Self

The cashier at Trader Joe’s nodded her head toward my pregnant belly. “When are you due?”

“Last week.”

“My goodness!” she stopped scanning my groceries, her hand paused above a can of split pea soup. “You’re overdue? What are you doing here?”

“I need food.”

I guess the cashier assumed what most everybody does — right around that magical due date, there’s a gush of water, some contractions and pushing, a poop-splosion, and then TA-DAH! A baby comes out.

Is that a watermelon in your uterus? Or are you just happy to see me?

But my due date has come and gone, and still no baby. No contractions. No labor. No crowning. What I do have is growing anxiety and a whole lot of time to waste. And it’s so frustrating, these in-between days. On the one hand, my own life is on hold while I wait for this new life to begin. At the same time, I still need to take care of business. Fill my afternoons. Buy food.

It’s actually more of a mental challenge than a physical one, and it’s way more difficult than I expected. It’s like reaching the end of a marathon and finding that someone has moved the finish line. Every time I inch closer, the line is moved again. There’s no end in sight.

My friends can’t win either. Every day I receive thoughtful, well-intentioned texts, messages and phone calls about the status of the baby, and it makes me grouchy. With every “Where’s the baby?” and “Have you had that baby yet?” the subtext feels more like, “You’re doing pregnancy all wrong. What’s the matter with you?” But when I don’t receive inquiries, that makes me grumpy too, because then I feel isolated and sad, like I’m marooned on the Island of Misfit Pregnant Ladies.

Trust me, I’ve tried all the tricks. Bouncing on the birth ball. Sex. Spicy food. Squats. Garlic pizza. Hot baths. Hula hoop. Curry. Nipple stimulation. Evening primrose oil. Acupressure. Weird yoga moves. Walking. So much walking.

I am trying so hard, and I really thought there would already be a baby in my arms by now. So when someone casually says, “You should have that baby already,” I want to start throwing punches. Really? GREAT IDEA. After 40 weeks of pregnancy, I wasn’t sure what I should do next. But maybe I should HAVE THE BABY! Why didn’t I think of that? I was just hanging on to an extra 35 pounds in 112-degree heat for the hell of it.

HAVE THE BABY? You have the baby.

Yup.

It’s nothing personal. I’m a little on edge.

I’m just ready. I’ve packed and re-packed my hospital bag. The house is clean, and the fridge is stocked. I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be. This part feels like the last few days at a job I’ve already quit — there’s nothing more I can do here. I’m just watching the clock, wasting hours. It’s time for the next phase to begin.

Let’s do this, baby.

Lemon is bored too.

P.S. On a good note that is completely unrelated to my pregnancy, I’m thrilled to see my name among the finalists here. It’s a nice reminder that I have a life outside of watching “House” and waiting to go into labor.

My due date is about 30 days away. But instead of organizing the nursery or preparing other things for baby, I can’t stop lavishing attention on my dog.

I’ve always loved my dog, of course. Lemon is a six-year-old, double-dapple dachshund, born blind, deaf and full of sass. People say she’s lucky I adopted her; I think the opposite is true. I’m grateful that of all the dogs in all the world, this wriggly, cuddly, brave pup found her way into my home. She teaches me what it means to be confident and true.

MUCH HIKE. SUCH DOG.

Lately, though, my dog love has been particularly strong. After my husband leaves for work, I grab the dog from her bed and pull her into mine. There I prop myself up on pillows, writing and working on my computer, while she burrows against my legs in the place where the backs of my knees form a right angle. (Or on top of my legs. Or sprawled across my lap.)

I find it difficult to pull myself away from her, and I only do it if I must — like if I need groceries or have a doctor’s appointment. Our regular walks have gotten longer, and they feel more leisurely and special.

SNUGGLING SO HARD.

My phone has 1,196 photos on it right now, and I’d say the bulk of them are of her silly, furry face. Sometimes I also shoot video — Lemon walking down the stairs, tearing the fluff from a stuffed gorilla, kicking and snoring in her sleep. Really compelling stuff.

LOOK AT HER LITTLE FURRY FACE!

My husband has this theory that I’m chock full of mommy hormones right now. He thinks with no baby here yet, all of my maternal instincts have been concentrated into a big laser beam of love, directed right at this fur-child.

My doula believes there’s a part of me that must know my relationship with Lemon is about to change, so I’m trying to get all my snuggling in now while I still have time and attention to spare.

I think it’s something else entirely — I’m scared.

I’m scared I’ll be a bad mother. This is my first child, and I haven’t spent much time around babies, so I’m not sure I know how to be a parent. This is something that goes way beyond creating a nap schedule or knowing how to change a diaper.

It’s an enormous responsibility to shelter and nourish a child; to love him and keep him safe; to educate him and teach him to be compassionate, ethical and respectful. How do I know if I have the capacity for that? How can anyone be certain?

In college I had this Giga Pet, which required regular (electronic) feeding, activity and loving. One night I got particularly smashed and awoke from my drunken stupor with the Giga Pet wedged underneath my body, the angel of death on the screen. It was horrifying. And it only takes one traumatic robot death to make you wonder how you’ll fare as a real-life parent.

I’m scared I won’t bond with him. I worry that I’ll give birth, and I won’t feel the things that mothers are supposed to feel.

Yes, this baby was desired. My husband and I wanted him, we planned for him, and we spent a long time trying to conceive him. But simply wanting something doesn’t eliminate the fear that comes along with it.

What happens if I bring this child home, and I don’t like him? What if that part of me is missing? It must happen.

I’m scared my baby won’t love me. That must happen sometimes too.

Maybe I should have gotten a Corgi. I know Corgis like me.

I’m not certain birth will alleviate any of my worries — all of these emotions will probably exist in the shadows, live and loaded, for many years to come.

I expected that pregnancy would come with a lot of physical changes, the rise of a belly, the heaviness of my breasts, the cravings, the fluctuation in energy. What I didn’t expect was how much emotion and anxiety would also swell inside my body. The self-doubt, the compound of past damage, the feeling that I’m walking on the edge of a slippery cliff.

So now I wait for my human child to arrive. I continue to wonder how we’ll feel about each other. And I focus my affection on a creature that never fails to return my love — my dog, mom’s best friend.

Here’s how everything else is going this week:

Baby: Is enormous. I’m afraid the next ultrasound will show the Michelin man.

Has anyone seen my beach ball?

My body: Is a wonderland.

Or a constellation.

How do you prepare for a baby? You planet.

Eating: I think I’ve hit the wacky stage of pregnancy eating. Today The Husband asked what I wanted for lunch, and I said, “Pizza. Or sushi. Or falafel. … Or pizza WITH sushi AND falafel.”  And The Husband looked scared. Very, very scared.

(We ended up eating quinoa salad and sweet potato fries, in case you’re wondering. No sushi/falafel pizza. Not yet, anyway.)

I’m still craving lots of fruit too. Watermelon, cantaloupe, grapes, watermelon, strawberries, banana smoothies, watermelon.

Exercise: It’s difficult to find motivation to work out when I wake up feeling heavy and lethargic, and it’s already 90 degrees outside at dawn. I’ve been swimming a lot and trying to do as much yoga as possible, but I feel increasingly lumpy. I’m pretty sure my blood type has changed from A-positive to gravy.

The Husband: I found this old photo of The Husband with our niece, and it cracks me up. You can just tell by the look on his face that he believes he broke the baby.

This is what our house will look like soon.

My favorite memory of my mom is also one of the most mysterious.

It happened when I was in first grade, and the teacher abruptly sent me to the principal’s office. My mom was there, waiting, and she gave me the kind of look that meant I should keep my mouth shut.

This was clearly unusual. I had never been to the principal’s office before, let alone in the middle of the school day. My mom signed a form or something, and then she held my hand as she guided me out of the school, into the parking lot and into our family station wagon.

When I was buckled into the car, she handed me a paper bag from some toy store that probably doesn’t exist anymore.

“Go on. Open it,” she said.

Inside was a Glamour Gal, a 4-inch tall doll of molded plastic and tiny features. She had luscious blonde hair, just like the lady on WKRP in Cincinnati, and was wearing a blue tube dress. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

The present was strange, because it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas or any special occasion at all.

I had the one on the right. Eventually I also got the one wearing the pink dress — a dress that easily slipped off her shoulders so she could have filthy sex with my gigantic Ken dolls. The ’80s were crazy for everyone.

After that, we went to McDonalds, and my mom bought me a Happy Meal. This was also strange, because it was something that just didn’t happen. We rarely went out to eat, fast food or otherwise, but when we did it was with the whole family.

I remember stirring my soggy fries into puddles of ketchup, just like mom did, and it felt very grown-up, like two sassy ladies out on the town. When my mom finally brought me home, she said I must never tell anyone about our secret afternoon outing. I waited for something like that to happen again, but it never did.

My mom did a lot of terrific things for me, so I’m not sure why that incident sticks in my head. I suppose it’s the oddity and rarity of it.

I don’t remember the context of that day — what was happening at home or at school. Maybe my mom was sad and lonely, and she wanted to do something to strengthen our relationship. Maybe she was just bored and wanted to see me. Maybe that’s the day my first-grade teacher was baptizing everyone into the Church of Satan, and she was protecting me. Who knows?

I wish I could ask her.

This is the fourth Mother’s Day since my mom passed away. But since she spent 10 years dying of Alzheimer’s Disease, it feels like I’ve been without her much longer.

I think we’re both wearing Members Only jackets because we were totally rad. Also what is this place? Anyone know?

It’s difficult to explain Alzheimer’s to those who haven’t tried to love someone through it. It’s a thief of a disease. It doesn’t only steal memories, it steals the victim’s everything.

Alzheimer’s took the light that illuminated my mother’s eyes, and it left behind someone I no longer recognized.

It’s only fair, I guess, that she no longer recognized me either.

At the nursing home.

I spent many years resentful of this — it’s how I mourned. I was angry that my mom abandoned me. I didn’t have a mom to call when I got engaged. I didn’t have a mom to watch me walk down the aisle. I didn’t have a mom around when adult life felt fierce and overwhelming. I didn’t have a mom when I needed one.

For a long time, I pushed away memories of her. I could only recall the most mundane things — our drive to church, her vacuuming the house, the way she studied her the arch of her eyebrows as she filled them in with a makeup pencil.

But now that I’m writing a memoir in which she figures prominently, I’m starting to excavate my memories again, and she materializes in the most surprising places. I hear a George Michael song, and it reminds me of mom dancing in the kitchen, committing crimes against chicken. (Seriously, she was a terrible cook.)  Spring flowers remind me of how my mom found wild honeysuckle in our backyard, plucked the stamen and placed the sweet drop of nectar on my tongue. Certain smells remind me of her perfume, her sweat, her skin.

I think of her even more now as my pregnancy progresses. I wish she were here to offer me advice and guide me down this brand-new path. Maybe I wouldn’t even want her opinions if she were here to give them; maybe I would hate her advice. It would just be nice to have the option.

This is one of my favorite photos of my mom. I love it because she looks completely fallible, like she’s about to drop my screaming sister right there on that lawn full of weeds. She has absolutely no idea what to do with this child.

The funny thing is that the longer she’s away from me, the closer I feel to her.

Mommy and me. At this point, she was clearly an investor in Aquanet.

I’m not a person who believes in heaven as a literal place. I think it’s a beautiful myth, and I have no problem with people who do believe in the concept. But for me personally, I don’t think my mom is watching me from above or looking down over me. I don’t think  I will somehow be reunited with her when I die.

What I am attached to is the concept of energy, which doesn’t dissipate simply because a physical body dies — I believe souls never disappear, they just change form.

I’m sad my mom will never meet my son. Even so, I feel her energy now, every day. It’s here as I rub my growing belly. It’s here as I feel a small little thing kicking inside me. And it’ll still be here someday when I spontaneously pick my child up from school, give him a surprise present and take him to lunch for no reason whatsoever.