Observations on motherhood

The triumph of the moment is that all my clothes still fit, with only the merest snugness on the jeans. There’s been no drastic expansion, merely the slightest convexity which Michael attributes to my using his shampoo. Sure enough, the label very clearly warns, ‘Adds Body, Maximizes Fullness.’

Far more dire are the psychological effects. Not since I first fell in love almost two years ago have I felt this scatter-brained and utterly-useless-to-mankind. I’m going off and forgetting things at a frightful rate – ingredients, shopping lists, lunches – my attention span is flagging, and my grasp of the simplest concepts is reduced to rubbish. I’m all ready for the second trimester – ‘growing and glowing’ – and the return of sanity, energy, and appetite.

But for all that, life is not so bleak. We played another game of Scrabble over the weekend, and after a breathless, hard-fought battle, it appeared that I had lost by one point. I was philosophical. Fate had been against me all game. There were two rounds when I had naught but consonants. I had drawn some great letters – Q, Z, J – but the tiles never aligned to allow me to take advantage of extra points, and I threw all my great letters away. Then we discovered that we had forgotten to add Michael’s leftover tiles to my final score, and I ended up winning by six points.

Moreover we started reading a new fantasy series last night, and much to my surprise, I’m liking it. I tend to be skeptical of fantasy books, as a rule, because I disapprove of the general quality of the genre (in my experience, most fantasy books are cheap Tolkien spin-offs), but this one so far promises well (leaving aside the prologue, which is VERY peculiar and beyond the pale).

Michael is enjoying the back-slapping and congratulations from his co-workers, two of whom recently became first-time fathers and who are now happily dispensing advice and commiseration. There is, luckily, quite a difference in the confidentiality understandings of our marriages. For the last several months Michael would come home with pregnant-wife tales that Richard and Andy would swap over the morning coffee. The last time I dissolved into irrational tears over a misunderstanding with the microwave, I had presence of mind to add, ‘You’re not going to tell Richard and Andy your own pregnant wife tale about this, are you?’ ‘Of course not,’ he said, shocked. No, of course not. Why is it such a foreign concept to the modern marriage that you don’t tell uncomplimentary personal details about your spouse to others, even in jest?

It didn't use to be a laughing matter when Michael would say something like, 'Hey, Babe.' Now I can reply, 'Who, me?' or 'Which one?' Oh, the possibilities are endless! This is going to be grand.