Theater Mama

I guess it is time to come clean.

I've been absent for a while and I've let things go to seed a bit. The truth is, my husband and I are expecting another child. Which is an overly polite way to say that I'm pregnant again. For some odd reason, I find it somewhat distasteful to say that I'm pregnant. It feels somehow vulgar and I notice that people avoid saying it directly. The word is getting around and people approach me and say things like, "I've heard a rumor..." and "I hear you're expecting!", but no one says the word "pregnant". The word feels a bit like a punch in the neck. Sort of, well, shameful. I actually feel less dirty announcing "Hey everybody! I went and got myself knocked up!" than I do saying, "I'm pregnant." (In fact, that's exactly how I announced it to my fellow Playful Substance company members. It seemed an appropriate audience for that kind of announcement.) It is more than a little surprising to me that I should have such a negative reaction to a word that means something quite lovely.

On the flip side, though, I have no trouble discussing the physical and emotional experiences that go along with my tender little euphamism. Which makes my aversion to the actual word all the stanger.

I'm on the verge of entering the second trimester and the nausea and extreme fatigue have moved out of the way to make room for heartburn and psychotic mood swings. With my last...pregnancy... (shudder)... I went into a social and professional coma and did not emerge for nearly 2 years. I am acutely aware that depriving myself of these outlets lead to a doozy of a depression and I am determined to keep that from happening again. The challenge is (and there is ALWAYS a challenge) that I need to strike a rather precarious balance between my usual breakneck pace and paying attention to what my body needs. Normally, being extrememly busy makes me happy. It makes me feel vital, useful and needed. But it is also very easy to sink into the comfort of bed and a plate of spinach stuffed potatoes in a pair of yoga pants and fool myself into thinking that is exactly what my body needs. The fatigue is so convincing and energy so hard to come by. Pants don't fit. Shoes with heels are hard to manage and wouldn't it be nice to hide in a nice warm cave until I could come out pretty again?

Ah. Vanity thy name is woman. Damn straight it is.

Then there is something called "pregnant brain". Words get lost. Organizing thoughts becomes increasingly difficult and communication blunders abound. Last time I definitely had a sense that I was gestating more than a child, but also my creative ability. I couldn't write. I couldn't paint. I couldn't plan. Once my son was born, however, it all came pouring out but I had not nurtured the outlets for it. So the outlets disappeared and I was left with an overwhelming need to express, no means to express it and no audience to receive it. I am struggling with that now. I am producing a couple of shorts along with "Adventures in Mating" (see link on the right) and it is a monster battle to keep myself on task. I'd prefer sleep. I'd prefer a documentary on the Big Bang or String Theory. I'd prefer any passive bit of entertainment because I wear out so quickly these days. Of course, I know from experience that over-indulging in such things will leave me with a huge deficeit once the baby is here in the world. I may want to stop working for the time being, but it will ruin me if I do.

So. Here we go. Going through the motions so my body doesn't forget and so I don't lose myself in the process.

But the occassional spinach stuffed potato isn't so bad either.