Friday, February 1, 2013

Moving On Up

At 33-years-old and after 18 years of therapy I am just now learning that I go through life fully expecting everyone to be disappointed in me at all times.  I can theorize about where this comes from (familial alcoholism, two decades in a business filled with rejection, laziness, low self-esteem...  I can't imagine how many auditions I went to with "You're going to hate this!" oozing out of every pore in my body.), but really, it doesn't matter where it comes from. 

It was with this attitude that I went to our first appointment with our awesome midwife, Davi last week.  I was fully expecting to be chastised for everything.  How much weight I've gained.  How little I exercise.  What I'm eating. 

About a week after Thanksgiving, Dr. Yamaguchi told me I had gained more weight than I needed to at the point.  I think what she said was, "You're one or two pounds over."  What I heard was, "You're heading into Jessica Simpson territory, you fat cow."  So, I became slightly more conscious of what I was eating.  And when I say "slightly more conscious" I mean that when I ate fast food I was like, "I totally shouldn't be eating this." 

You know that whole "eating for two" thing people like to bandy about?  Apparently the second person you're eating for really only needs 300 calories a day.  All your life when you've heard people say, "You can eat WHATEVER YOU WANT when your pregnant"?  Turns out those people actually have no idea what they're talking about.  I mean, technically, you can do whatever the fuck you want when you're pregnant (Except in those states where you'll be arrested for drinking or doing drugs while pregnant because that hurts the baby Jesus's feelings.  Or possibly soon in New Mexico where you'll BE ARRESTED for having an abortion after being raped.).  But it's best to stay away from ice cream if you don't want to give birth to a giant baby.  And go ahead and scarf down those cookies and candy.  As long as you don't mind Gestational Diabetes.  And then there's fried food, and empty carbs and basically all the things you actually WANT to eat when you're pregnant.  You know how when you're not pregnant you should really be eating things like fruits and veggies and complete proteins and foods high in "good" fats and, like fish and nuts and shit like that?  When you're eating for two, you should just be eating more of those things.  Not cake and ice cream and french fries.  Crazy, right?

As it so happens, having a human being inside me is actually the best motivation I have ever had to eat right and not be such a lazy slob.  Yes, I've been an actor for over 20 years which you would think would have been enough motivation to keep fit.  Oddly enough, the promise of thousands of dollars and a career has never really inspired me to keep myself in tip top shape.  Ironically I had only just finally succumbed to the pressure to be skinny in April, losing a total of about 15 pounds right before getting knocked up.  At any rate, I actually have cleaned up my act quite a bit.  Something about not wanting to push a watermelon out of me or have a baby with completely avoidable health problems has made me forgo the drive thru a good 99% of the time I'm compelled toward it.  Also, I have been blessed with a savory tooth instead of a sweet tooth (The cake incident from the last entry notwithstanding.), so skipping the cookies and ice cream is really not that difficult.  Put a salt lick in front of me, though...

Turns out, everything is right on track.  Davi couldn't be happier with where we are at this point (Except when she asked me to sit on the floor and try to touch my toes.  I couldn't even reach my knees.  Because basically I'm an 80-year-old man.).  She was happy with my weight and my goal weight (though it occurs to me that gaining only 8 pounds in the next 15 weeks is going to be a Herculean undertaking.).  She was pleased and impressed with my exercise habits (though admittedly I may have overstated things a bit.).  And best of all she said I have a "roomy pelvis" (hiya, fellas.).  She said the baby is going to come sliding right out of me which, if it doesn't, I'm totally suing her.

She handed us a binder filled with checklists, guidelines, expectations and information on everything from early labor signs to the debate on circumcision.  I have a lot to do to prep in the next three months, including taking a child birthing class, learning baby cpr, eating every two hours, setting up a nursery, stretching various parts of my body including my taint...

In the midst of all this, Kurt and I are in the extraordinarily slow process of moving to an apartment just upstairs from where we were.  Neither of us are very good at moving and the whole thing is taking way longer than it needs to.  We have too much crap and we don't seem too willing to get rid of much.  But I've finally come to the realization that I don't need copies of Tess of the Dubervilles or Emma or The Picture of Dorian Grey collecting dust on precious space on my bookshelf.  So, to the library they will go and if I ever get a bug up my ass to read The Count of Monte Cristo, I can walk the one block to our local branch and check it out.  Something tells me I will go my entire life without ever reading The Three Musketeers and be perfectly fine.

On our first morning in the new apartment I woke up to the sound of sobs and quickly realized they were my own.  It took me a full minute to recover enough to tell Kurt I dreamt I was robbed at gun point.  When the assailant realized I was pregnant he pointed his gun at my belly and threatened to kill the baby unless I gave him all my money.  I had no money. 

And it is on that note that I will leave you tonight.  We are on day seven of the move and my brain is beginning to seep out of my ears.  I'm having trouble maintaining my train of.... Wait.  What?