Week nineteen

We finally, finally, finally, have a pronoun to use for the Heirloom Tomato Formerly Known as Sweet Potato — he’s a he! That’s correct, ladies and germs. There will be a penis inside of me for the next five months. Jealous? Yuk yuk. Can you believe I am going to be someone’s mother?

Now the hunt for a name begins in earnest. Before, there was a fifty percent chance I wasn’t going to have to worry about a boy name; we had pretty much settled on a girl name. But now there is no avoiding that I am going to have to hunker down and wade through the awful, awful Braedyns and Jaykobs and find our diamond in the rough. I have a handful of names I love dearly but that Ray doesn’t care for and, in fact, insists will get our sweet baby boy beaten up on the playground. And Ray has a handful of names he fancies but that I might name a goldfish before I’d christen a child with them. We will find our middle ground but it might not happen until my water breaks.

During the ultrasound last week, Heirloom Tomato was very modest, and quite lethargic. (I am hoping he was just asleep and not a true couch potato, like his mommy.) He kept his legs together the whole time, so that the tech had to go around and up under him to get a glimpse of the, uh, turtle. Oh, my sweet son, you have no idea the ways in which we are going to creatively invade your privacy throughout your precious life.

There was this one point early on (you can see it in the video I posted) where he sort of threw his arms up like he was doing the wave. That cracks me up every time I think about it, but then again, maybe the ultrasound pulses scared him. Or it was just a random, uncontrollable muscle twitch. I don’t know. Amber told me that, facing forward, he looks like a fortune cookie and a Jason mask. No, Cox, that does not mean I am going to name him Jason.

On Monday we went to Saltillo — final batch of sex-reveal cupcakes stacked in the back seat — to let my family in on the secret. Originally I wanted to get Muddy’s to make a cake for us, but when I realized I’d be doing the reveal on a Monday, plus my dad wouldn’t be able to be there, it became clear that making my own cupcakes had to be the way to go. (Muddy’s is closed on Sundays and Mondays.) That way Dad was able to take a cupcake to work with him, and we all bit in at the same time. He texted me, “Told ya so. Never doubt me!” because he thought it was a boy all along (as did I; I am fascinated by how I just knew that was the case, and it gives me hopes for my maternal instincts). My sister was rooting for a girl, but I’m not sure anyone else cared one way or the other. We ate cupcakes and grilled things and then sat around while I got to explain my somewhat unconventional labor/delivery plans. Everyone demanded I would want drugs, of course. I just had to laugh it off and say that I may want them, but I’m determined to go without them. My grandmother thought my homebirth plan meant I would be giving birth unassisted, which explains the pained look on her face as we discussed it, but I explained that no, I’d have a qualified midwife there to guide me and make sure things were going smoothly. “No offense, but I think you’re crazy!” said my aunt. You just have to laugh all that stuff off and not let it get to you. It’s difficult enough rising above my own fears and insecurities. I can’t start letting others’ seep in.

Mom and Dad gave us a sweet glider — wooden with cushions — and a pretty green and toile travel bed. Plus a smattering of stuffed animals. They are so giddy about the new grandbaby. Dad said he was excited to see me become a mom, since there for a while he didn’t think I was going to make that leap. It floors me that anyone could objectively look at me and think I would be a good parent, as I am a whirling dervish of crazy, but I suppose my dad isn’t looking at me objectively. Still, it’s sweet.

This week I have given up on all my pants entirely. It’s time to cry uncle and get some panel pants, if only because I get sick of looking at my busted, pale legs every day when I wear a skirt and I cannot force myself into my jeans as though I am some sort sausage to be cased. Even with the Bella Band. Hell, I would wear a muumuu every day if polite society would allow it.

I’ve noticed my skin has made the change I was so excited about: The oil-factory has slowed production considerably. Used to be that I’d wake up every day with a fairly greasy head of hair. No more. Now I could probably go every other day without washing my hair, but old habits die hard.

Supposedly Heirloom Tomato should be starting to hear things soon. I am trying to watch my mouth. We’ll see how that goes.