McObvious

If this blog were a book, and if that book made any attempt at a coherent storyline that tracked unfolding themes and developing characters, then this next part would be so obviously foreshadowed that any good reader would groan and slap her forehead. If she were a boxing fan, she might say I totally broadcast that punch. If she were my mother, who used to play a game with us when watching cheesy Hollywood summer blockbusters called "Scriptwriter Says," wherein she called every major plot development five minutes before it happened, she would say, "Bingo. Told ya."

I went and got myself knocked up. Actually, Pants helped. The whole process, now about four months along, has been a heartwarming cliche straight out of the most predictable books and movies. The reeling descent into three months of nausea and near-narcolepsy, the sudden and tragic rebellion of my body against jeans, the kaleidoscope of smells, the wracking sobs at old Tom Petty songs-- all somehow totally OK, even though they follow such a predictable and timeworn path.

I am somehow both completely myself in a way that's never before felt so stable, and also this other entity in flux. Everyone keeps wanting to tell me what's next, how much Everything is Going to Change, and while I believe them in some ways, in most ways I just don't. Nothing will change, I want to say, until it does, kind of... but not really... It's a very inarticulate kind of fence-sitting I'm doing, but it too is working out somehow.

The best part of this so far is prenatal yoga. At first, I would have said yoga pants, because they came into my life waaaay before yoga class, and my God are they a comfortable not-hideous compromise between jeans and bulky sweatpants (sweatpants, God bless them, are like an arms race for my ass-- they create a space which then must be filled, simply because it can be-- therefore, they are off limits. I signed a treaty and everything). But now I'm actually in a yoga class, and we roll around doing back bends on exercise balls and standing half-lotus on blocks and pigeon pose and pregnant tortoise and some other crazy variation of warrior pose that always makes my hips pop. And I don't say much of anything, just breath in the smell of hippie room freshener and listen, letting my limbs "hug in" or "shine out" or "tuck down" or whatever the hell we're supposed to be thinking, and I enjoy being alone, with this kid-let, in a room full of people telling stories. It's nice.

In the meantime, I'm polishing and shaping my book, which made it through draft stage without sending me into a rabbit hole of self-doubt and narcissistic despair. Now I just have to reshape a few chapters and come up with a better ending, which I'm thinking hasn't happened yet in my life, but is close. I won some things at school, which was also nice, but which necessitated a trip to the pregnant lady store for a camouflaging dress, except it turns out they only sell dresses that scream WITH CHILD and come with big bows right above the belly. At one point in a very formal, hours-long event with champagne and little fruits, I had to kick off my high heels and go stand at the back in the my bare feet, flexing the life back into my toes. If I had known, at that point, that I would be receiving awards later in the night, I would have done it earlier, and with less embarrassment. I might have even tossed my shoes into a bush for later retrieval and spent the rest of the night comfortable with my chipped toenail polish on display.

This is the way I like to live right now: focusing on this week and next week and looking back over last week. If I look any further ahead I see this big stupid thing shaping up to happen, where Pants will be shipped off on a last-minute exercise that will take him away for most of the summer, only bringing him back right when I'm about to pop. I've worked so hard to get to the summer. We were supposed to have that time together to go camping as a childless couple a few more times, to kayak the sea caves in La Jolla, to canoe on Mono Lake. We were supposed to swim together every day, as I displaced more and more of the pool and cast a growing whale shadow on its painted blue floor. We were supposed to set up a crib and a dresser, but not go ape-shit crazy doing a whole nursery thing. We were supposed to have a couples shower that was really just a big barbecue where people could sit around and drink beer and squirt their kids with hoses and not have to play games or guess the kid-let's weight and steal clothes pins off each other for crimes like crossing their legs. I wouldn't have to be the focus of anything, and instead I could focus inward and get ready for what's next.

But whatever. I'm taking my disappointment in stride by focusing everything on now and next week, and remembering my nose-breathing. There are impossible positions I'm able to get my body into now with a little bit of focus and balance. Maybe I can do the same for my mind.