Three good things
I have officially seven weeks left of pregnancy, a date on the books when my second baby will arrive. Lots of women don’t have this privilege of knowledge and certainty and a calendar appointment, but lots of women don’t have to undergo surgery while ~awake~ so it’s a bit of a mixed bag. I have to get a c-section because I had a c-section with my first, and the two are so close together that it’s kind of a required c-section party. I won’t go into the nitty-gritty of what it's like to have this procedure done, but scary is definitely one word for it, and now that I have a date of when the next one will be, I’ve been feeling emotionally wobbly, to say the least. In other words – my mental health currently has the structural make-up of the fluffy head of a dandelion.
I am always highly sensitive, but being massively pregnant seems to have removed a layer of my skin, and I am crying at things, tiny things – the broken robin’s egg I came across on my walking path, the mere thought of my son one day going to kindergarten, the messy state of the playroom. Much bigger things, too; bowl me over. I open my phone in the morning and see horrible and unending violence towards innocent families, towards children, towards the sweetest babies, babies whose parents want nothing but to kiss them on their soft heads, happening far away, but also close, so close, because it’s here, on this planet, somehow, and it makes me want to scream. On my Instagram stories, I tap through horror, atrocities, feel wildly helpless, and then *poof* an advertisement, slipped in between all of that, insidiously, for a bag I need, or a face cream that will change my life, or a workout dress that with removable spandex panels that makes it easy to pee. Then, more horrors, more war, an acquaintance from college’s barrage of wedding photos, another ad. I don’t know how to hold all of that at once, and to also raise small babies, and to not feel well – wobbly.
I wish I had solutions to any of this. I don’t. What I do have: three good things that hopefully break up the darkness of your internet with some positivity. Plus, no ads, except ok, one moment of self-promotion at the end, but I promise it’s done tastefully!
1. Cheerios
My son is at the age where he can consume Cheerios with the same confidence and exuberance that Joey Chestnut approaches hot dogs. I find them everywhere, deeply embedded into the grooves of my everyday existence. In the seams of the car seat, in little plastic bowls on the fireplace mantel, in my bra. Recently, though, they have scratched a strange pregnancy-craving itch, and I’ve been consuming them by the handful. I love that they sort of taste like nothing, except an opaque, dusty crunchiness. To me, they almost taste wooden, in a really satisfying way. At night, I have taken to falling asleep to ASMR videos, which are strange, sometimes concerningly so, but relaxing all the same. One content creator has especially caught my attention: Wood Soup Girl. She pours wooden beads into water and stirs them around, that’s her whole page. For some reason, my pregnant ass thinks that this wood soup would taste good. These videos elicit a particularly strange reaction in me, I am both disgusted by them and yet cannot stop watching. I must admit this strangeness to all of you – my desire, and concurrent repugnance at myself when the desire arises, to eat the wood soup. My sister reminded me this is called a “pica craving,” a craving to consume non-food items, that can sometimes arise in pregnancy. Other women have reported craving dirt or paint chips. I had heard of such things – freaks, I thought! – but never thought something similar would overtake me. The desire is not strong enough to actually procure wooden beads and eat them, so don’t like, worry about me or anything, but cheerios are filling this strange hole, thank goodness. I am eating them happily, and they are a tentpole of my son’s diet, and my dog’s, by osmosis, as well. We, as a family, are thankful to the General Mills corporation for their Good Product.
2. The Library
I love the library in my town and the concept of libraries in general. I love that old people loudly ask questions of patient librarians in the technology room. I love the smell of the books, and the feel of their plastic covers. I love the community resource pamphlets, the teen rooms, the free distribution of words and thoughts. With my toddler, I’ve found myself at the library more than ever. He likes to zoom around, pull books off the shelf, play with the toys, throw himself into the bean bags, and stare openly at the other children.
He brings me book after book, and sits in my lap, and practices words, pointing to the cheerfully illustrated farm animals and approximating the sounds they make. I love the librarians, who tend to be infinitely kind, and the other parents and caregivers who chat with each other as the children zoom, and I love the picture books I get to page through as he explores the space. Recently I picked up a book in the children’s section that had beautiful art. I love the illustration of it and the fact that I got to bring it home for me, and I love the knowing smile that the librarian gave me when she slid it back to me.
3. Peonies
The peonies in my yard have bloomed. I didn’t know there would be peonies in my yard, we hadn’t moved in yet last peony season. There are so many that I cut some and brought them into my house. In a moment of sadness, I realized they were droopier than I expected them to be. When I first saw their buds emerge, I imagined a full, perfect, springy, peony bush. Instead, they are laden from all the rain and imperfect, and when I realized the image in my head was not to be, I felt momentarily disappointed. This is the story of my life – the reality does not match up with the image I had concocted. But they are still good, and they smell amazing, and the petals are falling, so they’ll be gone soon, but for now, I get to look at them each time I pull into my driveway, in all their droopy, lovely glory.
The dreaded self-promotion
I have an essay out today in a wonderful little magazine called Oh Reader, which you can buy from your local Barnes and Noble. You can also subscribe to the magazine here. If neither is within your budget, I will send you a scan of the essay if you want to read it. It is about my enduring crush on Jess Mariano – but more than anything, it’s about reading.
Love you all!
Your favorite, tired, wobbly, local mommy