Politics and Potties

Election season is finally upon us, after about 2 years of hearing about it constantly, and I have to say it looks like a total freakshow. I'm an Obama supporter, as you may have already guessed, and I'm feeling so fervently pro-Democrat this election that I stare into cars with "McCain/Palin" bumperstickers, as if trying to see into the drivers' souls. Or to shake my head disapprovingly at them. I just can't take it anymore! I mean, what is wrong with people in this country that we've elected a total jackass for two consecutive terms and are hearing the Republican message yet again? You know, I think McCain is actually a great candidate for the Republicans. He's sort of this straight-shooting, fiery, all-American guy with this rockin' military record (I mean, could we hear MORE about the POW experience? PLEASE?), and he has seemed, in the past, to genuinely think for himself. But no longer. I see him on the t.v. now and he looks like a worn-out old sack of potatoes with pancake makeup on. He's obviously exhausted from the campaign trail, and I can see that he's caving to the hate and fear-mongering conservative machine. He's sold his soul to Karl Rove et al. And he's got his ridiculous sidekick - an embarrassment to successful women everywhere - in her Naughty Monkey pumps. I do not know what is worse - the cheap shoes and party pony, or the fact that, in last night's interview with Katie Couric, she could not name a single publication she reads regularly. Excuse me? What if this woman became our president? It's not so unlikely, considering the looks of John McCain these days. He seems about to keel over at any moment. She's a terrifying heartbeat away from that, and everyone is so, so proud that the Republicans have a "lady" on the ticket. It's very, very awkward to see McCain and Palin in an interview together - they don't seem to know each other at all, and McCain keeps looking at Palin out of the corner of his eye as if he's afraid she might say something dumb. Guess what? In any case, I'm so watching the VP debate tomorrow night, just as I would watch a live train wreck were that to be televised on primetime.

I must take a break from politics for a while, or I will go nuts. My daughter started her preschool two weeks ago, and she's in heaven there. This year she goes two days a week, and I go with her only one of the days (the other day the other half of the moms go to help out the teacher). Some of the other kids are freaking out that their mommies aren't there certain days, but not my daughter. She's like, Bring it on! She's entered the state that, being my daughter, she will be in for the rest of her life, and that is the "Momentary Pretending to Have a Different Life State." She's like, "La-la-la, I'm a princess, and my dollies are my children, so of course I must put them to bed and I cannot come to dinner right now." Or, "La-la-la, I am a dinosaur in his nest, so this is where I pee instead of the toilet." Or, "That's not my mommy over there - you're my mommy. Can I go to your house and you can fix me a snack?" In my life it's, "La-la-la, since no one saw me eat that half-sheet of brownies, it didn't really happen." Or, "La-la-la, since I am fabulous I MUST have that (insert entirely unaffordable clothing item here), and I of course don't have to worry about how much it costs."

Anyway, Olivia loves school. She has attached herself to the teacher, and makes sure the teacher knows about everything she's doing. She also gets a kick out of the potties at school, and the fact that she can reach the sinks and squirt her own hand soap. Never in my life have I gone through so much hand soap or toilet paper as I have with a pottytraining toddler. These two items are the source of endless fascination for Olivia. Who needs a Teletubbies book or "Everyone Poops" when you've got paper that unrolls forever right next to you? The other thing she is very excited about at school is snacktime. She runs right up to the teacher when we arrive, asking, "Where's my snack?" and is very insistent about it all morning, and when the snack does show up she eats it all up; every . . . last . . . bite. Last year I had to struggle with her to get her to stay on her bottom on her seat and not wander around during snacktime. Not this year, boy. This year she sits right there and puts her napkin in her lap and pours her own water and studies every single cracker and piece of fruit as she consumes them. Then she wants seconds. Sheesh! Everyone else leaves, goes to the other room, music time starts. The mom in charge of snack cleans off all the tables and starts spraying the tables to sanitize them, and there's my daughter, still methodically eating her snack until it's all gone. I want to cheer for her and hold her up for everyone to look at - a shining example of good, healthy eating. But, sadly, no one is there to notice. They've all gone off to sing the "Cuckoo Clock" song.

My baby boy is doing great. He's such a jolly little fellow, really. He just wants to hang out and smile at me and squinch up his big blue eyes. He just seems to beam love and happiness. I really don't know what I did karma-wise to deserve such a peach of a child, but if there's one thing I've learned about happiness and contentment as a parent, it's that these things are always fleeting. I'm sure I'll get mine soon enough with him. He's going to be digging up the gay guys' gorgeous landscaping next door with his shovels and dump trucks when he's three, or smoking pot and running around with the class ho in middle school - just you wait. He turned 6 months old a couple of weeks ago, and I started feeding him "real" food. He can't seem to get enough of it, and squawks now if not invited to sit up at the table with us and be a part of things.

I think every day about whether I want to have another baby. I know, I know - it's crazy, it's too soon to worry about that. But I am a planner, and I'm somewhat perplexed that I'm not completely decided about this issue and planning my life around it. Aside from the fact that I don't know if I could mentally or physically handle a third child, I'm obsessed with the idea of having to get a mini-van. This seems like it would be the absolute end of any semblance of a stylish existence I may still cling to. But it also would be kind of awesome. Here's the thing; if I could just have a mini-van, but I wouldn't ever have to look at it from the outside - like, I would be somehow just beamed into the inside of it and settled all comfortably into my seat, I could totally rock the mini-van. Because I think the inside experience of a mini-van is exceptional. It's like riding around on a big comfy couch. And now you can get the mini-vans with DVD players and giant built-in coolers. Almost like you don't even need to leave your living room. But I just can't stand the way mini-vans look from the outside. Even in black. They just seem to scream, "I've got a big fat ass, and I don't care!" There are no chic mini-vans. But I continue my search . . .

Baby Boy

I have been remiss with a capital "R." I fell away from writing on this for a while (understatement of the year), and then I got all freaked out, like "Oh no! I haven't written forever! What will my three readers think of me! I am a horrible person! I shall never write again!" and then some things happened in my life, and now I want to write again.

Henry Stewart was born on March 13th. He is a chubby, moist little sausage with huge, deep blue eyes and Angelina Jolie lips, and I kiss him every day and run my fingers over all of his rolls to try and memorize them forever. He is quiet and smiley, except when he is hungry, which happens about every hour it seems. Then his lower Jolie lip sticks way out and his face gets all red and he says "Mwowah!" in the saddest way. He just sits and looks at his sister placidly as she throws her temper tantrums - you can almost detect the faintest hint of a crack-up on his lips. He is a love.

Olivia is my love, too. And she is a pain. Somewhere I learned to never say, "I love you, but . . ." to someone you love. So I had a choir director who told us once, "I love you all, and you're doing it wrong." Like the doing it wrong is all part of the package of my love for you. I like that.

Oh yes - Olivia is 2. And a half. I thought we were going to breeze right through the twos - my adoring, adorable daughter and I. But oh, no. We hit them smack on, about the same time that Henry came along. Now she has discovered the word "No!" and uses it at every opportunity. Or she's good for a minute and then turns around and kicks the dog. Or starts jumping on the couch. Or eats a little bit of the page of her library book. I tried - oh, I tried - to be all P.C. about it in the beginning. Saying things like, "That's not okay, Olivia - okay? Can you please put the book back on the shelf? Please? I love you!" But my little daughter did not want my polite requests. Or constant verbal reminders of my love. That was not working for her, and she let me know it right away. What she wanted was for me to SHOW her the way of the world. In black and white. Constantly.

Mama's been Mothering

Haven't heard from Mama in a while? 

Wondering if she's still around. 

I assure you she is.

She's since become a mother again and time is the enemy, you might not see her around here for a while. The good news is that she's insatiable.

School Days

For a so-called stay-at-home-mom ("SAHM"), it seems that I am hardly ever home these days. I thought that what with August ending and our weekends no longer being PACKED with activities, I would have some time to just chill with my girl. But no. Now we have preschool, and OB appointments, and study appointments, and YMCA for mama's exercise and daycare. And at night, I have meetings for the preschool, and book club meetings, and neighborhood association meetings. Etc., etc., etc. The weekends are now about the only time we have at home, together, but of course those get swallowed up often by time spent with extended family and/or friends we haven't spent time with in too long. Time is at a premium, and while I want my little one to be able to taste all of what is out there for her, I also don't want her life to actually become stressful at 21 months. She is a little bitty person with a short time here so far. She moves slowly through the world, taking her time to notice each thing (often for the first time!), to remember its name, to take in its presence with all of her senses. Today we went to Subway for lunch after I went to the lab at the hospital to have my blood drawn, and she sat right down at our table and started staring at the ladies at the table across from us. "Hi, ladies!" she said, and she kept on saying it ("Hi! Hi!") and swinging her legs in her chair and smashing her chip with her fingers on the table. She was right there with a big grin on her face, soaking up life, and I can honestly say I do believe she's had a big day today. She got to press the buttons on the elevator, she got to look at the pictures in the lobby, and she got to sit in Mama's lap while the lady took Mama's blood with a needle (and she's the one who got the lollipop afterward!). I suppose this is all to say that I need to be mindful of the fact that I do not need to structure every moment of her days in order for her days to be well-spent. I think we as mothers - as parents - can get too caught up in all of the "activities" that are out there, and feeling like we need to sign our children up for each and every one. My daughter's favorite thing to do right now is to sit at the dining room table with some play-doh and plastic cookie cutters and just make snakes and noodles and stars for a little while. She wants to put the play-doh right up to her nose and take a giant whiff and say "Yucky!" and break it all apart, only to stick it all back together again in a big hunk. This does not require me to change her clothes, put on shoes and socks, get into the car or out again. She requires only a hand to get up into the seat of the chair, and someone to get the play-doh and toys out for her. And she's in heaven.

We go to the co-op preschool through South Seattle Community College once a week. My daughter thinks this is the best place in the whole wide world. When we go to "school" there are stations of fun activities set up for her to play with, and she can just run around like a crazy person checking each one out. Her favorites are the play-doh table (of course), the sensory table (changing each week from water to rice to silky scarves), and the larger play area where there are things like slides and tunnels set up for all the kids. Then we have snack time, which is a little more challenging, as my daughter has to sit in a chair at a table and eat her snack, which is different from all the other kids' snacks, so she usually thinks she would rather have what some other child is having instead of her own thing, and also she wants to get down and go roll around on the mats some more with her orange slice instead of sitting in her seat, because she is just so gosh-darned excited to be there. Then we have music time, which involves all of the kids shaking little maracas and bells to songs like "Shake My Sillies Out" and sitting in their mamas' laps to sing more interactive songs. And then comes the most magical moment of the whole week for my daughter, in which she can hardly contain herself and literally squeals with delight: we sing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" with all of the lights turned out, laying on our backs and looking at twinkling Christmas lights on the ceiling. For my daughter, this is IT. She grows quiet and still as a snail, and you can almost see her whole little body trembling with anticipation for the special song. She cannot stop talking about it all week long, and will positively tell anyone she meets about this experience.

I honestly wasn't sure if I wanted to do co-op preschool with my daughter (it does cost about $50 a month, plus some other small fees throughout the year - plus I have to do a "job" for the co-op, which requires more of my time, and we have to attend a once-a-month parents' meeting/training), but this visceral excitement my daughter shows over going to her "school" has sealed it for me, and I now feel bad if we are even a minute late. It also gives me confidence that my daughter will be okay leaving me eventually to go to "real" school, as her experience with the whole idea has been so positive thus far.

I wanted to also talk today about "Tim Gunn's Guide to Style," which I have been watching on Bravo each week (gosh it's been a long time). Here's my review so far: honestly I find it a little bit disappointing and lame. I was so excited for Tim to have his own show, but it quickly became evident to me that this is not at all Tim's own show; Tim is pretty much just the name, and the bitch for Bravo and Macy's hyper-advertising. I mean, every time the fashion-challenged woman goes shopping for her wardrobe, she has to go to Macy's. I honestly cannot think of a worse place to shop for an entire wardrobe, particularly if you're not sure of what you're doing. Macy's is a very scary place to me; it just seems to go on and on and on and no one ever seems to be able to help me with what I need. I went shopping there last spring for a new foundation, and I swear to God, the saleslady was like, "Well, here are all the shades - go ahead and try them on and see what you like best." Um, hello! I can do that at Bartell's! If you're charging me $50 for foundation, you'd better be sitting me down in a comfortable chair, giving me a hand massage, and applying that shit from a new bottle with special sponge applicator, followed by a full makeover. Anyway, that's my rant about Macy's. The other issue I have with this show is that Tim and Veronica Webb (certainly a fierce 80's supermodel but not a very likeable co-host and handholder to these women - I mean, would you want to go underwear shopping with a 6-foot tall ice queen? Okay, I guess I would, too, if she was taking me to La Perla and buying me whatever I wanted.) are just not hard enough on these women. My favorite makeover show ever was the BBC's "What Not to Wear" with Trinnie and Susannah, both fashion editors at Vogue. Those ladies were hard-CORE! They never held back, and hounded the women through their shopping experiences until they were breaking down, sobbing in the dressing room, but they actually did get them to get it right in the end. Plus, they were on British television, so they could say wonderful things like "That jumper makes your tits look like absolute rubbish!" AND, when they showed video of the women weeks later on that show, the women still had it together, for the most part. Tim's show is disappointing because the women all seem to go back to their old hairstyle and never seem to get the makeup on the right way again. I wish they didn't just recruit all of their women on that show from New Jersey, because I totally want to be on it. And I would be Tim's star student, except that I would be a little bit demanding, I'm afraid. I would be like, "And when you open the magic armoire, Tim and Veronica, I'd like there to be a Ferragamo Python Flap-Top bag and some matching pumps. That will be just what I need to inspire me for my day of shopping. What's that? Oh no, darling - of course you can't get those at Macy's! And I won't be doing any of my other shopping at Macy's either. We all know that Macy's sucks. I know you two would never shop there, and I want to be just like you."

In other news, the new ANNIE LENNOX album has come out!!! HOORAY!!! "Songs of Mass Destruction" looks like a winner - now I've just got to get my ears on it, girl. Lord knows I need something in the car besides the "Curious George" soundtrack and the compilation of random annoying children's music my daughter loves.

What else is new? Oh, well - fall is here. Boy, is it. It's raining and pouring here in Seattle and the leaves have turned overnight. Because of the chill in the air, I was inspired to make beef bourguignon and zucchini gratin (ooh la la!) for a great big family dinner, and it ROCKED. Thank you, Julia Child and Barefoot Contessa. More on Ina Garten later, as she is one of my all-time idols and I just want to go to her house in the Hamptons and sit by the fire, sipping whiskey sours, and having all my flowers arranged by a bunch of super-friendly, preppy gays. What a life.

Enjoy the new chill, and enjoy all of your fall and back-to-school memories.

A Coupla Things

So I was down at Southcenter this week, doing a little maternity clothes shopping at Old Navy and Target. May I just say that Target's Liz Lange maternity clothes ROCK - they are so cute and stylish and don't make me feel like a bargain basement pregnant lady. Old Navy was a little bit frumped out and rag-tag, but I should mention that it looked like they were about to set out a bunch of new merchandise (staff were very busy unpacking boxes) on the day I was there, so we'll see.

I have an issue with most maternity jeans. I do not understand how so many of them can be this "demi-panel" and get away with it. Can women actually wear this without their pants falling down every time they bend over or sit? I cannot. Call me Grandma, but I just love the "full panel," over-the-belly stuff. It gives the pants something to hold onto when my waist goes away. The other advantage is that when you wear the over-the-belly panels, you don't have nasty elastic lines showing under your clothes at your mid-belly (or, your "demi-belly"). I'm all about smooth silhouettes. If I'm going to have a big, beautiful belly, I want people to look at that and think about what a gorgeous pregnant woman I am. I do not want them to wonder what tricks are going on under my fabulous maternity tunic. The whole demi-panel thing sucks because all of the stylish choices in maternity jeans are made with this kind of panel. It's like the industry thinks that if you're going for the full panel, you've completely given up on style. Not so! Au contraire!

I ended up buying a pair of full-panel jeans online at oldnavymaternity.com. They're okay - your basic boot-cut antique wash. Ho-hum. I was hoping for a dark wash, straight leg style, so I could look a little less suburban. But when you're only shelling out $24.95 or so for jeans (and also when you're shopping at Southcenter shopping center in Tukwila), you're kind of in the suburban pickings zone, I realize. Liz Lange didn't even offer any full panel jeans styles, so I got what I could get.

All of this is to get to the following point: They are opening a Nordstrom Rack at Southcenter tomorrow!!!! Hooray!! I was driving by all of that new construction that's going in on my way to Old Navy, and I almost had an accident when I saw the Nordstrom Rack sign, shining like a beacon in the distance. I drove around and around, trying to get through the construction fences to catch a glimpse of the new mecca, but when I finally got in and parked in the crispy new parking lot, the store was, alas, still not open. I hauled my daughter up to the front window and peered inside, trying to see if they had a children's department, if they had women's dresses, anything. But it was pretty hard to see past the stacks of boxes and racks of hangers. Now back in the day I would have been there, in my car, at 6:30am with a cup of coffee and a piece of blueberry coffee cake, listening to the radio, and waiting with all the other die-hards for the place to open up tomorrow morning at 7:45am. I would probably have even skipped work for such an event (I was definitely known to do such things - especially when the Rack had their annual small designer shoe event, for sizes 5-6 only. Although I never have been a match for those tiny-footed, tough-as-nails Asian fashion mavens). This time I'll bide my time, however. It's just not worth it anymore. I don't want to say that having my daughter along takes most of the joy out of shopping for me, but I'll say it anyway. It sucks. She starts howling and lashing out the minute she catches a whiff of the leather and the fluorescent lights, and won't stop until we're back on the highway toward home. No fun. Now I shop like a madwoman, whipping through racks and picking out things that look vaguely attractive, throwing them in my cart. And forget about trying anything on, though I was lucky enough to have this opportunity for about six minutes the other day at Target, thanks to the popcorn they so ingeniously sell at the front. I swear to God, I would pay $10 for a little bag of that popcorn, just to get the peace that comes from slipping a few items over my head and taking a more-than cursory look at my appearance in the mirror once in a while.

So that's a major event in fashion for those of us who live on the South-West side. The other thing I wanted to note is that there is a new maternity shop on California Ave., south side of the Junction, close to that C&P Coffee place. It's called On The Way Maternity, and I checked it out the other day, too. They don't seem to have a website yet, but their address is 5446 California Ave SW, Seattle 98136, phone (206)938-2229. They have some nice things - they carry Olian and some other bigger higher-end maternity brands, but they also have a lot of brands I've never heard of and some really cute ideas. Most of their stuff looked to be between about $40-100, so more expensive than I would pay for most maternity things, but definitely lower prices than A Pea in the Pod (racket!) or Village Maternity. I appreciated that they carry a number of maternity swimsuits, even though it's not swimsuit season, so you know you always have a place to go if you're going on vacation or need something for swim lessons.

That's all for now. Happy shopping, pregnant ladies!

September Morn

My daughter is sleeping as hard as she can right now, catching up from a day of running around the beach on Whidbey Island with her cousins and all of the excitement of trying to process everyone she met at my husband's family's mini family reunion out there. She is quite the social butterfly, ever concerned with where everyone is, how everyone is doing, and whether they need a "big hug." She wore herself out, poor thing. I wore myself out yesterday, too, being stressed about spending time with my husband's relatives and whether or not they would like my guacamole or my orzo salad (they always do like my dishes - why do I worry about this?) and whether one of his aunts would get in my business and say something terribly rude and offensive to me (she always does - why do I worry about this?). I guess I was just anticipating having to be "on" the whole day long (i.e., smiling appropriately and making sure I don't have lettuce in my teeth or a stain on my boob, limiting my political commentary and/or not stating that George W. Bush is a big fat dummy, and taking care not to say things like, "Why of course I modeled nude in college - it was for art!", plus chasing after my baby and trying to make sure she got SOME rest throughout the day so that she didn't erupt into tears at the drop of a hat or smack one of said aunties in the face because she was SO exhausted). But of course, it all went fine. I think I got out of there only mildly offending some of the Catholics/Republicans.

Anyway, these mornings when she sleeps in are so, so sweet for me. Now that the summer's activities finally seem to be winding down, I can actually sit back with my delicious americano (thanks, baby) and enjoy the weather we're having. It's the perfect temperature today - there's not too much sun yet, but the air is mild and pleasant. And the smell in the air - I always say it smells like California when it smells like this. I grew up spending a few weeks every summer at my grandparents' house in L.A. I woke up every morning there to the smell of their home, my grampy's Winston cigarettes and my grandmother's piles of fabrics next to the sewing machine in the sunlight. Their house was filled with beautiful, musty pieces from their young life in New England, and my grandmother flung the windows and doors open every morning to capture some of the last cool air. The smell of California for me is that smell - a cozy house with fresh iced tea in the refrigerator, a new jug of Arrowhead water in the dispenser, cat food in the bowl on top of the washing machine off the kitchen, and the essence of the sun warming all the world outside, promising another day filled with small adventures.

I can smell that smell now almost. I can smell the water and the salt. I can hear the sea lions far off barking to each other like that's the most natural thing to do right in the middle of a huge city on a Monday morning. I see a hummingbird out my back window and I wonder if many of these birds are going to try and get down to California before long.

Gaining

I went to see my OB for a checkup last Wednesday, and it's taken me until now to write about it. Because I have mixed feelings, but the primary feeling in the mix is crappy. No, no, no - the baby is fine. Everything's dandy there - my OB heard a heartbeat (I didn't hear it, but she heard it, so that's okay) and all else looks good with my little 5 cm. progeny. It's me. Or, as she put it as she clucked her tongue and shook her head at me from her seat in the examining room, it's my weight. She said that she was concerned that I had gained 44 lbs. during my last pregnancy, and that I hadn't lost it all before getting pregnant again. She said that for my height (about 5'2"), I should really be getting down to less than 120 lbs. after this pregnancy, and that she didn't want to see me gain more than 30 lbs. this time around.

I keep going around and around with this in my head. You see, it would be one thing if I was an overweight person to begin with. But I am not. I will be the first to admit that I gained too much weight during my last pregnancy, and that I certainly learned my lesson the hard way (those last 10-12 lbs. never did get off). I was already planning to be more vigilant about what I was eating during this pregnancy (i.e., forego the daily Ben & Jerry's chocolate milkshake and frequent stops at Jack in the Box for cheeseburgers in favor of tuna fish sandwiches or salads and glasses of water or milk). I now know that pregnancy is not a license for me to eat indiscriminately - nothing really is - and that eventually I will have to pay. But so far in this pregnancy - that is to say, in my first twelve weeks or so - in spite of my Lorna Doone frolics, I have gained around 3-4 lbs. (as opposed to 15 lbs. in my first trimester last time around), and I was feeling pretty good about myself. But no - I was shot down by my teensy-weensy, marathon-running doc who is treating me like I am a fatty. I felt like I was in the fifties or something!

It is a very fine line we women walk, I realize, when we begin arguing with our doctors about our weight (or telling our husbands or friends or our blog audience about all the things we wish we could have said to that bitch). Inevitably, we sound hyper-defensive and whiny and like we're about to make a gazillion excuses. But I'm feeling pissed off, and I think rightfully so. You see, I follow the BMI guidelines for weight versus height, because I feel that this is the most objective and simple way to determine a healthy weight for height. The other reason I follow this is because this is what doctors supposedly refer to in order to determine if a person needs to take extra steps to manage their weight. According to the BMI chart, I have managed to stay pretty much within a "healthy" or "normal" weight range for my height. And now I am pregnant, and I was planning to try really hard to gain within the "recommended" 25-35 pounds for a woman of normal weight. The point is, I had studied all of this - I had made a concerted effort to prepare myself for the changes in my body in this pregnancy - and I felt like my doctor treated me like I had no idea what was going on and I was just going into this pregnancy carelessly. She never asked me once what I was doing for exercise, what kinds of foods I was eating, etc. She just got bent out of shape about the number on the scale.

My doctor also didn't ask me, before launching into her speech about my weight and how much I was gaining, if I had ever had an eating disorder before, which I found most alarming. I actually haven't, and I am fortunate to have gained a fairly healthy attitude about eating and weight and food in my life, but I have encountered many, many women who do have a wide range of issues with eating. I also know that pregnancy and the inevitable weight gain that accompanies it can be quite a trial for someone who has gone to extreme measures to control her weight in the past. Add to this a doctor telling you that you are headed toward FAT if you don't exercise more control, and in some women this might trigger an all-out recurrence of their disordered eating behavior, leading to innumerable risks for the growing baby (not to mention the mama). Of course I checked, on the initial questionnaire, that I do not have an eating disorder, and the doctor may have reviewed this before talking to me, but I imagine that many women who do have a problem would also check "no" in order to avoid another confrontation/counseling session with a professional.

The point is, I felt that all of this that happened was very irresponsible on my doctor's part, and I am pissed off at her and wondering if I should go to the trouble of switching doctors at this point. I realize, however, that no matter what I do, what she said is now going to stick with me and needle at me throughout this pregnancy and beyond. Even if I do succeed at gaining 30 lbs. or less, I will be haunted as I try to take the weight off that maybe I won't be able to get it all off again, and then even if I do, that I won't be able to get down to 120 - the magic number that my doctor spewed. I have not weighed 120 since the 7th grade! That number seems unrelated to any BMI chart or anything I have ever seen. It sounds, again, like some ideal that girls learned, in whispers, in the 1950's - "You musn't let your weight get above 120, or your husband will stray, darling." There is the side of me that knows that what she said is at some level irrational and extreme and not exactly for me, and that's what I try to focus on. But there is another side of me that freaks out every once in a while that what she said was actually the gospel truth, and that I must trust her judgment and her comments as she is a highly-educated, experienced medical professional. After all, why would she just want to make me feel bad? She has an interest, doesn't she, in retaining me as a patient?

I think the term "eating disorder" is interesting. It conjures up images of Karen Carpenter or Paula Abdul or, for me, perfectly-tanned, blonde Connecticut girls in pearls and cashmere sweater sets eating their salads with lemon juice and a cup of tea day after day in the dining hall at my prestigious New England college. And I all-too readily said, just above, that I do not have an eating disorder. But I am inordinately concerned with my doctor's comments, made almost a week ago now, about my weight. In fact, my husband might say I am "obsessing," and he would probably be right. Though I do feel that my attitude about food and weight is generally healthy, I know that I can get caught up in other people's determinations about what a "good" or "healthy" body looks like or measures up to (or down to). I think that women in this society are severely patronized about this issue. We are told not to worry about our weight so much, and everyone knows that supermodels are freakishly tall and thin and we should just love ourselves, etc., etc., but isn't it a shame about Judy, who's had three kids and she used to have such a nice figure and now she's really gained a lot of weight. Or Allison, who would probably feel better about herself and get some dates if she could just drop a few pounds. Or back to my last post, where a woman who is beautiful and slender to boot "probably has an eating disorder." It's like this great farce. Do we or don't we feel that women should just be themselves and be healthy? And what does healthy really mean to each one of us?

I will say that my doctor's comments have freaked me out to the extent that I am giving much extra thought to what I put in my body now. And I am surely eating more healthfully as a result, even as I gain. I will try not to worry, I say. I will focus on having the healthiest baby possible and nothing else matters. But I will put out there that it is almost impossible even for the most confident of women to hear a negative comment about their bodies, their weight, and not carry that comment around in their sack of woes, of "can'ts," for a long time after. My sack was really lightening of late, but now I am huffing and puffing from the extra weight.