Was on HuffPostLive this morning

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Another great session with Maya Blum Photography

16 weeks pregnant

More from NOT THE MADONNA

When we first got the dogs, we spent days just looking at them, barely even acknowledging each other. It was a wedge – an adorable wedge, but a wedge just the same. What a relief when we could trust them enough to actually meet each other’s eyes, to forget about their existence even for a second.

“Oh, God,” I say.

He leans forward, elbows on knees. “We’re going to do this,” he says. “Whatever we do, we’ll do it together.”

“But here’s the question: what are we doing?”

“Hell if I know,” he says, and orders another beer.

“It’s really easy to say that.”

“Actually,” he says, “it’s one of the hardest things you can do.”

The statement surprises me. Adam’s far more comfortable with ambiguity than I am. He’ll shake his head when I stress and struggle. Too much work, he says, too much work to worry.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that logic and reality are standing on their heads at this moment. Any second now I expect the plague, the frogs to start falling from this sky. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Yeah,” I say. “I always like knowing.”

I do, too. I once had a guy break up with me because I always seemed to know who I was, what I wanted, how to get there, and he found himself lost at every turn. At least that’s how he explained it to me. The holes in his story became a little more evident when I spotted him with another girl the next night, but no matter. I knew what he said was true. Black and white has always been my kind of atmosphere. Heroes and villains. Right and wrong. Creamy and chunky.

It’s a little simplistic to exist in such a binary way, but it’s worked for me up until this point. Now it’s come to a bit of a whimpering halt.

What happens when you no longer know? What can give you answers when you fail to offer them to yourself? Consult the trees for an answer, look down at the ground. Nature shrugs: your call.

Comal

Keep it to yourself

I'm sick of everybody's fucking opinions. 

Don't tell me how miserable I'm going to be when the baby's born, how I'll miss sleep most of all. Don't crow that I'll look at the childfree with an envious eye. And for God's sake, don't tell me what I can and can't do while pregnant (drink, take anything stronger than Benadryl, et cetera). 

Yesterday a Facebook friend posted the most insulting link on my wall: all the stupid and humiliating things to which new parents must accustom themselves, with a little note: "Better get used to it hun!" She took it down after I not-so-kindly let her know that what she did was fucked up. 

I thought getting married brought out the busybodies. Getting knocked up, however, has proven far worse in that regard. 

I'm on the warpath. Back the fuck off. 

Commandments to Poppy

1) Thou shalt see Jack and Maizie as your brother and sister.
2) Thou shalt laugh early and often.
3) Thou shalt understand the meaning of giving.
4) Thou shalt appreciate, if not love, The Doors, The Cure and The Beatles.
5) Thou shalt be thy own person. We are here to support and love you unconditionally.

Love, Mom.