I’m taking the long way home again. I need a few more minutes — enough to get through The Cars’ Just What I Needed and, inexplicably, Laid by James. “You’re driving me crazy … when are you coming home?”
We’re running out of time. Just a couple of months left and we have so many chapters left to cover.
I’m seven months pregnant and I’m not craving pickles or ice cream (although both sound delicious). Instead, I’m craving music.
Like the songs we played on repeat in middle school: Green Day’s Welcome to Paradise, The Offspring’s Come Out and Play.
The songs I listened to in high school while driving alone on small town, star-filled nights with a CD-to-cassette adapter stuck in my ancient car radio. REM’s Crush With Eyeliner. The Breeders’ Cannonball. Veruca Salt’s Seether. Continue reading “2nd Trimester Playlist”
I’m seventeen weeks pregnant. Our baby is either the size of a white onion or a crème brûlée, depending on if I look at the Nurture or OviaPregnancy App.
Now I believe that morning sickness is Mother Nature’s way of distracting you from the shock of creating a new human. You’re so pre-occupied with feeling like shit that you don’t have time to ask yourself “Oh God, what have I done?!?!”. Continue reading “Seventeen Weeks. Should I worry?”
There is so much I don’t like about trying to get pregnant. Like the acronyms… TTC (trying to conceive), BFM (big fat negative), DPO (days past ovulation). I don’t like how easy it is to fall down a fertility rabbit hole online. I searched “IUI tips” on Pinterest and suddenly my feed is full of syrupy sweet IVF prayers and affirmations. I label each one “no longer relevant” as quickly as I could. I googled “implantation bleeding” and struck message boards that spooked me with their born-again-ism.
I don’t like how ignored I feel by conception narratives. I read a book about fertility nutrition by a Brooklyn-progressive “farmer’s daughter” and the whole vibe was so willfully straight and white it seemed to be trying to offend. Like the author only valued mirror images of her slim, pale self. So much evangelizing about raw milk. A proclamation about how your pregnancy will bring out a primordial protectiveness in your man.
And I don’t like having my life tie-dyed with uncertainty. The indecision that rose within me after round one was foreign and excruciating. I woke up the next morning certain I’m made a terrible mistake. I imagined this child hammering a stake between me and my wife. We’d break up. I’d be left a single parent, but worse: without mi amor para siempre. I cried to my wife and she smoothed my hair. That would not happen. Continue reading “Down By the Bay, Where the Watermelons Grow”
It wasn’t the welcome we expected. It did become funny, but only after nothing bad happened.
My girlfriend and I flew to New York City on August 27, 2011. We took a red eye and and sleeping pills, but I barely closed my eyes the whole flight. We stumbled out of JFK and got struck dumb by the humidity, because we are weather weak Californians. Somehow we made it to our friend’s 4th story upper west side walk up and she suggested we take a walk to beat the jetlag. That’s when we saw them. Continue reading “sometimes I live in the country, sometimes I live in town, sometimes I take a great notion to jump in the river and drown”
Public transportation is an incubator for observations and revelations. At least it is for me.
This morning on the train, I listened to Malcolm Gladwell’s latest Revisionist History podcast, the third in his series on higher education. Suddenly, I was able to articulate my passion for public school, using language I hadn’t had before. Thanks, Revisionist History. Continue reading “My Kingdom for a Public School”
When time was ticking down to my brother’s wedding, and something threatened to go sideways, he’d say “can I just give you a thousand dollars?” That makes my brother sound reckless or douchey and he’s neither. He was a man beating a clock, hoping some Benjamins could keep trouble at bay.
There are 39 days until my own wedding and the temptation to start throwing money at problems is very real. What’s stopping me? You’d think it would be my bank account, but actually it’s my girlfriend. Continue reading “Can I Just Give You A Thousand Dollars?”
This time tomorrow I will be on a train headed to my hometown with a personal container of wine that looks not unlike a juice box. By my side will be my girlfriend — technically my “fiancee,” although neither of us have taken to that term. It’s a weird word.
A year ago, a train trip from London to Edinburgh ended up being a true highlight of our three city tour. We were the only Americans in our train car, which was a nice change of pace. There are a lot of Americans in London. I kept wanting to have “an authentic experience,” only to have an American accent indecorously interrupt my fantasy of a place. Continue reading “Thankstaking By Train”