Looking for Housing While Pregnant

Pappa Sleeping © Sarah Small

There are a few decisions one can make when looking for a new place to live in an in-between state like mine. A: Not mention the fact that a kid is on the way. B: Skip to the chase and just say you already have one. After a few rounds, I have chosen option B to an interesting effect. Upon explaining that the 2 bedroom unit is just for me and my child, I have had multiple landlords ask me next whether I am Section 8.  It seems in this great metropolitan area in which I live single mom must equal welfare mom. Good to know that I am a soon-to-be proud member of a deeply resented (yet rapidly growing) national statistic!

In any case, it is considerably different looking for housing with one on the way than how I have done it in, say, the past 20 plus years. I mean, I have lived in some tough neighborhoods, and in some amazing diamond-in-the-rough Craftsman homes, complete with Wedgwood stoves, inlaid wood floors, and buttloads of built-ins, to a very comfortable degree. But shouldn't I be looking for a bit more out of my community than tree-less streets and cemented lawns, not to mention dueling corner liquor stores and speed-bumps? You know, for my daughter's sake? I have looked at more than a few, roomy, affordable places and excitedly thought I could work with this, despite the foreboding feeling of the block. I am used to having my car broken into–even used to discovering that someone has been reclining in my car and haphazardly drinking liters of Coke all night–because I loved the Mediterranean, 1920's duplex in which I happily lived. And it seemed a small price to pay to live in the culturally vibrant, urban center that I did.

On the other hand, I have to cringe at the cookie-cutter, gated, townhouse communities with kid-friendly pools and safe play structures and their utter lack of visitor parking. But those are the exact places in which it would probably make the most sense for this stereotype to live. And it is only my pride–and my snobby, arty/liberal/individualist bent–that keeps me from signing on.

Sigh. Between the sweet old bungalow with the occasional gunshots and the suburb-within-the-city, fancily-named apartment complex, I just might end up staying put. At least I know what I am working with. And though I do get depressed when it feels like I will be cramming my daughter into my already crammed 1-bedroom apartment, my friends assure me that it is mostly the boob she will care about for the first few months of her life.

No be scared

Tanyth Berkeley's Girls

The fact of the matter is that I am now five months pregnant. Today, I was quickly trying to stuff a banana down my gullet in the middle of class and I felt like I had to explain to the students my bizarre behavior. When I told them I was pregnant, they broke into applause and quite embarrassed me. It was not a reaction I expected, and I felt oddly cheered by the event. The 20 yr-olds never do cease to amaze me: whether it is the extent to which they can make a truly disgustingly graphic music video to Ty Digg's Get Nasty (and I'll leave that to your imagination) or whether they can empathetically find something positive to say about even the worst student work in the class. This is my daily life in any case, and I better find reward with the company I keep.

The other thing I spent some time trying to do today was hear my baby's heartbeat. Though it meant listening to about a half hour of my stomach gurgling, I did finally manage to hear that slow, under-water pulse with the store-bought stethoscope. I can't seem to manage turning any pages of the baby books stacked by the bedside, but listening to this heartbeat is something I can get behind.

All this to say that I am starting to look pregnant to people other than myself. Or at least to the woman at the dry cleaners who asked me if it was my first baby and then promptly told me not to be scared. She had four herself, so she should know. "Babies are so cute! No be scared!" I decided to take her advice to heart. Let's hope it will be that easy.

The world–even on the subway–can be a magical place. It's a matter of perspective.  It's a matter of seeing.

Tanyth Berkeley likes the special ones. She likes the pale ones, the large headed types, the big bodies and the long giraffe necks. She likes the Robert Crumb shapes and the vampire faces, the glowing white skin and the men-in-dresses with womanly laces. She likes the eyes set back in the skull or the shoulders holding up those big heads that are smashed in like a pretty pumpkin in certain places. Her specialty is the awkward, the rare flower, the big cheek boned and special feminine shells and large sizes and different races.