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.

Wild Into

Kathryn Spence, from the installation, Short Sharp Notes, Rolling or Churring Whistles, Clear Phrases

The other day, a hummingbird flew into my house. Have you ever tried to catch a hummingbird? It ain't easy. And the poor things never really want to take a break. The hummingbird flew round and round my living room and kitchen ceiling, beating its wings against the crown molding and scaring my dog so much he wouldn't come back in the house. After about 20 minutes of trying to coax the hummingbird back out through the front door by basically asking it nicely to leave, I started to panic. I had to leave and I really didn't want the death of a hummingbird on my hands.

I remember when I lived in Mexico, I was always surprised to see the rows upon rows of hummingbirds for sale laid out at the weekly flea markets along with the antique frames and rusted tools. I never understood who could possibly want a dead hummingbird. But when you actually saw them still, they were beautiful, startlingly kaleidoscopic creatures.

I left the house and came back as quickly as I could and heard nothing. For about 10 minutes. And then the hummingbird emerged beating against the door jam. Unable, once again, to find a way out. I watched him for a few more minutes, occasionally resting on a window sill, and tried to swat him unsuccessfully with a broom. When I saw my neighbor and her dog in the front yard, I called her in. She brought over a ladder, a metal bowl, and a flat piece of cardboard. She climbed the ladder and as I continued to swat, she attempted to trap him in the bowl as he flew past. As the bird flew by, more and more frantic, he left dark, tiny feathers on the ceiling.

But, no luck. Finally, after about 30 minutes, the poor bird rested on the sill again, and my neighbor caught him, slide the board over the bowl, and we raced out of the house to let him go. For a long moment he didn't move. And then, out of nowhere, he just flew off into the air. We looked at the cardboard and there was a tiny smear of blood. Hummingbird blood.

We both felt exhilarated by the release. But what did it mean? A hummingbird had never entered any of my homes before. Why now? Was it a good sign? A bad omen? And wasn't hummingbird blood a particularly powerful ingredient worthy of some kind of sorcerous spell. Did my house need a cleaning? Or had it just been blessed? My heart pounded as I shut the front door and wondered what the next wild creature would bring.

Things you should know about me if you don't already

Eleven

Photo by Thierry Bouët

We are in the precious remaining last few days before the semester begins. Yesterday I spent sleeping, eating bacon, eggs, and pancakes, and then napping some more. Today, I was a bit more productive. It's hard to predict what I feel like each new day. I am no longer in charge. My body, it seems, will make its own decisions for me from now on. It really is like a bad J Lo rom com.

In other news, who do all these pregnancy books think they are talking to? Decorate the nursery? Dude, that would require a two-bedroom apartment. Start picking out a crib? Uh, don't I have, like, 6 months and a baby shower before I really need to decide on sleeping apparatuses? And don't get me started on all the lame sidebars for Daddy, like, Why not a baby shower for Daddy? and Just for Daddy: Lamaze!  Puke. I know gay couples have been dealing with that shi-ite for centuries. But it's so 1985. C'mon folks! 

It does remind me, however, that I will have my share of explaining to do. My friend's son upon overhearing that I might be pregnant, promptly demanded to know who got me pregnant. Smart ass! Others want to know all about the sperm donor. And still yet, there are some people who know more and some less about exactly how it all came to be. And I kinda need to keep those stories straight. But with all that blood rapidly leaving my brain and travelling south, that I fear, will be a challenge.

So, next week I officially wave goodbye to the first trimester. And I start teaching four classes. I am hoping I can use the pregnancy as an excuse for basically everything, but in particular, for why I just can't seem to stay awake during their groundbreaking films and why I just can't seem to keep up with reading their mind blowing scripts.

Passing

photo by Joseph Szabo from the book "Almost Grown"

I live near a school. An elementary school to be more precise. Because I have a dog, and because he is oft in need of walks, I find myself near the school at various hours of the day. I have always loved the sounds of a playground: rubber balls hitting pavement, screeches sent across the jungle gym, even the mechanical echo of the school bell. And I have always felt melancholic during summer when those sounds go away for months at a time. I was one of those kids that actually got depressed at the end of the school year. Even at a young age the end of the academic year marked, not the arrival of summer, but another year passing. I distinctly remember during those moments thoughts like How many more years just like the last? Will I be the same person I am now when I return in the Fall? and Will I ever make it to the 8th grade? Summer just seemed to be so purposeless, and though I appreciated the pool time which basically could last from 9 in the morning til 9 at night if you begged hard enough, I never really knew what to do with myself.

As a teenager, however, I did find that when I returned back to school for the 10th grade, I was a new person. I had had sex, I had gotten stoned, I had figured out how to elude my parents' reach. I had found late night bus routes to take me to the places I wanted to go. I knew where the skateboarders and the punks hung out. I suddenly had taste in music and movies. Even an appreciation for art and poetry. I was someone new. I could reinvent myself. And this new self that I presented to the world was believable.

I have spent many years inside some kind of school or another. Most of my life, you could say. And today, I have those same summers off. But teaching college doesn't make me feel the same kind of heartbreak that being connected to elementary and secondary school does. I guess the kids I teach don't seem to grow up all that fast...they are already more (or in most cases less) there. When summer comes,  I am ecstatically relieved. The campus doesn't have those same playground sounds, and while the cafeteria may be just as bad, there are no ringing bells to remind us each hour of the time passing.

The Final Countdown

Self Portrait as Art History: Mona Lisa in Pregnancy, Yasumasa Morimura

By the end of the 10th week, the embryo officially becomes the fetus. The embryonic tail disappears. The reproductive organs mature. And I am starting to officially feel pregnant.

Soon there will be people to tell and decisions to make. Will I move? When do I tell my job? What about my big pit bull? And does this mean I take my online dating profile down?

So far, the winter, the holidays, and the pregnancy have made me want to stay close to home, eat a lot, and watch bad movies at night. Is this what the next 7 months have in store for me?

In other news, I have to find a doctor who will agree to work with a midwife, and a midwife who won't be on vacation in the middle of summer when the baby is due. And I also have to find someone to be there for me. I am thinking I will just hire a professional, someone I can really count on, rather than, you know, mom. Can I hire someone to come to the Lamaze classes, too?

The other thing is that I absolutely have to finish the film. And I only have three short weeks until I go back to teaching four junior college classes a week. And I guess 6 months or so after that until my world changes entirely. So the pressure is on, even if the motivation is a little lacking. Let's just say, I am a mite distracted these days.

Secrets

19th Century Pregnancy Doll

Last night I dreamt there was blood. I know it's because of the doctor's appointment tomorrow. It's odd, those ultrasounds. Peeking inside like that. It almost seems like cheating. I mean, for centuries, we didn't have this technology. Pregnancy was a matter of faith. And deep mystery. An alchemical process.

Eventually, when the organs start to rearrange themselves around an expanding uterus, and the cartilage begins to soften so bones can spread, and the blood once used to support brain cell activity flows south to instead encourage embryonic cell development, a complete mutation of the female body as I have known it for 41 years will occur. It's already begun.

I have heard the process continues once you have a child. That feeling of not belonging to your own body. Of, well, belonging and being for someone else entirely. How can something so common as pregnancy and childbirth, seem so wildly different from anything I have known thus far?

7 weeks

Window Water Baby Moving - Stan Brakhage

I went to the doctor's office two weeks ago, and there is indeed now a little bean growing inside of me. Though the nurse both showed me what was supposed to be a faint heart pulsing and made me listen to what was supposed to be the faint swishing of a heart beating, I did not believe her. It all looked kinda empty and sorta unimpressive to me. But, I decided to take their word for it and accepted their sincerest congratulations. Now, I have a mere 5 weeks to go before it starts getting official. I do hope the little bean can hang on.

Like many who have come before me, I did decide to buy a few books so I could at least know what not to eat/drink/pop-into-my-mouth. And courtesy of Google, it seems, pretty much everything that hasn't been parboiled for 30 minutes is up for debate. But the thing that has proven most challenging (OK giving up coffee was pretty hard) has been keeping mum. So I pee on a stick, and I see a red cross, and then what? Just sit there for 12 weeks and not tell anyone? Not gonna happen. I know things can go wrong, and the risks are high at my age, but I just have so many questions, so many anxieties, so many moments of joy, they can't all be contained solely by my poor, slobbering dog.

So hence the blog. Hence the black and white ultrasound photo on the fridge...and if people happen to ask me why I am not drinking, well, I just tell them.

So here we are in limbo. Crossing our fingers. Waiting nervously for the next doctor's visit. And beginning to wonder just how a single, working woman with no family in town, might manage.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

Photo by Tom Starkweather

In reasons pertaining to zen and the art of artificial insemination I find myself this early fall in New England, a place I have spent little to no time in. Not only that, but I have found myself jogging on the Robert Frost trail, and like most who would set foot upon this particular trail, thinking to his celebrated poem, The Road Not Taken.

Now this was a poem I was forced to memorize back in the 7th grade by a certain teacher that went by the boozy name of Mr. Hennessy. As far as poems go, this was a good one for 7th graders to tackle namely because it was short and spare, and hence, easy to follow. I can't say that it had a monumental impact on me back then, but I like to think that I understood the simple point of the matter and that perhaps, perhaps it was one more encouraging nod that I could head off and just do my own thing.

Today, I read the poem and like Frost, seem half-pleased with myself for the journey I have chosen. Maybe it's because of the crisp autumn air, or the delicious apple cider, or perhaps because this California girl gets to rub shoulders with the golden-red-yellow New England leaves that I am feeling generally all optimisic-y. Lord know, it has not always turned out the way I wanted (just read the last year, yes year! of trying to make a baby or the last five or so years of my heartache in romance), but it has been a journey entirely of my devising. And at the ripe, old age of 41, when I think about the road not taken, I have few regrets.

And so, with the Occupy fill-in-the-blank springing up all over the place and with a recent birthday under my belt and with the shortening days and with the here-I-go-again-trying-to-have-a-kid thing, I decide on this day, not unlike all others, to be hopeful. And maybe I can one day look back and think that that has made all the diference.

Things I know 2.0

Things Fall Apart by Robin Schwartz

1. Redwood trees are drop dead gorgeous.
2. The combination of sweat and a cool breeze can drive me to ruin.
3. A bird feeder bound and resurrected by duct tape will still adequately feeds birds.
4. Yard work, like laundry, helps when feeling all blues-y.
5. Music can make it worse.
6. One can perpetually feel stuck at the crossroads.
7. There are few chances for do-overs in adult life.
8. Searching for clarity can keep one waiting.
9. Summer is over.
10. I miss you.

Mḕ kheíron béltiston*

GrandMa’ SuperHero by Sacha Goldberger

Well, the good news is, um, it's summer-y. The bad news is that there is no embryo willing to develop inside of me. Rounds 3 and 4 have proved as unsuccessful as the first, and though I have had the pleasure to lie on my back repeatedly throughout the last couple of months, that has mostly meant with my legs in stirrups.

Last attempt we upped our game. This meant a new drug, a more expensive drug, that I get to administer myself. Daily. Via a shot in my gut. Who knew I would have a second career as a phlebotomist? My boyfriend couldn't even watch. But that wasn't the worst part. Besides not getting knocked up–my darling little pair of ovaries decided to do very little despite all the designer drugs coaxing them–I suffered 3 breakups, 4 melt-downs, and at least 1 full-on, snot-dripping tantrum in the Trader Joe's parking lot.

Needless to say, we are taking a month off from it all. In the mean time, I am looking into assisted reproductive science as they like to call it, in other, more affordable countries i.e. those on the verge of collapse. And yes, Greece, is at the very top of that list.

* Translation from Greek: The least bad choice is the best.

Round Two

Painting by Wayne Thiebaud

Going into the doctor’s office this time around, we were much better armed for the job. Now everyone – ok maybe not everyone, but certainly anyone who has looked into the matter – knows that having an orgasm when trying to get pregnant is supposed to increase your chances of, well, getting pregnant. That’s like pregnancy 101. I have also heard, now that I have become a fertility expert, that laughing – and we’re talking gut-busting guffaws – after an IVF procedure can increase your success rate by like, 50%. At least so claims an Israeli study whereby women who are visited by medical clowns – yes, you heard me right – medical clowns, are that much more likely to get pregnant.

Well, trying to do both of these things at the same time in a sterile doctor’s office can be challenging to say the least. I leave the rest to your imagination. But, oh, add to your image a speculum, stirrups, and a tiny vial of sperm that I am supposed to keep warm in my hands. Suffice it to say that if someone were to ask me to write an R-rated situation comedy about female infertility, I swear I would be the woman for the job.

Like many things in life we are opting for the cheapest form of fertility treatment, i.e., the least likely to work. Ah, Western medicine. Almost within our grasps. Stay tuned for round three –which at this point is rather statistically likely – wherein the writer, and her partner, get to experience the joys of PMS for 14 days straight.

30 Days

Laundromat at Night by Lori Nix

Another month, another period. Sigh. And I hate feeling like those women in the movies, so stricken with grief and their own barrenness, they can do nothing but sob and mope around and be utterly devoid of any other possible purpose. But here I am feeling exactly that same way. OK, a little bit busier than those women, it seems, but still. It's humiliating, people!

So, yeah. 28 days later takes on a whole new meaning these days when I find myself peeing on a whole lot of sticks, shyly buying prenatal vitamins at the market, and popping god-knows-what-they-do-to-me hormones month after month. It's hard, ladies and gentlemen, not to feel disappointed and angry and well, just a little bit stupid, after all that fuss. The other impossibly irritating thing is that way too many of my friends, family, doctors, nurses, and co-workers (?!) know all about my trials and tribulations. So like, I gotta break the news to them every time, and it's like I'm letting them down. The good news, is that eventually, they'll have to get sick of asking.

And here is the tricky thing (or so my therapist tells me) about expectations. You need to have, you know, hope for the future. Otherwise our miserable lot in life just wouldn't be worth a damn thing. But it hurts more, to want more. I guess, one is supposed to try and strike a balance. I think this is what they call managing your expectations. Sorta like hoping to not get picked last rather than hoping to be the one they all argue over.

And maybe that is something I have never been good at. I suppose I am the only one who can make it better or make it worse.

But really, who can let go of the wanting? And why would we?

Things I am discovering at 40

Diane Arbus, Castle in Disneyland

That my cervix is off-center, that my uterus is tilted, and that it is really not recommended to give your boyfriend a blowjob when he is providing a sperm sample.

That women directors in Hollywood–for fear of being too old– will go to such extremes as telling their kids that they are up to five years younger than they actually are.

That constant rejection from (fill in the blank: grants, job applications, publications) does a decent job of preparing one for a wide array of life's disappointments.

That not having any religion makes certain ethical and moral debates difficult to articulate, especially when travelling next to a fundamentalist on a long plane ride.

That it might be ok if all my students want to make are films about shooting each other and throwing dead bodies in trunks....as long as they get it out of their systems now.

That it is nearly impossible to keep any hair-free zone in the house with two dogs.

That you should never go through insurance companies with a minor accident.

That making a baby can be a lot harder than it looks.

Things that bored me as a kid

Frog Halloween in Harlem by Amy Stein

Star Trek episodes

Tom and Jerry cartoons

Having to draw on a yellow legal note pad

Having to color with a tri-colored bic pen

Saltines

Saltines with peanut butter

Waiting for the bus

Waiting to get picked up after school by my dad

Waiting in the unemployment line with my dad

Walking up the hill where I lived

Piano lessons

Prayer

Riding in the back seat of the car

Cause there ain't no cure...

Droplets of water bead on the head of this blue dragonfly as it slumbers on a leaf

It finally feels like summer. I am getting used to not teaching, grading nor lecturing which all feels quite nice. The dog and I have done some serious bonding, as have I and the lake. There's a blush in my cheeks, a bounce in my step and a giddiness to the past few coupla weeks.

Meaning...it can't last. The long days are, from here on out only going to get shorter. The end of my vacation will eventually approach. And that feeling of encroaching doom that has always lurked around summer vacation's corners will rear it's ugly head. We all know the inevitables.

But for the time being I get to travel to the east coast. I get to try and make a movie. I get to go out and stomp around in my skirt and cowboy boots and sample the mens a little bit. It's precious the time, especially when we have it. And for now I get to ask myself: what is it that I want to do with this day? This hour? This moment? In figuring out how to spend the hard-earned currency of my precious time off, I invite wandering, getting lost, and staring out the window. And with each new day I look forward to the empty expanse stretching out ahead of me.

The Pin-Striped Suit

Photo by Robert Longo

So the ex has taken off for the summer. The truck we shared is now sold. The apartment long gone. You could say the connections, for all intents and purposes, have been severed.

Except.

The suit. I am now storing my ex's suit. In my closet. Oh, and his pea coat. Along with a lamp and a bike that is not only missing the front brakes, but apparently, for which the back brakes need fixing, too. And so, my friends, we keep the links active.

I dunno. Call me faithful. More loyal than a dog. And of course, the fact of the matter is that once you care for someone, those feelings don't just go away. Unless, I guess, you can replace them with anger. Which I cannot. Not for any great length of time anyway. For the ex I will always have a soft spot. And he, I imagine, will occasionally be asking for something from me. For which I will most likely be obliging if I can.

So, the suit. The pin-striped suit now hanging in the back of my closet. The suit I actually purchased for him in exchange for his attendance at the wedding of a couple that we did not know very well. The suit in which he looked quite nice.

Yes, folks, nearly literally a skeleton in my closet.

But I'd rather be storing a suit for a man I once loved–for whom I can still look at and tear up, not for the feelings I now have, but for the shock that those feelings have now passed–than never to have known the man.

In Spite of Ourselves

Cindy Sherman, Untitled Film Still #48

Well, it was one of those days. The kind with a lotta highs and a few lows, too. I blame the weather. Delicious. Which meant salty skin and puppy paws in the sand. And brunch outdoors. And some good ol'country on the radio. And the roommate is outta town! And stale, skunky Corona from the fridge! And the kind of nights that should never end!

Lord help us. It was the kind of day a lot of thinking got done. Some listening, too. And observations, oh, the observations! Like the pup is afraid of the incoming tide. Or that going to a beach alone can actually be better than with company. And that that duet with John Prine and Iris DeMent is best sung loud, with the windows rolled down, and the speed gauge well over 70.

Let's get lost this summer. You and me. Let's sleep with the dog and get sand in the bed. Let's forget to floss and remember to curse. Let's jump into the lake and get sunburned all over. Maybe we run out of gas. Maybe we get a flat tire. And maybe we fight all day. But maybe, just maybe, we make up our own song along the way.

She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when shaves her legs
She takes a lickin'
And keeps on tickin'
I'm never gonna let her go.

He's got more balls than a big brass monkey
He's a wacked out werido and a lovebug junkie
Sly as a fox and crazy as a loon
Payday comes and he's howlin' at the moon
He's my baby I don't mean maybe
Never gonna let him go.

You can't take it with you

The Naked Ladies Alphabet by Anthon Beeke

So I finally have some time on my hands...precious time for the professorial artist to finally get in some much need studio practice as they say in the halls of academia, but guess what? Well, one can only imagine the lengths to which I can actively do other things rather than attend to my art. Pet my dog. Water the plants. Google other people's websites and poke around over here on the blog. DISCIPLINE FOLKS! Oh, if only it were something I could purchase at the local vegan earth-friendly coffee shop in which I now write this. Or hell even Starbucks. I would buy that shit! Ladies and gentleman!

But instead, the weather is all nice-ish. The dog is too damn cute. The lake around which I live needs a good walking. And me? I guess I just need a little break.