears, I guess.  I want our child to be connected to his or her African-American heritage, and I fear that the less they look like me, the less their African-Americanness will have anything to do with how they are perceived and ultimately how they perceive themselves. 

I dread the day a stranger approaches me and asks, "Is s/he yours?" Ugh.  I'm already trying to think of witty rejoinders to make people think twice about making certain assumptions.

"Preggo" is to Pregnant as "Hubby" is to Husband

I'm really into not being one of "those" women. And I guess pregnancy will be no exception.

Of course, I'm really excited, but there's a part of me that really fears being just another basic pregnant woman.

I finally experienced something when I had my first appointment that my friend had expressed to me a long time ago: The feeling of knowing you're just another patient to them.  In your mind, you've just made a life-changing discovery.  In their mind, this is routine.  I'm not saying anyone was rude to me or anything.  Everyone was super nice and attentive and informative, but it's this realization that you're nothing special to them.  You're just one of many.

So, on one hand I'm aware of the fact that being pregnant is nothing original, but on the other, it's original to me and I don't want to be one of many.  And that brings me back to the idea of not wanting to be one of "those" pregnant women.  Just like I didn't want to be one of "those" married women.

People who say "preggo" are the same kinds of people who say "hubby."  It's annoying, saccharine, cookie-cutter and trite.  And along with that are posts about your cravings and the emotional roller coaster you're on and belly pictures and ending everything with #preggo. Ugh.  That is not going to be me.

I was bummed when we couldn't see the baby with the ultrasound I had at my first appointment.  It's still really early and I was told that maybe I wasn't as far along as I thought.  When I go back in a few weeks, I was told we should definitely be able to see it.  It still feels pretty surreal, and maybe actually seeing it will make it more concrete to me.  But I swear, when we do get to see the little one, I am NOT putting an ultrasound picture on social media.  It just looks weird and ghosty and grainy and not even human.  Plus, like, I don't want the world to be able to see the inside of my uterus.  Ew.  Just like when people post pictures of their positive pregnancy tests...it's like, dude, you're plastering something you just peed on all over the internet.

But, I will admit that I am trying to think of a clever way to announce it once I get past my first trimester.  P and I have coffee mugs that say "Mr." and "Mrs." that we got as a wedding present, and I was thinking of taking a picture of the mugs alongside a sippy cup or a bottle or like a miniature-sized coffee mug with "January 2018" as the caption.  That would be cute, right?

Despite my aversion to being one of "those" pregnant women, I have to admit that I'm still a sucker for cuteness.

Telling People

Today our baby is the size of a chocolate chip and I'm on an avocado toast kick.

I've already told a few people...more than I probably should have at this point.  It's just that I'm so excited and I love seeing people's reactions when I do.

Anyway, of course, we'll wait until the 12-week mark to make any kinds of general announcements, but I wonder if we'll make any kind of announcement at all (at least via social media) because my husband is kind of averse to it.  He feels like it would make it less special and personal.  Having a baby is a very intimate thing, and plastering it all over social media invites way too many people in on it.  And to an extent, I agree.

But there's also a part of me that wants people to know, you know what I'm saying?  And I guess part of my reasoning may be a little petty, I'll admit that.

It's just that for so long, I felt like many people (particularly church people) had sort of written me off.  For a while, I was 30+, still in school (I can't tell you how much it annoyed me when people would say that. "You're still in school?"), and no man in sight.  Egads!  I felt like this anomaly people pitied.  And while I'll admit that I did struggle with loneliness at times, I can honestly say I never regretted my choices.  Ever.  Not once did I ever think that I should have married fresh out of undergrad, started piling buns in the oven and lived out the rest of my days in my hometown going to Golden Corral after church every Sunday.  Nah.  Even though the very idea of a woman "having it all" is super problematic (I mean, no one ever asks if it's possible for a man to "have it all"), there's a part of me that feels like getting married and now having a baby on the way is kinda like IN YO FACE.  I can have it all.  I can be in school "forever," travel the world, get a couple of advanced degrees, have a career doing what I enjoy, marry a great guy (while still in school, at that) and have a baby.  Howbow dah?

And (this is extra petty)...I will also admit that part of my desire to tell certain people is so that certain other people will find out.  And when I say certain other people, I'm talking about a right-before-I-met-my-husband person.  Is it wrong to feel like I've won?  I got married and had a baby before you, son!  I beat you.  I am victorious.  I am the winner.  I won.  I said it was extra petty.

It's also kind of cute to be in social situations where a few people know but others don't, and so you're giving each other conspiratorial smiles and winks.  We were at a party last night in honor of one of my colleagues passing her mid-probationary review.  Someone who knew came up to us and whispered, "Secret congratulations."  He's a goofy guy to begin with, but him telling us that was just extra goofy and cute, cuz you know, he was part of the "insider" group who knew.

But here's what I'm not looking forward to: The more people find out, the more people will feel invited to give unsolicited advice, pass unsolicited judgment, and regale me with unsolicited horror stories.  And I suspect that will make me want to schlap folks in the face.

I wonder: What causes people to act the most crazy, weddings or babies?

Tomato Seed

The weird thing about this blog is that either people who I'm really close to read it or people who I haven't actually met in real life read it.  I know my readership has probably plunged since I don't update it as often these days, but to be honest, I don't really know for sure who (still) reads it.

Anyway, it's weird because I've had this blog for so long...over ten years, since before I graduated from undergrad.  Now here I am, a few degrees, a few moves and a husband later, and it still functions as a creative outlet of sorts.  So, dear reader, if you're still here, whether you know me personally or not, you have been with me through a lot.  So, although I don't want to release this info to the general public yet, I don't feel like I'm releasing it to the general public by writing about it on my blog.

Yesterday was P's and my second anniversary.  And we got a special anniversary present.  Yes, it finally happened, after all of my (unnecessary) agonizing over it.  We're having a baby.

I downloaded a pregnancy app, you know, the ones that compare the size of the baby to various edible items.  And yesterday, it said that our baby was the size of a tomato seed.

It doesn't feel real.  It's something I've wanted for a while, and now that it's a reality, I don't know how to take it.  We're excited, for sure, but at the same time, it hasn't quite sunken in yet.  I pray that God will continue to lead us and guide us, as He always has.  I've always struggled with trusting Him in various areas of my life.  But bringing a new life into the world?  That's on a whole other plane.  I know that this experience will cause me to rely on Him like I never have before.

Sun Day

Come on and praise the Lord / While you have the chance

I woke up this morning bathed in sunlight.  It's getting lighter earlier.  I woke up wanting to take hold of this sunlit morning.  I got out of bed and showered in the natural light which filtered in through the blinds in the bathroom.  And then I made breakfast.  Four strips of crisp bacon (2 for him, 2 for me), scrambled eggs with cheese, two pieces of toast (1 for him, 1 for me). He made coffee. Why are you making breakfast?  Because I want to.  Don't you have to leave soon?  Yeah, but I have time.  I had time this morning.  I took time this morning.  I ate bacon and eggs and toast and sipped coffee and watched a happy, appreciative husband eat a rare weekday hot breakfast before his Tuesday/Thursday commute.  They're usually reserved for weekends.

I had to take time this morning.  I woke up wanting to take hold of this sun day.

"I always feel like I have to hold back a part of myself."

The First Elegy

Ranier Maria Rilke

Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic

orders? And even if one of them suddenly

pressed me to his heart, I would vanish in the strength of his

greater existence. For Beauty is only 

the first touch of Terror we are still able to bear, 

and why we adore it so is because it serenely

disdains to destroy us. Every single angel is terrible.

And so I restrain myself, and choke back

my own dark birdcall. Alas, who can we turn to

in this need? Not angels, nor men

and even the cunning animals know at once

that we are not especially at home 

in our interpreted world. There remains, perhaps, 

some tree on a slope, to be looked at day after day, 

yesterday's walk, and the perverse loyalty

of some habit that pleased us and moved in for good.

Oh the night, the night when the wind full of outer space

gnaws at our faces: for whom would she not remain, 

longed for, mild disenchantress, waiting painfully

for the lonely heart? Is she lighter for lovers?

Alas, with each other they only hide their fate!

You still don't understand? – Fling armfuls of emptiness
out to the spaces we breathe – maybe the birds
will feel the expanded air in more fervent flight.


Voices, voices. Listen, my heart, as only
saints once listened until the enormous call
lifted them right off the ground; but they, impossible ones,
went on kneeling and paid no attention:
such was their listening. Not that God's is a voice
you could bear, oh no! But the breath like a breeze, listen to that,
the endless report that grows out of silence,
rustling toward you from those who died young.

People don't blog no mo' all they do is diss...

Professor, naturalled
No, you may not plunge your hand into my afro hair.  This my hair.  This my real hair.  For real.  Yeah, I stopped putting chemicals in my hair over a year ago.  "Where does a sista go to get her hair done?" asked the ("diversity") candidate.  We, two Latinas and me, had coffee (or tea) to let her see, we ain't there yet, but we on the way. This sista does it herself.  I haven't been to a salon in years.  I guess I'm not the sista to ask.

Starburst

I've been on a Starburst kick lately.  I just sat here and ate almost a whole pack.  I don't really like the yellow ones, but I'll eat them anyway.  I asked my husband if he wanted one before I ate them all up.  He said to give him whatever color I don't like.  Then I said that I wanted him to have one that he does like, not one that I don't like.  And he said pink.

Ginger snaps and academic political intrigue

Every happy tight-knit family at a small liberal arts college do be having some drama.  And here I am, a newbie, wandering into the invisible dynamics at play.  Will I ever rid myself of the naivete that clings to me wherever I go?  He helped me with Julius Caesar.  Kind, sensitive, unassuming, blue-eyed, bespectacled and beanpolishly tall with a mop of graying curls.  He bakes and brought homemade gingersnaps as an...offering?  A gesture.  He wanted me to know he wasn't one of the ones.  You know, the ones.  The good old boys.  Dueling proposals.  Game of Academic Thrones.  He contributed to one of them, even though he wasn't on the committee, and it got mischaracterized, reduced to something it was never intended to be.  I know you're not one of the ones.  I never thought you were.  Every single thing in this world is engulfed in a backstory. 

(No) baby (yet)

Negative.  Nope.  One line (not two).  Who knew cramps could ever become comforting because they're familiar?  They're the opposite of the "two week wait."  Anxious and wondering and reading every ding dang message board on the gosh durn internet because somehow you think it will impart to you the knowledge that you so desperately crave: Am I or aren't I?  Not wanting to take one of those horrid "first response" tests because you're tired of seeing negatives.  Not wanting to call your mom because you're just looking forward to calling her for once and at long last, quenching her grandchild thirst.  But once cramps roll around, you know that you know that you know.  No.  I am not.  And then you can scarf down a package of Starburst without shame.

Downsize

I'm going to miss this house.  The colleague we're renting it from is coming back in July.  So we were on the hunt for new place.  We found one, an apartment, that another colleague is moving out of.  It's a decent little set up.  Literally within walking distance from my job.  A duplex, more or less.  And smaller.  Minuscule kitchen.  One bathroom.  We could have a bigger place if we were willing to temporarily inhabit the home of yet another colleague abroad.  But then we'd have to cough up more dough, and then we'd have to move again once the year was up.  The apartment will be our home until we figure out what life post-P's graduation will look like.

If I ever had a daughter,

the one thing I would want for her more than anything else would be for her to genuinely like, accept, and embrace who she is as a person.  I wouldn't want my daughter to constantly struggle with insecurity.  I wouldn't want her for even one minute to believe that by just existing as the person she is, she is inherently deficient.  I wouldn't want her for even one minute to use other peoples' lives as a measuring stick.  I would want her to be able wake up every morning and truly believe that she is enough.

Love, My Husband

My husband is patient, my husband is kind.  He does not envy, he does not boast, he is not proud.  He does not dishonor others, he is not self-seeking, he is not easily angered, he keeps no record of wrongs.  He does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

We were in the car and I cried over long ago things that felt surprisingly fresh.  Listening to a smorgasbord of podcasts on our road trip, I heard something that conjured up feelings of embarrassment and shame about the older, lonely, strange girl that I was when I met him.  Devoted to the faith I was raised in, and therefore its prohibitions, which made me a stranger within secular culture, yet also a stranger within my faith because of my educational level, my career, and my aversion to the dogmatism that permeates the culture of my faith, among other things.

He rubbed my back and hugged me and told me that I was perfect and that he loved me.  And then I looked at him and thanked him for being so patient and kind.

But, Inevitably

Assistant Professor
So, I found out a couple of weeks ago that the Dean decided to convert my visiting position to a tenure-track one.  As of August 15, the word "visiting" will be officially dropped from my job title.  This is a big deal, and I'm very excited about it.  This is real security for us.  No more nerve-wracking, soul-crushing job market angst.  This is the absolute best-case scenario, right?  I went from not getting the job I originally applied for, to the Dean creating a position for me to bring me here anyway, to now having a permanent position with the opportunity for advancement and tenure.  And it doesn't hurt that a (tiny) raise was thrown in to boot.  I am grateful, no doubt.  I don't take it lightly and I don't take it for granted.

But, (sigh...isn't it always inevitable with me?)

I hate that I can never completely enjoy something because I can't stop being preoccupied with the next step, and the one after that, and the one after that. I can't just breathe a sigh of relief.  First of all, my staying at this institution is contingent on my husband being able to find gainful employment in the area once he graduates.  And besides that, just because you have a tenure-track job doesn't mean you have it made.  You have to actually, uh, get tenure.  Which means you have to work and step up your game.  Despite all the positivity, support and displays of confidence from my colleagues and the administration, I remain woefully insecure.  Whenever anyone congratulates me on becoming tenure-track, I'm consumed with the idea that there may be some who don't feel I earned it.

It's a fruitless, purposeless exercise in futility, expending energy wondering about what may or may not be going on in other people's heads.  Truth be told, it's none of my business.  I somehow have to figure out a way to acknowledge my insecurity and feelings of inadequacy while still moving forward.  Lord, I believe.  Help thou mine unbelief.

I don't want to talk about it but I do.  
What is it about acknowledging your disappointment?  Why does it feel like moral weakness to admit that you'd hoped for something you didn't receive?

Instead of clinging to God, as I should, I cling to facts.  And the facts say that I am not over 35 and that it hasn't yet been a year.  No need to panic.  I'm still within the window of normality and calmness and just relax and don't worry about it, everything's fine and just be patient, you'll see.  I almost expect to hear "it'll happen when you least expect it," because that's what was said about that other thing that at one time I didn't want to talk about.

Actually, only a part of me clings to facts.  Another part of me clings to supposed spiritual, cosmic reasons only truly fathomed by God for why it's not happening: He knows (because His ways are higher than our ways) that you aren't "ready" yet.  You're not spiritually ready, emotionally ready, financially ready, mentally ready, physically ready to truly take on such a responsibility.  What do I need to do to be holistically "ready," though?  Will I ever be "ready"?  Was I "ready" for that other thing when that other thing finally did come to pass?

There's a tinier, third part of me, too.  A saner, chiller part of me that wonders whether it's not a matter of facts or readiness, but plain and simple timing.  Time.  Like a batch of banana chocolate chip muffins that simply aren't ready because they haven't baked for 25 minutes yet.  Maybe it's not the ingredients, not the temperature, nothing to do with whether the oven is gas or electric.  It's 25 minutes until golden.  No one wants mushy muffins.

Lord, Lord, Lord

The musician featured is one of several blues musicians who came to my institution for a panel conversation with students (which I moderated) and a concert.  It was phenomenal. You can't never find it in no book.  You just got to inherit the blues.

Poor Guy

Moody me.  Feeling icky, wanting to wrap myself up in a throw cover and abscond to our bedroom.  After tearfully and only minimally articulating "what was wrong" (as much as could be "wrong" during these times), I did exactly that.

For a while I hunched over my laptop and started reading over and commenting on a student's intro of his upcoming paper replete with quotations from Notorious B.I.G and Easy-E (and boy, saddown.  I get it, suburban white kids listen to rap, too and you're cool and in the know and want to interweave your problematically attained "cred" into a paper about the political implications of Julius Caesar, but it's woefully unsuccessful and just...nah), but then I stopped and (again tearfully) called my mom.

During this maternal phone call, my husband texted me and said he was on his way to pick up a few things from Kroger, did I need anything.  I texted back and said that I didn't.  When I finished up with mother dearest, I finally (untearfully) emerged.

He had already made it back from the grocery store and smilingly said he was making me a cheesecake.  What?  Making me a cheesecake?  Are you serious?  I went into the kitchen and saw cream cheese, sugar, Nutella, vanilla extract and a pie crust out on the counter.

I immediately broke down sobbing and (quite tearfully) wailing, "You are so sweeeeett!"

Poor guy can't win for losing.

Smorgasbord

It's been a little while.  Not much missed, just grinding on the grind.  Knee deep in Julius Caesar, cortometrajes, and still on that wait.  There's still the baby wait, albeit the countdown is much less anxiety fraught this month.  And the current job wait: Will I get an offer from another place to possibly use as leverage where I am?

A jumble of little things.  Nothing splashy.

Kale

Just as I became a born-again flosser when I got my first cavity at 19, I've become a born-again kale eater.  Like, everything I read about kale is that it is basically ambrosia.  The healthiest superfood to ever be made available to mere mortals.  And I have jumped onto the bandwagon with gusto.  So far I've only branched out into salads with kale and soups with kale, but I'm going to just start putting it into stuff.  I want to eat healthy, gosh darn it. And I want any tiny little being that may be on the way to be filled with all the healthy things.

I don't want to care about it.

Whenever there's a thing I desire, a.k.a. having a baby, that has all kinds of complex moving parts accompanying it, I don't want to care about it.  If I do anything my brain considers "extra," then I'm caring about it, and caring about it too much.  The health-conscious stuff (eating right, vitamins, exercise) isn't extra.  It's what I would or should be doing to take care of myself, baby or no baby.  But little "tricks" and teas and basal body temperature taking read extra to me right now.  I'm still in the scientifically circumscribed worry-free zone (hasn't been a year), and I'm still technically under 35 (although that's about to change quick).  I don't want to push for it. Grab at it like a little kid near the rows of candy in the check-out line.  I want to be chill and patient.  I want to gingerly wrap it up and place it on a comfy little shelf, away from me, right now.

So, I noticed you wear skirts.

After a meeting a fellow professor approached me and said, "I noticed you were one of the only ones on the hall who wears dresses and skirts and cute tights a lot.  I was wanting to start wearing more skirts, so I thought I'd talk to you."  Um?  I sort of started laughing nervously and felt embarrassed.  I admitted as much and then said something like, "I'm not a fashion expert or anything, but yeah, sure, we can get together sometime." (?)  I mean, how else are you supposed to respond to that?  What did she want to know, really?  Where I go shopping or whether I'm part of a cult?  Should I feel flattered?  Should I feel scrutinized?  I get cagey about being outed as a skirt-wearer.  I mean it's fine, and I've explained my convictions to plenty of non-skirt wearers throughout my life.  But in academia, things like religious convictions are about as intelligible as Proto-Indo-European, a language that is completely hypothetical.

Husband and home

I'm pretty pleased to have a husband who goes shopping, does dishes, washes clothes, vacuums, and is planning to be equally as involved whenever we find out we're expecting. (We're still working on the cooking part, but he can make a mean skillet of Hamburger Helper.)  I guess it's more the norm now--men sharing more of the load of chores, being more involved in their partners' pregnancies and childcare--but after growing up with a dad who wasn't one of these modern men (to his credit, he did at least wash and iron his own clothes), I feel like I lucked out.  Maybe my husband feels the same?