Critical Condition

For the past four years, I have been the thick-skinned, tough who could take anything in workshop. You don't like my story? No problem. Hate the language or structure of my poem? Water off a duck's back. I could take the helpful advice and shrug off the dross. I was made of steel (for the most part, anyway.) I even held my own in the blood bath that was my first MFA residency workshop. I survived being told by a professor that there's no such thing as a successful child narrator. (Poor Laura and her pastoral musings.)

So what happened to that person? When did I change into this puddle of needy goo? I've already written about my struggle with the voices in my head (critics, not crazy voices) that were slowing down my writing. Unfortunately, the craziness doesn't stop there. After receiving the critiques of my first two packets from my professor, I completely melted down. Both times.

So what changed? I've decided it's a medical condition. To quote one of my favorite tv shows, I'm in the Jon Voight way (think Alien,) and it's starting to affect my brain. I've heard of women complaining of pregnancy brain, forgetting everything from their keys to the names of their children. I haven't forgotten anything (yet, don't worry, I'm not being smug), but I have morphed into an overly-sensitive, emotional wreck. To those considering an MFA program, may I suggest that pregnancy hormones and professor critiques are a lethal combination.

After packet #2 came back, I ended up on the phone with the long-suffering Steve crying because there was nothing in the house that I wanted to eat and Leslie hated my story. Sure this was an overstatement. Yes, I knew it was crazy and irrational while I saying it. Didn't matter. It took me a good two days to recover from that little episode. Then I had to psyche myself up for packet #3.

Fast forward to today. I got my email from my professor regarding my third packet, which contained a rewrite of the story from packet #2. I did better this time. I was actually able to focus mostly on the good stuff she said in the opening paragraph of her critique, rather than the two pages of suggestions. Maybe I'm growing. No wait, that's just my waistline.

Are You Excited?

I've been thinking about stupid questions today. We all get asked them, and, let's face it, we all ask them from time to time. Comedian Bill Engvall has even made a pretty good living from people's stupid questions. And while this blog entry will most certainly turn into a bit of rant, I must admit that I have asked more than my share of stupid questions over the years. I may have even asked the stupid questions in question. (How's that for writing skill? Don't ever tell my professors I wrote that sentence.)

I have decided that pregnancy is a time ripe for stupid questions. People rarely think before they ask expectant mothers questions. Like the unwritten rule that mommies-to-be no longer are entitled to personal space, there is apparently a rule that says you can ask a pregnant woman anything. It doesn't even have to make sense.

As soon as you spill the big news to a friend or acquaintance, there are always two questions that follow. One (usually the first) is perfectly logical. It's usually some variation of "When are you due?" or "How far along are you?" Makes sense. It's the next question that kills me. This lovely, well-meaning person looks you (and possibly your partner) in the eye and asks, "Are you excited?"

What kind of question is that? First of all, you've just shared your big announcement voluntarily. What about that smacks of indifference to the asker? Which leads me to my next question. What do they really expect you to say? Is this a rhetorical question? Either you're going to say "yes" and mean it, or lie and say "yes." Do they really think you might say no? I can see it now. "Actually, we're really bummed, but we wanted to track you down and tell you anyway." Now that would be a fun conversation.

Next dumb question? "Are you going to find out what you're having?" (Okay, I admit I'm pretty sure I've asked this one.) Isn't the answer always going to be yes? I know I'm talking semantics here, but I really am tempted the next time someone asks me to just say, "Eventually." After all, shouldn't I get some fun out of this?

I leave you with a quote from one of my favorite movies, Undercover Blues (we're not talking great cinema here, folks, just fun.)

Dennis Quaid is pushing his child's stroller down a New Orleans street when a policeman friend asks him a question.
"Oh, cute baby! Boy or girl?"
"Gosh, I hope so."

Exactly.

Confessions of a Baby-Hater

I know I have 30 more weeks of this insanity to go, but I have to let a little of the crazy out or I'll never make it. After ten weeks of being pregnant, I have come to the comforting realization that pregnancy didn't magically turn me into that girl. (What a relief.) Wondering who that person is that I dread morphing into? Allow me to elaborate.

The other day, Steve and I were watching a Married With Children marathon. One of the episodes was from the season where Katey Sagal was pregnant. It began with the family gathered around the kitchen dinette set having a "baby meeting." Peg is massively pregnant, and the rest of the Bundys are less than thrilled with the prospect of competition for the scant nutrition of toaster leavin's. Each time their lack of enthusiasm leaks out, Peggy insists that they do penance with a chanted "Hail Baby." After a particularly anti-baby comment, Kelly is told that she must say multiple "hail baby's in the privacy of your own room."

On the opposite end of the spectrum, there are the belly rubbers. I actually read today where some woman said that she enjoyed having people rub her pregnant stomach. I think she should have her head examined. I have to come to terms with the fact that friends and family are going to be coming at me soon, hands first. (Actually, it's already started.) What I refuse to accept as inevitable are the curious hands of strangers groping my mid-section. I have never in my life felt the compulsion to touch a total stranger's belly, and I am completely mystified by others' desire to do so. As I told a friend the other day, I'm never going to be that person.

Of course, I've been painted as a baby-hater in the past. After I wrote a short story about a woman who fakes a pregnancy and miscarriage to stop her co-workers from hassling her about not wanting children, people assumed that I was opposed to even the idea of babies. Apparently being inspired to write a story after years of harassment about my procreative plans made me an evil, neo-natal nazi.

I like to think I fall somewhere between the pie-eyed baby enthusiast and the hardcore DINK (that's Double Income No Kids.) I like the idea of babies. I've decided to have a child. Therefore, pregnancy is just kind of means to an end. I don't like baby shower games, and I'll never see the point of gruesomely detailed birthing stories relived over lunch. Does that make me a terrible person? I don't think so.

The worst is being judged by the pregnancy romantics. After my first doctor's visit, the nurse stopped me as I walked away from the lab station of the doctor's office. Didn't I want to keep my pregnancy test? Was she kidding? Why would I want to keep something soaked in...well, you know. Did she think I'd forget the result? I smiled and said no thank you, but I could feel her judgement all the way to the waiting room.

Then there was the ultrasound. I'll admit that it was pretty cool to see the baby's heartbeat. I still felt like my response was somehow less than what the technician expected, though. My one concession to the traditional prenatal excitement? I posted the ultrasound pictures on Facebook. Okay, so they were kind of amazing.

So to summarize? I feared that the day I got pregnant I would change into somebody completely different. I guess I'll have to save that experience for when the baby actually gets here (as everyone I meet likes to warn me.) As for all my other anti-baby rants? Well, I guess I'll just have to do a little prenatal penance. Hail Baby.

The Dog Days of Summer

I've been MIA from blogland for over a week, so it feels like time to check in. I'd love to say that I've been off working away on some new story. Truth is, it's taken everything I have to finish my draft of my current one. Apparently, nausea and fatigue don't mix well with great writing. It's not easy to come up with new material when all you want to do is lie down (or barf.) I'm still plugging away, though.

While I haven't been as prolific with the writing as I would have liked, I have been reading, chipping away at my MFA reading list. Currently, I'm reading Flannery O'Connor's The Complete Stories and her collection of essays on writing, Mystery and Manners. Her short fiction is, as always, amazing, but what has been really been blowing me away is her writing about writing. She is so plain spoken and wise. Every time I read something that I think will be the most insightful thing ever, I go on to the next chapter and find something else. If my first 9-day residency wasn't enough to make me think twice about writing anything, Miss O'Connor's hold-nothing-back advice would make me tremble in my flip-flops all by itself.

On the lighter side, I've had some fun on the days when I don't feel like yuck personified. Last weekend, Steve and I went to the Greenville dog show. It was so much fun to see the breeders that we've befriended over the past year or two. I got to love on/hang out with Cash, the super-amazing Pointer with whom I am desperately in love. We got to hold a baby Min Pin, and we also got to see lots of gorgeous Komondors. After the show, all the Komondor people came over for a cookout at our house, and a Komondor came over, too! Ella, a beautiful little girl who's just starting to cord, stayed in her portable crate most of the visit, but when she came out, she was little-miss-friendly. She even jumped up on the couch and sat on Steve's lap! (Please keep in mind that is a huge dog,) It was the cutest thing EVER, and Steve was extremely pleased with himself. I just wish I had gotten a picture of Steve pinned to the couch by a giant ball of white fur, all while grinning like an idiot.

Unfortunately, this weekend hasn't been quite as fun-filled. I cleaned the house all by myself yesterday (a first in recent weeks), and I definitely paid for it today with lots of fatigue and nausea and loitering in a horizontal position. Big moment for the day? A trip to Bloom for groceries. Tomorrow is church, though I'm still not quite up to Sunday School yet. Seems I can't be separated from food for that long. Hopefully, I'll feel well enough tomorrow to be able to enjoy church.

On the update front, I have a couple of doctor's appointments coming up over the next two weeks. Maybe there will be new ultrasound photos forthcoming. I must admit that while I don't go in for a lot of this pregnancy stuff that other women seem to go nuts for, the ultrasound experience is pretty exciting. It certainly lends a reality to the whole affair that my puking hasn't quite given me. It's nice to have a tangible reminder of why I intentionally made myself feel this crappy.