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Pregnancy Week 19: Kicking but not screaming

February 11, 2014

Two things happened with my uterus this week.

The first is something I only know about thanks to the pregnancy app on my iPhone, which displays week-by-week drawings of what’s happening to my insides.

Apparently my womb has gone from a luxurious, four-star accommodation, as seen here in week 18 …

Week 18: Shall I order womb service?

… to something straight out of the Sochi Olympics in week 19.

Week 19: Is it hot in here?

Yikes! From spacious to squish in just one week.

Seriously, are my kid’s legs supposed to do that?

The other thing that happened this week: I felt my boy moving for the first time. It was wonderful! And weird! And at first I wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t just gas.

I’ve been trying to describe the feeling to The Husband. According to some of my friends, it’s a fluttery sensation, like butterfly wings. My friend Emily says it’s like a melon baller, scooping you on the inside. And I think it’s something more difficult to define. The shimmery oil slick on the surface of diner coffee? It feels the way that looks. It’s the pop of a soap bubble. The tug of a cool silk scarf against skin. Ginger ale carbonation and eyelash kisses and when one raindrop slides into another. All of those things.

In short, it’s neat.

It’s also a sobering reminder that there’s a living person in my body. One with ears, who hears the same things I do. I’ve started curating the music I listen to, trying to build a perfect baby out of Prince and the Pixies. At the same time, I now worry about the other things I’m exposing my baby to. What about the movies I watch? The TV shows? When I binge-watch a full season of “Dexter,” am I making him a serial killer?

I realize I probably don’t have as much power over this little life as I think I do. But just in case, I crossed my arms in front of my belly during the entirety of “12 Years a Slave.” Sure, I won’t be able to shield my son from the ugliness of the world forever, but while he’s staying in the Motel Squish? It’s my business.

Here’s how everything else has been going this week:

Baby: The size of a mango. A mango! And who doesn’t love a mango?

Me: My belly officially popped out this week. Like, for really real. There’s no doubt that I’m pregnant now.

Also one night I had the strangest feeling in my gut, like a sour cramp. I groaned and hugged my sides. The Husband was terribly worried and frustrated and finally snapped, “I wish you would tell me what’s wrong!”

But I didn’t know what was wrong, only that it was something I’ve never felt before. “It feels like I swallowed a Zippo,” I tried to explain. “Like a burning, right here by my heart and up to my throat.”

“Oh heartburn,” he said. “Just eat a Tums.”

So that’s how I learned about heartburn. Also, it sucks.

Otherwise, I’ve been feeling healthy and happy and calm.

Mango making a fabulous appearance! Though that sports bra is doing me no favors.

My exercise has included a little bit of everything this week. Walking, biking, yoga and hiking. Today I felt the baby kick as I was hiking down a mountain, and I thought, “He’s an adventurer already! He just wants to keep climbing!”

A hazy day in the desert.

But he also kicked when I was listening to “One Night in Bangkok,” and there’s really no excuse for that.

Wheel-y fun.

Husband: Somehow he’s developing the nesting instinct that I should have. The red needle has hit the panic phase, and he suddenly wants to finish every home project we’ve ever discussed. We’ve even pulled out the sewing machine. Stay tuned for how that turns out.

15 writing tips from Panio Gianopoulos

February 7, 2014

I’m such a sucker for craft talk, especially lists of writing tips. Oh, those adorable, bite-sized bits that promise to reinvent my prose! I can’t get enough. I gobble them like dumplings.

Unfortunately, those lists rarely stick with me. As easily digestible as the tips might be, they rarely give me any real narrative strategies or provide me with something that truly lasts. Or if they are substantial, the lists are so dense and overwhelming I can’t even think about applying the tips to my own writing.

The exception to this came a few months ago at my MFA residency. And it was a surprise too. Author, essayist and publisher Panio Gianopoulos gave a very thorough lecture about novellas — writing novellas, classic examples of novellas, the market for novellas.

This is the novella that Panio built.

Then POW! Out of no(vella)where, Panio ended his talk with his top 15 writing tips. Not just for novellas either. And he gave me permission to pass this list along to you.

So here you go. These tips are smart, practical and best of all, super helpful. Enjoy. And thank you, Panio!

Here’s Panio in a photo I illegally swiped off the internet. Photo credit: Molly Ringwald

1. Write toward discomfort.

Panio talked about this in the context of fiction, but this comes up a lot in my nonfiction classes as well. Proceed directly to the scary, uncomfortable place. That’s where all the feelings are.

2. Pursue the accidental. (Don’t learn to type real well.)

I don’t remember the example that Panio used here. It was something about how he mistyped a word, but it led him down a different, more interesting path with that sentence. Like when autocorrect invites your boss to a poop party instead of a pool party.

3. Things are usually half as funny as you think.

e.g. My poop party joke. (See: above)

4. Movement! Action! Things have to happen.

This is a good one. You wouldn’t believe how many short stories I’ve written where people just sit around a coffee shop, talking. Then sometimes they have sex.

5. The reader has to care about the protagonist. (They don’t have to LIKE the protagonist. They just have to have a reason to care.)

I can actually think of a lot of books in which I didn’t like the protagonist. For example, I didn’t want to become BFFs with Nick from “Gone Girl.” But I wanted to watch his transformation through the story, and that propelled me through the entire book.

6. It’s OK if you don’t write fast and sloppy first drafts.

This one is liberating. I’ve had so many writers tell me to dash off a quick, messy draft — “You can’t fix a blank page!” they chirp — so it’s refreshing to hear the opposite of that. I’m a person who labors over every word of my draft, and I fix sentences as I work. I’ve tried to overcome this by banging my work out on an old Royal typewriter — I don’t own White Out, and I don’t even know how to do a backspace on the damn thing, so it forces me to leave a messy draft on the page. I even took an online course called Fast Draft. Still, my writing is slow going. According to Panio, that’s OK.

7. Don’t overly discuss a first draft while writing it.

Oh, man. I’ve already killed one story by doing this. It was a rookie mistake — I was new to my MFA program, I was inspired by the great work happening around me, and I wanted to participate in the conversation too. Except, in the process of explaining my book idea to everyone, I strangled the story before it ever found a voice.

8. If you’re worried that it’s boring, it probably is.

Writing is transparent. When I really struggle with a piece and force myself to slog through it, then it reads like drudgery. And when I bore myself? That’s a good indication that readers will be bored too.

9. Title as soon as possible.

This is an interesting tip, and maybe it’s one of those chicken-egg debates. I’ve always thought that as a piece progresses, the work will present a title. But Panio believes having a title in hand will shape the piece in subtle ways. I’m sure it can work both ways.

10. Write two hours or 500 words a session, 5 times per week.

This. This works. I know because I’ve been trying to follow this plan ever since Panio shared it.

11. With feedback, ask your reader the right questions. For instance, what’s the story? What do you think happened? What do you take from this?

This is another good tip, and it addresses something that is rarely discussed among writers: What exactly are we trying to get from workshop/feedback?

12. Separate publication from validation.

This might be the most difficult one of all. I have gotten better about squashing my envy when good things happen to my writing friends — there’s plenty of space on the bookshelf for everyone’s work, after all. But I’m still very hard on myself when my own essays are rejected, my pitches go unanswered, my work doesn’t get noticed. I assume I suck, and the whole world hates me, and I should become a professional barista already.

13. Beware: Research easily slips into procrastination.

Ah, the rabbit hole of the internet! I’ve lost many writing days to exploring the pop songs of Uganda and discovering how long it takes for a whale carcass to decompose on sand.

14. Read often. And while you’re reading, analyze and record what works.

My seventh-grade literature teacher, Kathi Russell-Rader, always said good readers make good writers. I’m not sure I believed her at the time, but I get it now. On the same note, I’m shocked when I meet writers who say they don’t read. That’s like a chef who doesn’t eat. It’s impossible to be competent in a field without some knowledge of it.

15. Support other writers.

This gets to one of my New Year’s Resolutions for Other People — to be a more active participant in my literary community. Buy more books, support more authors, encourage more reading among everyone.

Speaking of supporting other writers, why don’t you start with Panio? Read an excerpt of his book here.

Pregnancy Week 18: It’s a …!

February 3, 2014

There’s a moment during every ultrasound when I’m pretty sure my heart stops.

The technician squirts cold gel on my belly, then firmly presses the transducer to my abdomen. She moves it back and forth, as if channeling something on a ouija board. I turn my face toward the monitor, frantically searching the blackness on the screen. I don’t see a baby anywhere, and I die about 15 times in just a few seconds.

Abruptly, a tiny, squirming baby pops into focus. A baby! My baby! And all is right with the world.

Wee one.

So that happened again this week. Minor panic attack. Recovery. Good times.

I usually hate it when people post their ultrasound images, because they never actually look like babies. They’re more like fuzzy photo negatives from a century-old arctic expedition. Yet here I am now, so enamored with these speckled pictures of a big, gorgeous baby only I can see.

Though I will admit Baby looks like a resident of Whoville right now. Let’s hope that’s not permanent.

And then my heart grew three sizes.

Since I am of “advanced maternal age,” my most recent ultrasound was done with a genetic specialist, and the whole process lasted more than an hour. The Husband stood by my side, and we high-fived every time we saw a new body part.

TECHNICIAN: Here is the spine …

ME: Spine! Ohmigod. I love spines!

TECHNICIAN: There are the baby’s feet …

HUSBAND: Hell yeah. Feet!

TECHNICIAN: These splotches here are the kidneys …

US: Woo! Kidneys!

The technician pushed a button that made the screen move with splotchy clouds of blue and red, which supposedly displayed the four chambers of the heart pumping blood.

TECHNICIAN: See the blood flowing here and here …

ME: It actually looks like there’s a storm front moving in.

TECHNICIAN: Huh. Yeah, it does. Well, here’s the polar vortex, and that right there is Atlanta.

Finally, the technician confirmed what I suspected all along. It’s a boy!

Here you go. This is the first and last time my child’s penis will ever be on the internet. I hope.

The technician added some helpful notations.

I’m still in a little bit of shock. It’s a boy!

A boy who will pee in my face when I change his diapers. A boy who will get poop on his testicles. A boy who will turn paper towel tubes into weapons. A boy who will stand up to use the potty. A boy who will grow up and fall in love with a girl or boy and sneak out of the house and bong a few Miller Lites and smash the Camaro … and I’m terrified. I’m absolutely terrified. I don’t know how to be a mother to a boy.

For the record, I don’t know how to be a mother to a girl either. And we don’t have a Camaro. I’m just scared overall, regardless of the baby’s sex.

Here’s how everything else is going this week:

Baby: The size of a bell pepper. He also has little ears and his own unique set of fingerprints.

Baby also enjoys being stuffed and baked for one hour at 350 degrees.

Me: Not the size of a bell pepper. But I’ve reached the point of pregnancy where strangers will approach me and rub my belly, as if I can grant them three wishes. (I can’t, unfortunately.)

Also my belly is lopsided. I think this is normal? Or maybe all those strangers have just been pushing too hard on one side.

The belly of the beast.

Weight: I’ve gained six pounds so far. I didn’t necessarily want this information — I’ve been trying to keep my focus away from numbers on the scale — but my doctor told me anyway.

Food: Cravings have mostly been of the difficult-to-obtain variety: Masala dosa. Kanom krok, tiny coconut pancakes from Thailand that are crispy and creamy, sweet and savory. And these spicy kimchi dumplings from a street vendor in Seoul.

Not just any dumplings, mind you. THESE.

Wonton display of longing.

GIVE THEM TO ME NOW.

Pregnancy Week 17: Sweet Dreams are Made of This

January 26, 2014

For the first time, someone asked if I was expecting, and it was both sweet and awkward.

LADY: (looking at my belly) Oh! When are you … I mean, are you?

ME: Yes! July 5.

LADY: Oh. You still have a long way to go. You look farther along.

ME: Um, no. But I had a big bowl of pho yesterday, and I think the sodium kinda made me explode.

It was the truth. I was fat-cheeked and plumper than usual, as if the baby somehow gobbled a few pizzas and a pan of brownies without me. (Things have since settled down considerably.)

Pho king belly.

Then the lady asked the weirdest thing.

LADY: Are you peeking?

ME: Am I what?

LADY: Well, if not already, are you planning to peek?

ME: I don’t … um, I’m not sure what you mean.

LADY: You know. Boy or girl. Are you peeking?

ME: Oh, right. No. My belly doesn’t work that way.

I was confused. I pictured some kind of porthole into my uterus. Or something like Barbie’s pregnant friend Midge, with the removable stomach and pop-out baby.

Damn Midge. She makes it look so easy.

LADY: I meant, are you going to find out the baby’s gender?

I considered telling her that gender is a socially constructed concept. We will actually be finding out the baby’s sex, which refers to the child’s anatomy … but then I realized WHEE! We will find out the baby’s sex this week. Wow, that sure happened fast!

So, to answer her question, yes. I will be peeking.

I have two doctor’s appointments coming up this week, and as always, I am nervous — especially since one of those visits is with a genetic specialist, and it is literally his job to tell me what’s wrong with my baby. But I’m also getting to the point where I’m more pumped than anxious. Woo, I’ll get to wave to my little one on a black-and-white screen full of static again. BEST DAY EVER!

NEW THIS WEEK

Baby: Is the size of an onion, according to my iPhone apps. (I am not sure what variety of onion, but I’m picturing a sweet, bulbous Vidalia.)

Baby’s sex: My guess is boy.

Baby’s first national park.

Me: I feel good. I have had some round ligament pain, but it’s more like a dull ache or a tiny tug, and I don’t mind it. It reminds me that something’s happening in there.

I’ve also been having a lot of strange, particularly vivid dreams lately. Nothing about giving birth to kittens or anything like that. Just colorful, trippy dreams. It’s like dropping acid every night but without all the anxiety that I’ll never be normal again.

Some of the most notable ones:

* On Cyber Monday, everybody who went online turned into a robot.

* My friend Tod From Dayton (not be confused with Tod from Palm Desert), had to give Steven Tyler lessons on how to be a rock star.

* Adonis moved in next door. Like, the actual Greek god. It made borrowing a cup of sugar super hot.

* My friend Eileen took up a low-carb diet that consisted of only quail eggs.

* Heather and I met two men with ridiculous facial hair and helped them carry mattresses. They turned out to be editors at Tin House.

* My friend Agam quit his job as manager of an MFA program and joined a Doobie Brothers cover band.

* I was drinking a beer. Just one very big, beautiful glass of dark beer. And then I took Cheryl Strayed to my favorite place in Hampi, India, a little restaurant full of lavender scarves and clove cigarettes, where we sat on pillows, shared a dosa and wrote lovely things.

* North Korea decided to attack the United States. Specifically, they attacked Rancho Mirage, CA. But then Stephen Graham Jones, a professor in my creative writing program, thwarted their plans by distracting them with a fake Beach Boys band — just a bunch of golfers in Tommy Bahama shirts. While they were singing “Good Vibrations,” Stephen Graham Jones slipped the North Korean soldiers some jelly doughnuts filled with lethal doses of sleeping pills. ‘Merica!

Days until a dirty martini: 161

Pregnancy Week 16: Clinton, Kobe and golfers, oh my!

January 21, 2014

First, there was the pregnancy announcement with Bryan Cranston, who was perfectly lovely.

As soon as I told him my idea for an epic Breaking Bad pregnancy announcement, he was game. “Let’s do it,” he said. “Where should I stand? Should I hold your belly?”

The blue meth made me do it.

That was a couple weeks ago. And then this week of pregnancy, things got really crazy.

I volunteered for the Clinton Foundation’s Health Matters conference, which addresses important questions about health and wellness in the U.S. My job was to act as security for the talent, which included Herschel Walker, Matt Kemp and Kobe Bryant, checking badges backstage.

Safety first.

Like, this Kobe.

This marks the first and only time a Laker will be guarded by a relatively small pregnant lady.

The same Kobe who is chatting up Chelsea Clinton. Like, this Chelsea.

Outside this door? Me with a walkie talkie, ready to kick some ass! And talk to people in CB slang.

Then I brought my dad to the Humana Challenge golf tournament, which featured a bunch of men who are golf famous. Not Tiger, but you know. Those other guys in the pants with the clubs.

Hideous winter weather in Palm Springs.

And then we saw President Bill Clinton, who recognized me from such things as following him around the golf course last year.

Not the father.

This fetus, man. It’s destined to become an A-list celebrity. Or a TMZ paparazzo.

Here’s how everything else is going this week:

Baby: Is the size of a Hass avocado, and my uterus is the size of a cantaloupe. This prompted my friend Abby to say the best thing of my pregnancy thus far: “An avocado inside a cantaloupe inside your belly is like a pregnant vegetarian Turducken.”

Wee baby Turducken.

The interesting thing is that I have not received a single comment about my pregnant belly or anything like that. So all those times pre-pregnancy when I felt so bloated or thought everyone was focused on my extra pounds, NOBODY ACTUALLY NOTICED BUT ME. Right now I am literally walking around with something the size of a melon in my gut, and it still slides under the radar.

Other baby stuff: Baby is growing hair, lashes and eyebrows now. (Weird!) It can hear my voice. (So weird!) Supposedly I will feel it move soon. (Super duper weird!)

At night before I fall asleep, I lie very still and focus on the baby and try to feel it flutter. Sometimes I even feel the tiniest bit of something! And then I’ll realize I ate a lot of lentils this week, and I’m probably feeling what my friend Ashley calls “a cherished moment of gas.”

New this week: I am itchy. All the time. Every part of me. I’m sure part of this can be attributed to living in the desert in winter. But I think part of it is also caused by my skin expanding to accommodate an entirely new human.

These products have been hitting the dry spot: Weleda stretch mark massage oil, Weleda sea buckthorn creamy body wash and Alba very emollient body lotion. Sweet, sweet emollience.

Cream of the crop.

Also my hair has been weird. The curl is weird. Length is weird. Ends are dry. Where’s the glorious, thick pregnancy hair I’ve read about? I want my money back!

Clothes: Still wearing my regular clothes, but I’ve also added this maternity T-shirt into the rotation. It is so soft and so long, and it is black like Morrissey’s soul, and I love it forever and ever.

Liz Lange for Target; very comfortable for me.

I have also been wearing my Thai fisherman plants a lot. What exactly are Thai fisherman pants? Well, they are pants that involve a lot of fabric, very wide legs and a weird, wide waistband that is elaborately folded, then tied.

I was certain these pants would become fashion’s next big thing, and I stocked up while I was in Chiang Mai. I have about six pairs in a variety of colors.

I mean, they still haven’t gotten very trendy yet. And sometimes people point and openly laugh at me when I wear them to Trader Joe’s. But someday, you’ll all see.

Who’ll be laughing then? Me and this guy.