Not doing my absolute best

A not-so-yummy glass of good enough

See that right there? I just drank that. It is magnesium, which helps pregnant ladies avoid constipation (among other things), and I've been avoiding this time around, trying to make do with All Bran and other fiber sources. But it isn't working well enough to spare me some serious pain every 3-4 days. And it just happens to be the new poster child in my life.

Because a short, but particularly insightful Facebook chat exchange (thanks, K) last night helped me realize that, as the birth of this child approaches, one of my personal challenges will be that I tend to be too idealistic. I tend to try to do my absolute best.

Actually, no, I tend to look around at what all the others in my sort-of position are doing (and saying they've done) and try to do our collective absolute best. Which is when I get in trouble. In fact, it is that I'm not just settling for my own best, the best I can do given the circumstances, which gets me into trouble. Or at least pain and suffering. And I don't have to wind up there.

I can take the magnesium and stop trying so hard with the fiber. I can say "ok" to the C-section when the time comes before I've put myself through 17 hours of screaming from back pain (because whoever that infamous "I had an orgasm during a home birth" woman is, I'll bet you a lot of money she didn't have a herniated disk. Good for her! But I do, and allowed to take myself out of that particular pressure).

But I need to practice this "good enough" stuff. Preferably on many small situations, before that c-section decision comes. Which is why I just finally broke open the magnesium tablets, and why, by the end of the day, I'm going to pay to skip past a particularly hard level of Candy Crush. Yes, I play it, a lot, kind of like I used Bejeweled Blitz 4 years ago to get through the discomfort or insomnia times. But I'm also approaching it like the purist I somehow like being so much - pshaw! I won't give these people money just to go past a level, I'll just wait it out and if it takes me two weeks, then somehow I'm all the more principled (and high-and-mighty) because of it.

Nope. Not this time. I've stopped playing part of the game because I now dread it - that level I can't get through. Ding, ding, ding! Trying too hard, rather have the fun of the game back, gonna pay the $0.99 to get it back. Because that is my reality and what will make it fun again. For me. And that is what I need to practice.

So if you'll excuse me, there is a "good enough" hotel I need to book for a night in the mountains, one that isn't perfect, but that I won't have to search hours for. And by then, I'll be ready to lay down that $0.99 for my fun back.

Unfeminine and undginified...or not.

As this pregnancy progresses, there are more ways in which I have to change my usual behaviors, from the trivial to the more impacting of my daily life.

I've stopped wearing even the lowest of heels (actually, I only wear the lowest of heels anyway, cowboy boots) because they tilt my pelvis and arch my back enough, given my lack of core strength, to make me feel my disk issues. How un-feminine:

feminine
adjective
1 a very feminine young woman: womanly, ladylike; girlish; soft, delicate, gentle, graceful; informal girly. ANTONYMS masculine.

I've also added, rather considerably, to my medicine cabinet, from antacids to anti-constipation measures (just writing that is unfeminine!) and hemorroids cream. Yup, my body is under siege in a way that seems so un-dignified as well:

dignified
adjective
a dignified and courteous butler: stately, noble, courtly, majestic, distinguished, proud, august, lofty, exalted, regal, lordly, imposing, impressive, grand; solemn, serious, grave, formal, proper, ceremonious, decorous, reserved, composed, sedate.

And yet, there is nothing that says womanly like pregnant belly, and there is definitely nothing that says impressive and distinguished like creating another human being, by way of giving up even the calcium in one's bones, the space of one's stomach and bladder, and the oxygen in one's lungs (albeit involuntarily). So I'm choosing to think of my European Preparation-H substitute as quite dignified, really. And if my burping and flat shoes, by way of growing belly, seem unfeminine, maybe it is time to revisit the definition of female.

Ignore

There are a few people on my Facebook list who I've put on ignore (no, you are not one of them,). I sometimes wish I could do this in real life, too. Ignore isn't an unfriending on Facebook. I can still check in with these people's feeds from time to time, and see when they post something on my page. But I noticed that certain people's posts, instead of making me feel more connected to them and the world, were making me angry. Or dismissive.

So, apparently I can't handle people saying things I don't like. Or saying too much of them. Maybe it is partly because I have a hard time knowing how (and if) to respond. If we are "friends" then shouldn't we engage with each other? I'm still learning to live and let live. There are certain topics that still get my blood boiling. And, honestly, it doesn't matter. So I choose ignore, as a kindergarden way of letting live.

Now if I can just figure out how to do this in real life, maybe I'll get better at just chilling out. I've done it a few times, with extreme cases, not people I'd even call acquaintances. Just people I know and cross paths with sometimes. And it can be really stressful to just not respond, but at the same time, with some people it can be as stressful to engage with them.

Time was, I'd run head-first into altercations, to make sure the other person knew I disagreed with him or her. At least that I've learned to do less of. It doesn't make me less genuine to not tell someone I think they are wrong.

Still, an ignore button in real life, that could cut out even hearing what a person said unless it was directly to me, that might be nice some days.

Do I want my daughter to be nice?

Last week there were a number of discussions on Facebook about a blog post on girls and the concept of "nice." The original post was about not wanting a daughter to feel she had to smile at others for no other reason than that is what women are supposed to do. There were various reactions to the post - it really hit home with me on the point of not feeling like it is my job to put others' feeling comfortable above my own, but there were valid arguments against how the author wrote about her daughter's personality and what she was trying to say as a mother.

This "nice" construct can be such a maze of things I want to encourage and discourage in A. Each time we are on the escalators at a train station during morning rush hour, I remind her to stand to the right and let people on the left walk up past. I do want her to be considerate of others. Each time she gets out a snack we already talked about sharing (or, really any food), in front of her close friend (who ALWAYS shares and never seems to have issues with it), I remind her it is a good thing to share with people who share with you. I stop short of saying (although it is always just below the surface), that if you don't share, people won't share with you, because it feels like a threat. I don't want her to be scared. And yet I'm physically holding myself back from all sorts of strong reactions where she doesn't want to share. There is definitely my own shit to deal with on that topic, still, because my feelings are so strong. I'm embarassed (and obviously not a champion speller), I feel like it says something about my whole family and who we are, and maybe I'm worried that people won't like me if my kid doesn't share. And at the end of the day, I'm scared to let my kid possibly lose a friend who really enriches her life. At the same time as I think she really should experience consequences of her actions. But, since this sharing of food from the other end comes at the reminder of a mother, and just doesn't entail as much of a strong reaction as it does with my child, it isn't just about the two kids.

Come to think of it, when they are on their own, they share most things better than when I'm there. I've removed myself from the room where they are playing many times to get out of the way of a perfectly functional (and sometimes not) relationship they have.

Oh food, why you gotta be so complicated?

So, I'm not really sure where I put the line on being nice. I want it to help my kid know how to be a part of society that helps increase the good in the world, without the concept of "nice girl" or "good girl" tempting her too often to put people at ease in cases where it makes her feel lesser. And that is a pretty hard thing to figure out. Compassion and politeness versus calling out people's bullshit. Case by case, really, isn't it? Or maybe it is about knowing when you're feeling too used and readjusting.

I do know I'm scared to let A do the snack thing on her own. She so wants her own snacks. That no one touches, and on one level I get that. But she also so wants a bite of your, and my, and her friend's snacks. I guess it is time for me to rethink my own relationship with food and sharing first. For now, I'm of the "if you don't want to share it, don't show it in front of others" camp. You can keep things for yourself, but don't be waving them in front of another child.

It is now 4am. Hopefully I'll just be tired again soon. Maybe I'm hungry. Time, also, to go visit my secret snacks stash.

Crazy dreams

For me, pregnancy is the time of vivid dreams. They are elaborate, with such a long, detailed story arc that I often wake up in the middle of the night still in the dream world. Mind you, it isn't usually a very emotional story, or scary, just detailed.

So I'm now awake at 3am, trying to shake off the huge term paper I was just trying to write on copper. In my dream. And let me tell you, it was so much longer and more detailed than the one my friend had written on calcium (by way of milk and thus milk chocolate which lead to, basically, a report on various chocolate chip cookie recipes). I mean, I had terrestrial and cosmic copper stuff in there, and I wasn't about to take a break with writing until my first, loooooong draft was finished. There were also some photo albums being thrown out and some issue with opening a cellar door. But tonight, it was all about the Cu.

Weird. And pointless. Well, maybe related to something I'm working on, but hard to see the connection.

My mattress in the guest room is propped up with sofa pillows, which means I've not fallen asleep nor woken up to acid reflux for a few days. And when I do wake up in the middle of the night, there is this one, rogue Christmas light ball that hangs down from our balcony to the top corner of the office window, that glows like a stationary full moon up there. If I don't close the metal shutters for the night, there it is, blueish-white, all night long. Not a strong enough light to bother my sleep, and I kind of like it up there. Tonight it is still dripping with rain from a miserable yesterday that was almost cold enough for snow, but actually only cold enough to soak winter coats and land me on the couch, feeling "off" for the afternoon. Pregnancy can be a harsh mistress and there are times when I know I feel wrong, and completely out of the game (the game that is dinnertime, last night), but I couldn't even tell you what is wrong - some chills but not a cold, some reflux maybe or perhaps hunger because I don't know if I'm too full or not full enough, and some exhaustion but not sure if it is hormonal or being sick. Nothing is wrong enough to make me want to go to a hospital, but nothing is right enough to make me want to sit at the dinner table.

That wrinkle

We stayed home, in Switzerland, this Christmas. Although there were times when we were all just kind of bored of each other's personalities and of how little there seemed to be to do in town, I think it was a good decision. To not be traveling pregnant, with sick toddler and husband, internationally, that was a good thing. 

Because I'm not just pregnant, I'm old and pregnant. Yes, yes, 40 is not that old in this day and age, but I feel the pregnancy more this time around. The wheezing from getting to platform 5 at the train station (this requires some 10 extra stairs), doesn't make a person feel young and vibrant. The constantly telling my kid I'm tired and that I can't pick her up, ditto. And then there is the wrinkle.

Now, I take pretty good care of my skin. To start with, something that has nothing to do with my effort, I have "good skin." I rarely have any sort of spots or breaking out. It isn't too oily or too dry. I got lucky in the genetic lottery with my skin. But I also tend to make sure I always have an SPF 15 moisturizer and a hat in summer. Living in Arizona showed me what happens when you don't. I don't aim to tan, ever. And, again with the luck of the draw, I tan more than burn.

Despite all of that, the genetic (or cultural conditioning) lottery has also passed on this thinking-frown. My mom has it, some of my aunts and cousins, too. We knit our brow when we are thinking through something, or a bit confused, or looking far away. Or really anytime our eyes are open. And my daughter has it. Ok, I have no idea whether this is genetic or learned, but I do know that when she was 1 year old, I noticed that frown on my kid in the lightbulb aisle of the hardware store, in contemplation of all the colors and shapes. She wasn't upset. She was thinking. It was adorable.

So, there is this potentially adorable wrinkle that, given 40 years of use, has gotten ingrained between my eyebrows. And, seemingly, it is now frozen in. Personally, I think it just decided to become a wrinkle (one that doesn't go away no matter how much I try the surprised look instead of a frown), the day I turned 40. And for the first time in my life I feel old. The wheezing, the back pain, the broken tooth, all of those help. But you can have times when you don't feel or show those. The wrinkle, it is just there.

"How do I get rid of it?" was one of the first thoughts I had. All 6 feet of unshaven me. Even the leg hair is an option, but this thing, that in some ways marks me as part of my family, and in other ways as a critical, thinking human, both things I think are positive, has me asking for bangs each time I'm getting my hair cut. Even though I'm trying to grow my hair on my head out more, a ponytail will never look quite the same to me again. Not on my face. Ponytails are for younger women.

On rough days that follow sleepless pregnancy mornings, I look in the mirror and think it is odd for someone with this kind of wrinkle to be carrying a child. Somehow, not even all of the life force involved in the creation of a human life is a match for all those make-up ads and airbrushed images in magazines I barely even read anymore. Why is it so hard to look and see something new as acceptable because it comes under the heading of "part of my body and my life, which is good and valuable"?

M and I had a discussion about this while out and about on errands yesterday (thank god the babysitter is in town this holiday season, when neither child nor dog have daycare). More than one of my friends has told me, as she passed a certain age as a woman, she started to feel invisible. No, people didn't trip over her or try to walk through her, but they all said that there were increasing incidents when they would feel ignored - no one asked if they wanted help with something, or held a door for them, as they started to show some sort of age - something that indicated they were leaving reproductive years. Or they were more often overlooked. They were no longer a potential mate, so they didn't count as much. I think there is a part of being female and appreciated that is linked directly to age and looks, and you can ignore it or be unaware of it until you realize it is gone. I'm not saying you get fired or that your friends all leave you. I'm saying that you start to notice some of your value in little interactions with strangers, was your sexual potential. Your youth. And that this is not something men experience in the same way.

I have a favorite excerpt from an article about teaching students about hidden sexism. An alien lands on Earth and notices that, on average, men are holding doors open for women, and not vice versa. This alien asks someone what it is all about and is told that this is done to show respect, that women are special. "Oh, it isn't because they are weak?" "No, we value them, we treasure them." "Ah, I see, so then that must be evident in other parts of your culture - do they also make higher salaries and hold more positions of power as treasured, special humans?" Touche. Seems like an unfair trade.

Anyway, that is me and my wrinkle. Still thinking about what it means to be a woman. (And probably out in its full glory the anytime someone tries to hold open a door for me just because I'm female).