36 Weeks: The Home Stretch?

Since Keiki is the size of a Crenshaw melon, I’ve wracked my brain for some sort of Crenshaw Boulevard reference, but let’s face it; I’m just not that cool. In case you even think about rejecting that notion, let me tell you a story, and then I’ll get back to pregnancy.

The summer I turned six, we took a family trip to England. First, we were in London, where we saw Evita, which I loved, loved, loved. We made our way south to the beach town of Sidmouth, where some friends of friends owned a news shop. While in the bathroom of the news shop, I decided to entertain myself by singing “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina.” AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS. Still in that childhood stage where you think you are invisible if you can't see anyone, oblivious to the fact that a closed door does not mean SOUNDPROOF, I finished my business, walked back out to the store to a standing ovation from my family and the shop patrons, turned red and melted into a nearly six-year-old puddle of embarrassment in the floor.

Back to the present.

In the final weeks of pregnancy, people often tell you that you’re on the home stretch, the final mile, almost there, Tiger. Although according to the Semantics Police, Keiki will be an Ox, not a Tiger, because the Chinese New Year won’t come until after his/her arrival. Stupid semantics, guess Daddy wants a little organizer not a charming, charismatic leader. . .reel it in Monkey Brain, REEL. IT. IN.

This week I’m realizing that these comments, while true in some sense, are also completely misleading. I know from experience that taking care of a baby in my belly is NOTHING compared to when they get out into the world.

While I’m on the final lap of the pregnancy, this is just a warm up. I’m finishing a marathon, only to begin a lifetime version of the Iron Man Triathlon. I want to savor this time, because so much will go into a vortex over the coming months. Part of my motivation to blog is to have something to share with my friends and family, most of whom are far, far away. It’s my way of saying, “I may not return your call or call you, ever. I may take months to respond to e-mails, but I still love you, and here’s what’s going on in my life that, along with my general Monkey Braininess, prevents me from being good about keeping in touch.” I wish I could tell my friends that if I don’t call you for the next five years, please don’t write me off, and try to remember when I was a good and caring friend because I still care, I’ve just got my head up my arse and that may not change for a few years.

I know that there are people who maintain social lives and ties with their best friend from third grade despite having jobs and kids. I’m not one of those people. I am not a good phone person, which makes me a bad long distance friend. I like e-mail, but completely flake out, which gets worse with parenthood. I’ve definitely lost friends due to my crappy correspondence skills, and I can only hope that the friends that remain either accept that part of me, or are so busy themselves that they don’t notice. Either one suits me. So those of you reading, wondering why I am such a shit, know this: I do think about you, and sometimes I’ll even set about calling or e-mailing, but 9 times out of 10, I will get distracted by a shiny object or poopy diaper. I’m sorry.