And etc…

There are a lot of things that should never (ever) be said to a woman who is pregnant. Some of these things seem fairly innocuous. I feel I need to clear this up.

You are so small. Um, thanks? This is like telling a woman that she is doing her pregnancy wrong. Don’t do it. You may think this is a compliment. But really, you’re saying, “why aren’t you nourishing your baby person correctly? You should clearly be killed or ostracized in some way. Also, I know more about pregnancy and life in general than you.”

You look like you’re ready to pop. So, you’re telling me I’m fat now? Also, let’s not mention “popping” because it just makes pregnant women realize how much they need to go to the bathroom. So, thanks for that.

When are you due? Not a bad question, per se. We just grow tired of answering this. Ditto with “Do you have a name picked out?” and “What is it?” These just sort of seem like personal questions. Why do you care? Any why should I tell you?

Do you really think pop-tarts (or any other food items) are good for the baby? Well, frankly, I don’t care. I’m sure pop-tarts won’t kill the baby, and I want pop-tarts. A lot of them. Thanks for insinuating that I’m trying to kill my offspring, though. I’ll definitely take that under consideration.

That baby is going to be born addicted to caffeine! Ha ha! Yeah…this is a joke? I drink caffeinated beverages–below the recommended limit, actually. Caffeine is not meth. It is not heroin. But thanks for telling me I’m a drug addict who is, once again, harming her unborn child deliberately. This may be a symptom of being pregnant “behind the Zion Curtain” (my new favorite phrase). In fact, when someone said this to Matt after he told them I had just drank a Diet Coke (in explanation of my rush for a bathroom), he became quite enraged. Though I wasn’t there, he reportedly did not act on this rage. Good job. Of course, this may also just be symptomatic of everyone in the world feeling like they can tell pregnant women what to do, because we are somehow less than individual, free-thinking, sentient beings.

And finally, just don’t say anything in a cutesy voice. This might just be me–I’ve always had a problem with cutesy voices. They make me want to punch people.

Oh, and we don’t actually want to hear about your own pregnancy. I know you might mean well, but it’s either going to be a horror story of your arduous labor, or you’re bragging about how you were better at pregnancy and labor because, for instance, the kid came out in five minutes or you didn’t get an epidural and are hence a “super-person” who deserves praise for giving birth ‘naturally.’ Though, I imagine to truly give birth naturally, you should be forced to do it in the woods without water and possibly all alone. Just a thought.

You know how you have a legal responsibility to name your child at some point in their lives, generally before they become aware that they probably strongly dislike you? Yeah, I’m agonizing over that legal responsibility. Is it wrong to name a kid after yourself? Now, I don’t mean completely–Amanda Jr. is just too weird, even for me. And I’d get confused. I’m wondering if it’s wrong to give a kid your first name as a middle name. Seems like they might someday resent not having their own name, though, as Matt points out, they still have a first name.

I think I have this problem because I view the middle name as a second chance name. If the kid hates the first name, they still have the middle name to go by. But they don’t really have that option if their mother’s name is the exact same. That just becomes creepy, especially when you’re introducing yourself to guys at a bar or something. Though, I suppose it would promote non-dating activities… But that wouldn’t help with the “trying not to scar her for life” thing. (Which I will inevitably do, but I was hoping to do it better. And have more fun with it.)

Anyway, this is a dilemma. At least to me. Matt says that as long as you don’t turn out to be a real loser parent it’s fine. (I can probably at least achieve mediocrity on that score.) This reasoning made me wonder, “what if the kid turns out to be a serial killer and I resent that I gave the kid my name?” Especially if the kid starts using my name for this life of crime. And I end up somehow mistakenly arrested. Or at least forever associated with it. The big evil people tend to have their full names drafted into the headlines, you know. Like John Wilkes Booth. Who is the only example I can come up with at the moment, which hopefully does not invalidate my point.

Ok, so the serial killer thing is unlikely–she may be emotionally or mentally-unbalanced, but who isn’t? A lot of people are telling me that she’s my kid, so I get to name her what I want. Which sort of makes me feel like naming her after myself is like bestowing my property rights of ownership upon her. And I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. I don’t want to “disown” her (at least not yet), but ownership is sort of like slavery. Though, childhood is sort of like slavery, without all the brutality, but with some of the angst. And a lot of singing.

So, five people who read this blog, what should I do? Is it just lazy to give a kid your name as a middle name? Does it lack creativity? Or does it show that you think the kid won’t embarrass you, so it’s a stamp of pride? And, if that’s true, how come I wasn’t named after anyone? Hmmm, Mother?

If TV has taught me anything in life, and we all know it is my main source of education, it has taught me that when a woman is pregnant, she attends prenatal classes. So I signed up for one at the local hospital. Matt was pretty excited about how four nights of this month are now spent in a room full of women who somehow are trying to be proud of their pregnancies while still seeming ashamed that they had sex in the first place. Yeah, that’s where organized religion gets weird. It’s awkward. Not just for them, but for me, seeing how I just figured everybody was getting it on most of the time in some way or another. I guess not?

It got weirder when we viewed the labor and delivery video. Turns out most women end up pretty well naked by the time the kid comes out. There were lots of fairly gratuitous breast shots, and several embarrassed men. Lots of giggling. (Although, in all fairness, I was giggling as well–though I’m still not sure what I was laughing at exactly. I think I was just worried about infant head sizes and trying not to freak out, though I may have also been laughing at all the laughing. And the woman who kept turning her head away from the television and blushing.)

This whole childbirth class has been surreal, actually. The dominant religious culture has made it odder than it may have been, but it’s still just odd all on it’s own. Why is it necessary for me to know all these medicinal things, like how many centimeters you need to be dilated in order to officially be in each stage of labor? Am I going to have to check this myself? I hope not. I’m a rhetorician. Not a medical doctor. If we decide to debate language use and subsequent power issues surrounding pregnancy in the United States, I’d be relevant. In fact, I actually have some opinions in this area. (Probably they tell us all these things so we feel “in control” of our pregnancy–though, since they all happen somewhat automatically, I feel that knowing that they’re going to happen doesn’t give me any more of a sense of control. Just panic. Lots and lots of panic at the anticipation of pain. Yay!) However, in the event someone is needed to, say, administer anesthesia, I’m not useful. Although I was happy to learn that the patient gets to control how much anesthesia they get through their epidural. I plan to find out how much is max.

However, I have now signed up for a couple of more classes–infant cpr/car seat safety and breastfeeding. Should be fun times. I probably could learn these things off YouTube, but I’d prefer to hear it from someone I know has a nurse’s license.

So I live in Utah. And apparently hobo spiders live in Utah, too. On the surface, I am okay with this arrangement. However, I do not like hobo spiders that live in Utah that live in MY HOUSE. This one was in the recycling bin today. He (or she, how am I supposed to know?) was apparently hanging with my empty cans of Diet Coke when he was discovered by Matt, who promptly let me meet him as well (probably unnecessary since I could’ve lived without this encounter, just for future reference…).

Mr. Hobo Spider (Maybe Ms., actually)

Because neither of us really wanted to touch it, we took the bin outside and shook him out of it. I was planning on letting him live, so long as he scurried off away from the house. Alas, he was either directionally-challenged or just stupid. When I saw he was heading homeward–as in, MY HOME, homeward, well, he had to die. It was his choice, however, so I feel no remorse. Had he went to the neighbor’s, he’d be spinning happy little hobo webs right now. Too bad for him, I guess. So in a way, I guess this post is his obituary. That photo is actually him pre-squashing, as we are a family that likes to trap bugs and then photograph them for our amusement. And, for all y’all who don’t live in poisonous spider-land, well, I wanted you to see why I’d be so grossed out.

So I was feeling sort of pregnant today–my back hurt, I couldn’t get comfortable, even in bed–but then I saw the new Star Trek movie, and I no longer care. I just have an odd giddy happy feeling about life. Despite the guy next to me who actually answered his phone during Spock’s emotional make-out elevator scene (for lack of a better name) and the big guy behind Matt who apparently has legs that are so long they require three rows of chairs. I was so irritated by phone guy that I almost turned to him and yelled, “Really? Did you REALLY just do that??” But he was pretty big. And I was hoping he would just stop. Oh, and then his kid came and asked him for money. I was confused, but at least that only took about five minutes of me having to move my pregnant self around to let a large child pass in front of me a few times.

But anyway, for the record, Star Trek is better than Wolverine. If you wanted to know which one to spend money on. Of course, you should probably just see them both. That’s my plan this summer–see every movie possible before I am presented with a very small live person who cries a lot and prevents me from viewing movies at the cinema. I think it’s a good goal. Also, I should probably write a dissertation proposal. But the movie thing just seems much more pressing…