 |
| The most entertaining selfie angle. |
This is the month my underwear stopped fitting. After work one day I stood on the El platform smelling the hot, urine-tinged (not mine) air whooshing down the tracks, and it occurred to me that I could shimmy out of the offending undies and cast them out from the bottom of my maxi dress into the path of the train. Then I saw one of those security guards with his German shepherd in a muzzle and thought that my undies would probably get wedged on the third rail, halting everyone's commute, and that the terrifying dog would start barking and I would whine "but those undies were squeezing me" before getting carted away.
That might not be so bad.
Maybe I'd get banished from the CTA and have to take the private, self-driving princess car of my imagination to work every morning with the AC on blast and no one's elbows or bags or asses in my face.
These are the fantasies of August in the city.
The baby has figured out how to kick me in the ribs now. He flipped over the other night. I was paranoid that I hadn't felt him in awhile, so I ate a cookie and gently poked my stomach and he proceeded to kick and flop and shimmy for an hour, way past our mutual bedtime. Shh, baby. I'm glad you're alive and well but I'm supposed to get three more months before you wake me up forever and ever right?
Three more months seems both impossibly long and far too short. I am admittedly obsessed with the material preparations for the baby--his nursery, his clothes, the paint for his walls and the arrival of his crib. But I've spent much less time contemplating the emotional and intellectual preparation. Making sure I'm not skimming over my last few months as a childless human.
The quickest solution for this existential dread is to visit the pool at the end of our block, which has become one of the best things about moving to suburbia. Sure, it's filled with kids, but they're not my kids. I get to sit in my chair with my floppy hat and magazine until I get sweaty and jump in. And watching other parents playing at the pool is a mostly idyllic glimpse of the future. I am excited to bring Babycakes to the pool in his little hat and rubber diaper and splash around next summer.
Came across this Nikki McClure print the other day of a very pregnant woman in a bathing suit, perched on a coastline and testing the waters. Is her situation precarious or is she completely ready to just slide into those rocky waters and enjoy a little snorkle? Let’s trust that she knows those strokes by heart.
My neighborhood pool is no oceanside beach, but the drone of splashing and laughing and pop music wafting from the speakers is the reminder I need that I'm participating in summer, and to trust that I have enough time even if it’s just a few weeks. Big and round and floating in the rather shallow deep end of the pool, feeling my belly soften as everything lifts, becomes lighter.
That might not be so bad.
Maybe I'd get banished from the CTA and have to take the private, self-driving princess car of my imagination to work every morning with the AC on blast and no one's elbows or bags or asses in my face.
These are the fantasies of August in the city.
The baby has figured out how to kick me in the ribs now. He flipped over the other night. I was paranoid that I hadn't felt him in awhile, so I ate a cookie and gently poked my stomach and he proceeded to kick and flop and shimmy for an hour, way past our mutual bedtime. Shh, baby. I'm glad you're alive and well but I'm supposed to get three more months before you wake me up forever and ever right?
Three more months seems both impossibly long and far too short. I am admittedly obsessed with the material preparations for the baby--his nursery, his clothes, the paint for his walls and the arrival of his crib. But I've spent much less time contemplating the emotional and intellectual preparation. Making sure I'm not skimming over my last few months as a childless human.
The quickest solution for this existential dread is to visit the pool at the end of our block, which has become one of the best things about moving to suburbia. Sure, it's filled with kids, but they're not my kids. I get to sit in my chair with my floppy hat and magazine until I get sweaty and jump in. And watching other parents playing at the pool is a mostly idyllic glimpse of the future. I am excited to bring Babycakes to the pool in his little hat and rubber diaper and splash around next summer.
Came across this Nikki McClure print the other day of a very pregnant woman in a bathing suit, perched on a coastline and testing the waters. Is her situation precarious or is she completely ready to just slide into those rocky waters and enjoy a little snorkle? Let’s trust that she knows those strokes by heart.
My neighborhood pool is no oceanside beach, but the drone of splashing and laughing and pop music wafting from the speakers is the reminder I need that I'm participating in summer, and to trust that I have enough time even if it’s just a few weeks. Big and round and floating in the rather shallow deep end of the pool, feeling my belly soften as everything lifts, becomes lighter.
No comments:
Post a Comment