neither here nor there

This week marks the 8-month mark of my first (and the plan is, last) pregnancy.  This pregnancy wasn’t an accident and my husband and I are incredibly excited about the impending arrival of our homemade little person.  But, the last 8 months have taught me a lot (understatement of the year here) and if watching 3 episodes of Glee gives Glenn Beck the expertise to comment on gay people, then I believe the past 32 weeks have certainly qualified me to write about pregnancy.

And now I will share my findings with you. I realize the show isn’t over, but I’ll probably feel like a bad mother if I write all this once we have our little bundle of joy. More likely than that, I will be too busy scrubbing sticky yellow poo out of the couch cushions to sit down and write such a blathering essay as this.

Because I have yet to experience labor, and haven’t pooped on a table since I was a baby, I still have a morsel of modesty left. So please keep in mind these are my slightly censored opinions, and if you really and truly want the real story, you’ll need to wait for a less public opportunity than this blog. Without further ado, here are 10 things I didn’t know about pregnancy (and am willing to share on the internet):

1. 9 Months

Let’s start with the fact that I’m 8 months pregnant and have two more months before the due date.   Pregnancy is 40 weeks, and for those of you who made it past 4^th grade, 40 divided by 4 is 10. Therefore, pregnancy is 10 months long, not 9.*

*I have been corrected on this one. Some wise friends pointed out that most months are longer than 4 weeks.  True, but the point is the same: this ride is longer than the one you thought you were getting on.  When the pregnancy book tells you that you are 8 months pregnant, people will congratulate you on having just one more month and it’s all a big lie. I once picked up a pregnancy book that tracked the woman’s pregnancy by the stages of the moon. I scoffed at it in then, but perhaps the hippies are on to something. Maybe the lunar cycle helps time to move a bit faster than the Western calendar.

Pregnancy Tip: If you plan on becoming impregnated anytime soon, it’s best for your mental health that you start internalizing this fact NOW.

2. “Morning” Sickness

Now, unless “morning” includes every hour I’m awake (about 6 am – 10pm), then this is a misnomer.  My favorite highlight of morning sickness was the morning I went to get my first blood test, followed erroneous directions to find myself at a funeral home and then, since it was 7:15 and I needed to get to work, I gave up on the blood test and headed to school.  A few blocks from school, the “morning” sickness came to a boiling point and I had to pull over by an East Oakland park where I then puked into an old paper bag I found in my car. The bag then proceeded to leak everywhere so I ducked out into the rainy morning with my bag of vomit. While snot dripped down my face (I prioritize puke over snot) I ran to the bus stop trash can leaving a trail of bag drippings behind me to wash away in the rain. While this experience makes a lovely story, it is important to know that the nausea, vomiting and general feelings of wanting to die were not limited to the morning hours. During my several months of “all day” sickness, I lovingly bestowed our child with his first moniker: the white demon.

Pregnancy Tip: Keep plastic bags in your car. Sturdy plastic bags. Also, if you have wood or tile floors at home, wear socks. Sliding across the floor in socks can save quite a mess by upping your overall travel speed when everything starts moving up and you need to reach a trashcan or toilet.

3. Cookie Dough

Apparently pregnant women are highly susceptible to food poisoning since your immune system goes into hibernation in efforts to not fight off your child as some sort of virus. Because of this, you aren’t supposed to eat cookie dough, which of course has raw eggs.  Well, I’ve tested this one on more than one occasion and all was just fine. I’m eating cookie dough while writing this.

Life Tip: Adding a little chili powder to your chocolate chip cookie dough brings out the flavor of the chocolate but adds no spice, I promise!

4. Food Cravings

I’ve yet to experience food cravings. You may cite the fact that I just admitted to eating cookie dough as I write this.  Well I should point out that that is not unusual behavior for me, with or without a fetus. I definitely experienced a disgust for nearly all foods during my “all day” sickness and have a fond memory of crying over my Mexican food as my husband tried to convince me to eat something (yes, at a restaurant, in public.) I continue to have aversions to some wonderful foods such as Zachary’s pizza, but I haven’t added any cravings to the list.

5. Heartburn

Who knew I would spend such a significant portion of my salary on Tums and Zantac before age 65?  I don’t think I even knew what heartburn was prior to pregnancy. Imagine lying in bed and suddenly having the feeling that a box of chalk is rising up in your throat, slowly choking you. That’s fun.  At first I was able to control this with changes to my diet and eating times, but that is a thing of the past. Heartburn is now as unavoidable for me as the loss of my bellybutton.

Pregnancy Tip: If you’re like me, you may think that the small container of antacids will be sufficient. Don’t kid yourself. Hit up Costco.

6. The Finger

I was warned of this one by a good friend before my first prenatal appointment. I appreciated the warning, but it didn’t really take the shock factor out of the actual moment. During our first appointment, the OB confirmed the pregnancy by putting some giant electronic “wand” up somewhere that might not surprise you, but then followed this by sticking her finger up somewhere that will surprise you.  “Now, I’m about to stick my finger up your anus, if you can just take a breath and relax…” I do not know how those “Sixteen and Pregnant” girls go through these exams in front of their boyfriends of 2 ½ months. Maybe they don’t.  The boyfriends are probably at t-ball practice or something.

Pregnancy Tip: Years down the road, have a little laugh to yourself every time your husband goes in for a prostate exam.

7. The Husband’s Role

I was told that I would rely on my husband for jobs such as household chores, back massages, and foot rubs. While I’ve called on him for the first two items, and wish I could have more of the third thing, there are some more basic needs I require of him. Here’s a request I make more frequently: “Can you tie my shoes?” Yep, humble yourself now. Nothing like admitting that you can’t really reach your own shoes to rob you of any dignity you might have clung to after that first doctor’s appointment.

Pregnancy Tip: Wear flats. Not just for comfort, but so you can enjoy the satisfaction of dressing yourself without assistance.

8. The First Ultrasound

…did not make me cry. To be honest, it took quite a while to figure out that the little blinking white light was my child’s beating heart, not an electronic blip. This looks nothing like a baby. I was more awed by the fact that my uterus was shaped like a banana.

Pregnancy Tip: When the ultrasound tech offers you a printed out copy, eagerly thank her even though it looks like nothing to you. I think they call CPS if you refuse ultrasound pictures.

9. The Second Trimester Myth

Mothers and pregnancy books alike will try to distract you from the “all-day” sickness in the first trimester by telling you that you will “feel great” in the second trimester. Um, no. This would be analogous to saying that if you had swine flu last week and now you just have food poisoning, you must feel great! I’m fairly certain that a lot of women enjoy the second trimester more than I did, but I didn’t start feeling normal-ish until the third trimester. And by then, I was peeing 25 times a day, complaining incessantly about back pain and unable to shave my legs. So far, first trimester was horrific, second trimester was really uncomfortable and the third trimester has been a great improvement, but definitely…awkward.

Pregnancy Tip: Book a leg waxing today.

10. Pregnancy is Sexy

Pregnancy is sexy in the same way that watching Biggest Loser is a turn-on.  Because I’m censoring myself, I am unable to really detail all the ways pregnancy is not sexy. Now my husband might be lying, but either way, he tells me that he still finds me attractive. I’m just not feeling it.  Today as I drove home from work, I realized that I could feel my stomach resting on my thighs. To me, this is not sexy. I’m fairly certain that my regular belching is also not that sexy to my husband.

Pregnancy Tip: Since you’ve already given up on feeling sexy, go buy a maternity bra and move on with your life. You can be sexy next year.

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Introduction
In the past three years of commuting, I’ve had some interesting experiences. There was the drive home from Stockton when I saw not one, but two naked-butts. (If you must know, one was on a guy who decided to pull-over and pee on the side of Hwy 5, not 1/4 mile from the exit. The second was as I exited on to Broadway and a teenaged girl was riding her bike: her belt at her waist, her pants over half-way down her ass.) I’ve also seen a college-aged (but probably not college-attending) guy trying to balance the steering wheel, lighter and hash-pipe in rush-hour traffic on 99. I have a rather nervous memory of the time a peach truck tipped over the highway and into the Consumnes River. This little accident turned my 50 minute drive into a 2 hour one and I had to pee so badly while stopped in traffic, that I debated abandoning my car and running up the grassy shoulder to take a squat. Somehow, someway, I made it. Through these wonderful times and others, I have survived. The following (and preceding) is a rather mellow-dramatic and cynical look at my life as a commuter. It is 99.9% factual. Try not to hold the exaggerations or offer to trade in my fiance for an hour of sleep against me.

A Day in the Life of a Commuting Teacher:

3:30 am: You get out of bed to go pee. As you stumble back to bed in the dark, you pray it’s some wonderful time like 1:00 or 2:00 am so that you have a few more hours of guaranteed sleep. But as you slide back under the covers, you check the time on your phone and it’s 3:30. Damn.

4:50 am: Cell phone alarm goes off. It really doesn’t matter what ringtone you have chosen. Whether it’s the Blues, Samba, Piano Rift or the iPhone factory settings, it sounds like Death has come knocking. You never actually get up at 4:50; but recently changed your alarm so you can experience the joy of hitting snooze once or twice and still be out of bed and in the shower by 5:10. When a carpool buddy and 27 children are waiting for you, it’s time to get your ass in gear.

5:15 am: You stand in the shower wondering if you have the flu. It’s hard to tell if you’re sick because getting up at this hour, daily, is sick. Even on days you really are sick you go through the entire getting ready process as a test. If you still feel nauseous and headachy by the time you’re ready to go, you might actually be ill and it’s time to call for a sub.

5:30-6:00 am: Make lunch, eat breakfast and get ready while watching the 5:00 morning news with Walt Gray and Deidra Fitzpatrick. No interesting news, but you do need the weather and traffic. You normal routine is to get dressed using only the light of the closet. When your significant other groans and covers his face with the covers because this one closeted light-bulb is disturbing his slumber, you wish to trade places, just for a day.

6:10 am: Meet the carpool buddy. If it’s your day to drive, get the caffeine going. If it’s not, thank goodness! Slip off your shoes and get your feet in there under the floor heater on the passenger side. About a year into commuting, you adapted just like any other animal that has escaped distinction. You extinct is to try and compensate for lost sleep whenever possible. This advanced ability of yours allows you to fall asleep before your carpool companion has driven past 2 exits and you sleep soundly until the wheels hit the off-ramp. This is no joke. The phenomenon of perfectly timed sleep has been observed in many a carpooler. On weekends and evenings, the most advanced carpoolers can even sleep soundly on a five-minute car ride to the grocery store if they’ve roped that useful significant other into playing chauffeur.

7:10 am: Wipe the sleep from your eyes; climb out of the car; and get to work.

7:30 am: Use the bathroom before school starts. While washing your hands, you look into the mirror and realize your shirt is on either inside-out or backwards. Just a symptom of getting dressed in near darkness.

10:10 am: While reading with a small group of students you reach down to scratch your leg and realized you only shaved your left leg. Personal hygiene really works best when you are fully awake and functioning.

4:30 pm: Time to hit the road again. You turn on the radio and since none of the same music stations have signal out here, you resort to the old standby: NPR. “All Things Considered” is interesting two or three days/week, but why can’t “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” air on a Monday afternoon? It would start the work week off right. At least you have all the episodes from the last 3 months downloaded on to your iPhone and can try to play along and remember the news trivia that was big and important during the week of February 12th. That’s not all. You also have about 6 audiobooks on there, but those are hard to get through when you are carpooling. David Sedaris makes a joke about his boyfriend doing “faggy things like picking wild flowers” and all of a sudden you feel uncomfortable sharing a small sedan with a rather conservative 60-year old music teacher. At least he’s not driving and in control of the radio today. Classical music makes great background music, but it certainly doesn’t make 50 miles pass by very quickly. For now, he can deal with some Rhianna or perhaps some Angels and Airwaves.

4:40 pm: The drive home is usually more interesting. You tend to stay awake more whether or not it’s your turn to drive. As you cruise along the scenic Highway 99, you take in the local landmarks. The dilapidated “Chicken Kitchen” just outside of Stockton, the drive-through in Lodi that looks as if it was made of Lincoln Logs and has a sign advertising “Chicken Croissants.” Every time you see that sign you wonder if a comma is missing, but you never stop to find out. Perhaps no one does, as you’ve never actually seen a car in the supposed business. Lodi is a great place to keep your eyes on the sky, as sky divers plummet from an airplane and land what appears to be mere yards from the freeway.

4:50 pm: Ah, a couple of adults are trying to cross 99 on their bicycles. You must be in Galt. Be cautious here. This is a reoccurring phenomenon in Galt. Apparently the bicycle overpass just half a mile down the road is too far for these Galtians. They make it to the center divide before attacking the next two lanes of traffic. You swerve to miss a rotting dog carcass and hope the cycling citizens make there appointment at the tattoo parlor on time.

5:00 pm: If you are taking 5 today, as you sometimes do (depending on the carpool meeting spot), “The Dawn of Civilization” comes into view. This is actually the unimpressive skyline of Elk Grove. If you stop at any of the Elk Grove exits, you will find the civilization here is gray, cement, uninspired and not too impressive. What is so enchanting about Elk Grove is that as you drive North on 5, it magically appears out of nowhere. It doesn’t slowly come into view on the horizon. All of a sudden, it’s just there. Elk Grove is good for two things and two things only: caffeine (there is a Starbucks at every exit) and hope (you know that Sacramento is minutes away).

5:15 pm: You exit the freeway. Praise Allah!! This feels wonderful. Sometimes it feels as if you must have driven from Bakersfield. Other days, few and far between, the drive feels suprisingly short. These must be the days when Ann Taylor has some juicy news from Capitol Hill or Meeeeeshell Norris has a hilarious interview with a plucky old woman living in the Appalachian and complaining about a hive of 4,000 bees living within the walls of her mobile home.

10:00 pm: Shortly before hitting the sack (or passing out on the couch), your significant other complains about “having to get up early.” You know that no words are needed here. Instead, you cast a cold eye on him that immediately puts him in his place. “Oh really?” this look asks, “You have to get up early? Early like seven? Or heaven forbid, early like six-thirty.” Poorly chosen words from your mate. Because God only knows you would exchange him in a second if it meant you could sleep in one more hour.

See it to believe it.

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There is a chubby fourth grade boy who enjoys chasing himself with the tetherball at recess. Danny winds it up, lets it fly, and runs squealing in circles, trying to escape the leashed ball. When I swim, I imagine that I move with same grace and speed as this waddling nine-year old.

As a swimmer, I’ve distinguished myself as the one person that doesn’t do a single lap of freestyle throughout an entire swim workout. Despite my best efforts, I’ve found that getting a healthy intake of oxygen and keeping afloat while using this stroke are mutually exclusive tasks. I used to alternate between 6 strokes of freestyle and a couple of side strokes which allowed me to catch my breath. This seems really lame and so I pretty much stick to breast stroke. I can hack my way through the back stroke, but I have a continual flinch at the fear of smacking my head on the cement wall (again).

I only started lap swimming this summer, and with one exception, I never swim more than 1/4 mile at a time. The exception would be the time I swam 1/4 mile, plus 2 laps, just so I could say that I swam more than my usual 18 laps.

Today was my first day back in the pool after a several month hiatus (and given that I only started this whole swimming thing about 7 months ago, well…) Anyways, as I jumped in the pool, I planned on putting in my obligatory 1/4 mile and then heading upstairs for some cardio.

As I struggled through my 18 laps, I watched the lean and not so lean fill up the other lanes in the pool and then glide from end to end with grace and ease. As men with legs smoother than my own powered through their workouts, I plodded along. When the water aerobics ladies aren’t taking up half the pool with their floaties, flippers, and Abba soundtrack, swimming is pretty boring. After a sunny 14 mile trail run yesterday, the views of a swimming pool pale in comparison. My focus rotated between the blue line on the bottom of the pool, my chipped nail polish, and the oh so distant, 3 1/2 feet sign at the end of the lane.

Once I had finished my 18 laps, I took of my goggles and got ready to forfeit my lane. But alas, as Summer Sanders jumped in next to me, I decided to go just two more laps. And then 2 more. And a short eternity later, I did a flipping 1/2 mile! It took forever, was seriously boring and I’m sure I looked like a wounded fish. But I was victorious! And exhausted. I was able to retire to my couch, the Bachelor, Ben & Jerry’s and a project one of my parent volunteers botched and was now time to fix. And finally, I have come to the time I’ve been looking forward to since the alarm went off this morning: time for bed.

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Dear Thief,

It’s two a.m., and I’ve been lying awake, so I’ve decided perhaps a cathartic letter to you might allow me to sleep once again.

My name is Katy Byrns and I am a fifth grade teacher. I teach in a crappy neighborhood in Stockton instead of somewhere like my hometown of Davis because I want to help those kids do something valuable with their lives and not take the same path that you did. As you probably saw, I’m a runner and live with my boyfriend, Dale. We like our little house here in East Sac. but do look forward to moving to Portland. It’s too bad you couldn’t have waited a few months. You didn’t, and so I thought you might want to know the value of the items you stole from our house today.

The Power Book:
You were probably disappointed to open that baby up and find that it’s a few years old and missing the “M” key. Sorry about that. It was a college graduation gift and has been through some rough times. The M was lost about three years ago when Dale, Mayta, and I were watching something trashy like Laguna Beach while drinking martinis. I should say that Mayta and I chose what was on TV and that Dale was probably drinking a Gin and Tonic. Anyways, Dale leaned over to give me a kiss and knocked my Cosmo into the keyboard. Despite the drip dry, blow dry and key removal, a certain stickiness remained for years. When the weather changed, my keys were slower to bounce back up upon impact and sometimes you would hear a little suctioning noise as the unstuck themselves from the sugary glue in there. Eventually Dale replaced most of the keys, but the poor M wouldn’t budge. It became the wobbly key, until it just straight up fell off. While the key itself is missing, no worries, you will not have to abandon that letter of the alphabet because the little plastic nub works just fine.

Also on the Power Book, you are welcome to have the many stages, drafts and revisions of my Masters thesis. That thing took a year of work during my first year of teaching and darn near killed me. If you choose not to read all 100 pages, at least skim through to appreciate the pictures of the students in my study and the colorful graphs I labored over. While perusing my Word documents I recommend you try the Empanada recipe; it’s excellent.

There are many other things of value (well, only to me) that you will find on that computer. Maybe every sweet educational website I’ve ever found bookmarked in the internet browser. I do hope you get a chance to browse the internet before you sell it. And please, I pray that if there is any justice, you will open iphoto while using other programs and experience the same aggravating freeze that I’ve learned to avoid. All programs will stall as my aging computer goes into overload and you too will curse the “rainbow spinney wheel” that means the Power Book is freaking out. While you’re in iphoto, enjoy pictures of anything I’ve don’t since college. You can see my trips to Georgia with Dale (I think you will especially enjoy the beautiful pictures of Savannah.) Let’s see…there are also pictures of the two Davis kids I used to tutor. I call them “My Brazilian Children.” You can find pictures of their First Communion and dance recitals. I can’t list all of them. I’m sure you will enjoy everything from the bars of Davis, to backpacking trips and vacations in those pictures.

Jewelry from My Dresser:
Most of those necklaces and earrings were given to me by my father or Dale for a Christmas or birthday. While the Power Book might have been a let down, at least that handful of jewelry is monetarily valuable for you. I must say I’m thankful you missed out on the earrings I was wearing today, well yesterday, as they are the ones Dale bought for me with his first paycheck as an urban planner and are my favorites. And my necklace—you probably noticed the signature Tiffany’s pouch, empty. I was also wearing my SF Women’s Marathon necklace, so you missed that one.

Other than that, the items you would find less valuable include a beautiful necklace (complete in banana leaf box) a friend brought to me from Kenya. There’s also a colorful necklace with oversized beads. That one a student of mine made for me.

I could go on, but I think I’ve done enough listing of “goods” for now. I just wonder what goes through your mind as your rifling through my underwear drawer. Sitting on my dresser, staring you in the face are pictures: me as a baby with my grandpa; my sister at age 4, wading in a lake. When you broke into our living room you walked by pictures of Dale and I as well as numerous other “things.” Things we’ve both worked for and earned over the years.

What did you do to earn an old laptop and a handful of jewelry? Break a French door? Time to do something worthwhile with your life. Pull your shit together. I had only two more words for you, but perhaps you can guess what those are.

Sincerely,
The Woman You Stole From

P.S. I only wish I had waited a day before changing my Facebook password so you too could enjoy this letter written from me, to you.

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Conversation in Sophia’s Bar, Thanksgiving Eve 2008

The group: Dale, Adam, Ali, Matt, Myself

Enter: Two 40-year old women (No descriptors necessary except that I think these women must have handed me a caprisun and an orange slice or two back in my AYSO days and neither one seemed aware of her actual age.)

Cougar 1: Hey what are you guys doing out tonight?
Dale: We all live in the area.
Cougar 1: But what are you doing here?
Adam: Uh, well we are seeing our families for Thanksgiving.

<lots of blah blah from the two women. no one on our side is really responding>

Cougar 2: You know our generation (**I find this part rather ridiculous. We are not of the same generation lady. You are almost part of our parents’ generation. She proceeds to talk about “our” generation for the next five minutes.**), our generation is the ME generation. People our age just always want rewards for everything…blah blah blah
Me: Well wouldn’t that be the product of poor parenting?
Cougar 2: Nah! I just tend to blame the future generation.

Cougar 2: (to Dale) You’re really tall! That’s sooo hot!
Dale: (nods)
Adam: (nods obviously towards door)
Cougar 2: (out of nowhere) You know my girlfriend masturbated to Obama earlier today.
Dale: Uh, you really don’t know us that well.
Cougar 2: What’s to know??

And that was our cue to exit. As a sidenote, I don’t think I know anyone THAT well that I care for those details.

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I gave up coffee about three years ago. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. Coffee and I had some good times together before the months I found myself lying in bed at night and whining about the stabbing pain “in my heart.” Sadly, I had no fast food to cut out of my diet; I didn’t drink soda at the time; and some specialist used the treadmill stress test to confirm that I had no congenital heart failure. The culprit was the bean. Damn.

I would estimate that I only made it through the first year completely caffeine free. I even gave away my loyal coffee maker. I held on to the French press for nostalgia’s sake. But then I started teaching in Suisun (think Budweiser factory), and feeling the bump of the little yellow dots on the lane line jerk my eyes open every morning during my commute caused me to become a regular of the Dixon Starbucks. (I skipped the drive thru since I felt getting out of the car and walking helped wake me up a bit. It is seriously a miracle I made it through that year without getting in an accident.)

Years two and three were all tea, the occasional mocha, and a far too many soy chais. Expensive and inferior. The taste does not compare and the power of the caffeine is lacking. I have no doubt that my Pepsi addiction never would have come to fruition had I not been starting my day with a drink no darker than my skin tone. Obviously I would fade by noon and be scrounging for quarters.

A few months ago, I decided I would try to get back on coffee. I had an iced coffee in May that gave me that wonderful, overly antsy, jittery feeling which I hadn’t experienced since freshman year of college. So good. In the last few weeks, as the mornings got colder, I went for a few real, honest to goodness cups of coffee, black. Prior to today, I was only able to drink down an inch between the hours of 6 and 3. Nevertheless, that stained cardboard cup provided some comfort just sitting there on my desk. Not to mention the smell. I think the moment I pick up that cup from the Peets counter, my nostrils are immediately filled with the aroma and it lingers—no overwhelms me—so that all I can smell until I shower after my evening run is Major Dickenson’s’ Blend.

I’m sure my former barista amigas will concur that when you work at a coffee shop, you need an entire separate work wardrobe, right down to your bra. The smell of coffee is so fully penetrating and lasting that it only takes grinding one pound of Columbian before everything touching your body is forever tainted with the aroma.

Today I was able to drink down 2/3 of the cup. But by 3:00, my gut was in knots and all I could smell was coffee oozing from my pores, clinging to my hair and to my clothes. In my paranoid state, I had asked more than one person (including a student), “Do I smell like coffee?” I had no happy jitter, just an unhappy stomach that felt like it was suffering from a long night of drinking. As I stepped into my car an hour later, I was hit by the stench of coffee that had spilled all over my lovely upholstery that morning.

And that was all it took. I used to drive coffee catering around when I worked for some horrible independently owned South Davis coffee shop and my old Corolla reeked of coffee. I will not let the same thing happen to my Yaris. Good thing gas prices are down. I’ll be squandering my money on soy chais and afternoon Pepsis once again. Oh well. The smell of coffee is so much sweeter when it is something I’m lusting after and not covered in.

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