Now, I've read "What to Expect When You're Expecting," pretty much all the way through, except for the stuff about how low-carbohydrate diets are good for you, or whatever. I have listened to the advice of my doctor, my mom (three kids), and my grandmother (five kids). I wasn't surprised when I started gaining weight. I wasn't surprised when I started retaining so much water that my rings began cutting off circulation. But nobody told me that when I became noticeably round, I'd become a local celebrity.
This woman knocked on the door a day or two ago and handed me a couple of shopping bags full of bibs, plastic sippy cups, and various baby lotions. I had never seen this woman in my life. "The lady in apartment number ** told me somebody here's havin' a baby," the stranger told me. "And I got this stuff for my sister-in-law, but I got lazy and forgot to send it to her, so I thought you might be able to use it... I love shopping for baby stuff."
Now, this was a really sweet gesture, and I was pleased that this random stranger brought me what amounted to a very useful present. It really was pretty cool. But still, something about the whole thing kind of weirded me out a little. D. kind of rolled his eyes at me. "People DO nice things for other people," he said. Ah, that unfailing naiveté. D. still thinks New Yorkers get to be friends by mugging each other or something. That's what happens when you grow up without trees. But I actually wasn't all that surprised by the fact that somebody had been nice to me. It wasn't THAT, exactly. I'm not nearly so jaded as D. believes...
I'm not sure why I was so surprised, actually. I know that part of it is because not only did I not know the lady at the door, but I barely know the lady who sent her over to my apartment. About a week ago, THAT woman came over with a stroller, a booster seat, and a bunch of little rubber duckies.
There's something really cool about that, too... The whole thing is cool. The concept of a mother helping a soon-to-be mother is nice. It's almost tribal in nature, really: the village gathers around the pregnant woman to ensure the well-being of the newborn, or something like that. It's also a good way to get rid of unwanted baby stuff that your own kids have outgrown -- without sneaking it off to some dumpster or something.
But... I don't know these people... And it's strange to me to be noticed by them. Most of my life, people haven't paid me a bit of attention unless it was to indicate that I had a hole in my clothing, or my backpack was open, or I was somehow doing something to attract attention. Since childhood, I have avoided spotlights. I have avoided attracting any attention whatsoever, as a matter of fact. I have tried blending in with the multitudes with the ironic intention of remaining unnoticed by the multitudes. And for the most part, it has worked. For most of my life, I have felt invisible. And generally, that's how I like it.
I feel as though the extra forty pounds on my body has somehow fleshed out my usual transparence. And I don't think I like it. It's not that I don't like being pregnant, because I still think it's sort of amusing, despite it becoming more uncomfortable by the day... I just don't like that people can SEE me.
At a number of points in my life, I've found comfort in hanging around theater people and other social sadists. The sort that absolutely MUST have the spotlight. If my friend is louder, more attractive, more exciting, than me, I'm about a thousand times more comfortable. It exhausts me to be "social." It makes me feel naked. I get the same feeling as I do when I've written a paper on a book I haven't actually read: a feeling like I've faked something and I'm going to get found out and ridiculed.
I don't like not being able to hide anymore.
Now, from August until October, I made infrequent trips to a fast-food joint near my apartment. If I had a couple of dollars (yeah, right) and wanted some junk food, then by all means, I indulged in junk food. And nobody ever said a word to me. One lady asked me why I needed so much creamer, and gave me this prissy, bitchy attitude, but other than that, I was treated as just another customer in line. But now? For the past month, maybe, every time I've gone in there, I'm recognized. One day, I was giving my order, and this employee walks up, interrupts her co-worker who is taking my order, and starts interrogating me about when I'm due. Seriously, this girl wouldn't let up until she'd told me all about how her sister had a baby, and how they say the first baby is the easiest to take care of, and... Dude, I just wanted some fries, you know?
Even the freaking manager of this place now verbally recognizes me every time he sees me: "oh, it's YOU! Hi there!"
Does anybody else see this as strange? I mean, for months, nobody appeared to notice me, no matter how often they saw me, no matter how many times I passed them by, no matter what kind of freakish clothing I was wearing... And now that I'm approximately the size of a small beached whale, everybody wants to talk to me.
It's not that I don't appreciate the efforts of these people to be kind to me... It really is appreciated. It's nice to feel kind of supported by the people around me. But I'm really rather skeptical about all of it, since none of these people ever gave a damn about me before. Even the stoller lady hadn't ever said a word to me before, and I saw her constantly...
Oh well. The mysteries of people will never fail to astonish me, I suppose...
In the past couple of weeks, my body has been changing more and more rapidly. This is something else I wasn't entirely prepared for. For most of my pregnancy, I've been gaining about a pound or a pound and a half per week. But now, the pullings and stretchings and squeezings and things have all seemed to speed up.
I found my first stretch mark about two weeks ago. I'm not the vain sort -- at least not to the point where I was horrified and dismayed by the discovery. But I noticed that, every day, it seemed to get a little tiny bit larger. So, every time I take a bath or get out of the shower, I smear this cocoa butter stuff on the areas of my body that are noticeably larger. I suspect it's an old wives' tale that cocoa butter prevents stretch marks, and I'm not horrified by stretch makrs anyway, but the cocoa butter smells good, and it's a good excuse...
So, one day, I had taken my bath, and had rubbed myself down with this stuff, and was all dressed again... And Neil asked me if I'd help shave the back of his head. I'd already promised, and it delights me to have somebody trust me enough to actually cut their hair, so I jumped up, grabbed the scissors, and helped cut all of the places he couldn't see. And then I shaved the parts on the back of the neck. And... about twenty minutes later, I started getting this prickly feeling... Apparently, the tiny little shavings of hair had gotten inside my shirt and were sticking to the cocoa butter EVERYWHERE...
So, Neil ended up with a pretty good style, and I ended up with hair on my chest.
Prickles or not, I still find this endlessly amusing.
I have some errands to run and stuff...
~Helena*