GoGoPance

vaya con pance

Introdiversion March 29, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — gogopance @ 6:33 pm

There seems to be a lot on the interwebs lately discussing extroversion vs. introversion. Or maybe because I came out of an extrovert, I run a business with an extrovert and I’m sharing my life, love and impending offspring with an extrovert, I’m just paying attention more. As a card-carrying introvert, I like reading about introversion because it basically feeds me full of information that validates who I am. It makes me feel like it’s actually OK that I prefer written communication vs. spoken or that, well, I simply have a finite amount of energy for lots of people and talk. If I had a dollar for every time I thought silently to myself, “please stop talking,” I could buy something really cool – like a paintball set or, say, a bar.

GuideToUnderstandingTheIntroverted

I think the chances are high that I will give birth to an extrovert and then I will be a minority in my own family unit. I realize my me-time is numbered already – but to also have a wee one with as much to say as those encircling my life already? Holy.

Alas, I think if I just change my perspective a bit on this, it may just work out in my favor. A baby, once here on earth, will be the perfect conversation piece. Part of my anxiety as an introvert is stand-around-in-a-circle small talk. I *hate* small talk. I like simple 1:1 or even 1:2 gatherings over beers or food, but much more than that and I emotionally zone out. But a baby is the magical piece de resistance that can make interpersonal communication function. A wee lil baby can effortlessly carry an entire conversation. Stick a baby in the middle of a crowd and  – VIOLA – insta-topic (domestic pets are similar saviors). Never again will I have to fumble for chatter to contribute. Never again will I stare blankly at the group, heart racing, waiting for the uncomfortable silence to be broken. Now I will just stare at the baby and say, “Look at that! Let’s all talk about The Baby!”

Of course, remind me of this in two years when I have a toddling coattail-tugger and long for deep, meaningful, uninterrupted adult banter; when all my hamster balls of space have rolled under couches never to be found again. Maybe someone will shoot me with my brand new paintball gun.

 

Halftime March 11, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — gogopance @ 7:12 pm

I’ve reached the halfway mark. Twenty weeks. Notable things in my life include:

1) Whenever I feel flutters of movement I am compelled to stick my hand down my pants to get a little closer to skin. The baby is still mostly below my belly button. It doesn’t really matter where I am, who I’m with or what we’re doing. All public spaces are now subject to my sexy Al Bundy moves.

2) Most spoken line = “No, we are not going to find out the gender.” (Until July, that is.)

3) Second most spoken line = “I feel fat.” (Followed closely by, “I’m hungry.”)

4) I’ve added aqua jogging and pre-natal yoga to my run, spin, repeat exercise routine and both are rather strange in their own unconventional ways. “Running” suspended in water with an adult floatie around your bulbous belly and “oooohhhmmming” out loud to the baby are two things you just don’t want other people to see you doing. (Odd that I’m totally fine with other people seeing my hand down my pants, however.)

5) My bladder does not like the baby. I mean really. Would you if something squirmy, alien-like and covered in weird fuzzy stuff was sitting on you?!?

6) A fondness for the fact the baby is always equated to a type food to communicate size to me. Goes appropriately with #3’s nagging hunger me thinks. Blueberry, kidney bean, fig, lemon, avocado, can of soda (that was more for a weight comparison actually). And this week… drum roll… the baby is the length of a banana. Hot damn I’m ready for dessert!

7) I sometimes need to consult “The Book of Fear” to find out what-the-hell is going on. Titled in bookstores everywhere as, “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”

Speaking of twenty weeks. I always found it annoying that pregnatarians counted in weeks when the rest of the upright world understands that cooking a baby takes nine months. Weeks mean nada. Alas, I have become one of those women. I have no idea how many months pregnant I am. But I can tell you right now, today, I am 20 weeks and one day prego. Everyone asks, “How far along are you?” And naturally I  answer in my terms because it’s all about me.

Some folks are polite and say, “Cool” and move on. Others lose all focus behind their eyes and stare off with a look that either says, “I have no idea what that means” or “Quick math. Quick math. Quick math. OH! Xxx months.”

Still others will flat out ask for a translation, “Soooo, how many months is that?”

I dunno, ask Hugh Grant.

nine-months-1

 

Hello, My Baby March 6, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — gogopance @ 1:50 pm

So it’s the weirdest thing to hear a heartbeat coming from your gut. It’s kind of the last thing you want in that area actually. Some digestion sounds, maybe. A little gas turnover here and there. But a heartbeat? Who put THAT there?!? We all remember the alien scene from… well, “Alien,” that was later more humorously recreated in “Spaceballs.” We don’t want that. But as I was stretched out on the electronic bed the nice lady slapped a little goo on my mid-section, rubbed this wand thing around below my belly button and viola(!), out from the handheld box came a racing heartbeat.

There’s something alive in there. Somebody call somebody.

We got to see the heartbeat at our first doctor’s visit back in December. But that little glimpse – in all its kidney bean with a flashy spot glory – wasn’t nearly as impactful as hearing the loud, squishy thumpthumpthumpthump.

Hi. My name is Nancy and there’s a heartbeat I’m told belongs to a certain baby that’s taken up residence in my gut. The baby will emerge calmly and gently into this world the later side of July. Lord help us all. And by all I mostly mean me.

I traveled through all the typical stages of grief during the first few weeks of baby awareness. That might sound horrible, but well, it’s the truth. And letting oneself go on that journey at all just leads to a stronger, more confident and peaceful stance on the other side.

THE STAGES:

Denial (“It’s possible 53 pregnancy tests could be wrong! Cheap pieces of plastic! And, besides, I had asparagus! My pee was tainted!”). Anger (Hmmm, I actually don’t think I ever felt angry, but Jim might say otherwise.) Bargaining (“Here, babe, you pee on this stick and I’ll pee on mine and then we’ll swap for the real results!”). Depression (“We’re not supposed to talk about this to anyone yet so, damn, this feels pretty lonely. And I feel like crap.”)  Acceptance (“Baby! A Mini Us! Miracle! Blessing! Weeeeee!”).

Acceptance was escalated for us, and especially me, when we could start living outside our own cocoon and actually see people smile and hear them say “Congratulations!” when we told them the bignews. Congratulations? Huh? Oh! Thanks!

My first of which was when I almost passed out being a lunch lady one day (see previous blog post on spaghetti rowing). I was scooping peaches into little plastic cups and the world started to go tingly. I looked at my peach partner who was “lidding” for me and I said, “I’m sorry. I have to go outside. I’m gonna pass out. “ And for no other reason than feeling like I needed to validate the whole dramatic episode I added, “I’m pregnant!”

She looked at me with wide smiley eyes and said, “Me too!!” and then kindly let me run out the back door. When I came back a little less ashen she said, “By the way, congratulations!” and she was genuinely excited about it. I returned the salutation feeling strangely giddy to hear myself speak out loud to a stranger about the whole thing. Turns out we’re due the same week. The odds.

It all really just boils down to one itsy bitsy thing – that second heartbeat just below the surface. It recently occurred to me, after a tornado of thoughts and feelings and crazy physical changes and more thoughts and more feelings, that for the rest of my life there will be a heartbeat in my gut. A heartbeat I will love and [no doubt] worry about deep down in my soul of souls, in my gut of guts, forever and ever. It doesn’t matter where that heartbeat is in the world, it will always be inside of me. This thought terrifies me and I have absolutely no idea what to expect. Other people have done this and survived, right? But… honestly, I can’t think of a better, more exciting adventure to go on. So I’m gonna start packin’ my best fat clothes and prepare to GoGo down roads I’ve never GoneGone on before. There’s certainly no stopping now.