Introducing the Crazy Pregnant Lady

Hi, my name is Bridget and I’m a lapsed blogger.

In my defense, as I've told my husband numerous times over the past 5 months, I have a perfectly valid excuse for my laziness. I've been busy creating life. And it is exhausting work.

As you have probably gathered from Mike's posts, I’m pregnant with our first child (a girl!). Being pregnant has been a really surprising ride. Mostly because I have not proven to be one of those pleasant, glowing pregnant women you hear about. I am an angry, grumpy, hormonal monster. And I’m growing at an alarming rate. Watch yourselves, people!

I think what initially threw me off is that in all the time I spent daydreaming about having a baby, I never spent more than 5 minutes thinking about what it would be like to be pregnant. In my head, I just sort of glossed over this step. I was more concerned about the getting pregnant bit, and was terrified that at the ripe old age of thirty I was already a barren husk of a woman incapable of creating or nurturing life. Being reasonable is not my strong suit.

After it was established that getting pregnant wasn't going to be an issue, I spent the first 3 months of being pregnant terrified that we would lose the baby. The time that wasn't spent being terrified was spent either sleeping, or downing huge bowls of white rice swimming in butter and Parmesan cheese because that was the only food that I found appealing.  Well, that and Popsicles.  Actually, that is pretty close to my normal diet, so in retrospect perhaps this wasn't pregnancy-related at all.

The second trimester has been relatively symptom-free, aside from the raging hormonal monster I referenced above. This was a side effect that I was not prepared for. I think it is safe to say Mike was even less prepared. When crazy Bridget arrived Mike became panicked. He really didn't know how to handle me. Reason with me? Bad idea. Sympathize? Nope. Ignore? Wrong.  He just couldn't understand how his normally reasonable(ish) wife had become so irrational overnight.

I couldn't really understand it either. The things that I would usually not give a second thought about infuriated me. I developed a terrible case of road rage. I hated everything. I threw fits about not having the right dinner reservations. I would start a fight with my husband and half way through realize I had forgotten what I was upset about. So I just continued yelling.

All the while, I kept hearing from people about how being pregnant was the best time of their lives. The best! That they loved being pregnant. And this just made me feel worse. Not only did I feel bad, but I felt bad about feeling bad. I was already failing at this mom thing. And the only thing I had to show for it was graduating into a higher weight class.

And now? I don’t know whether things all of a sudden changed for me, or whether it was a bunch of small things that turned this around. It helped getting further along in my pregnancy and being able to feel a little less nervous about the health of my baby. Finding out that our “it” was a “she” was also a huge milestone. Once we found out we were having a daughter, it just made things seem more real and personal. And finally, feeling our baby move has made me way more connected to this little being growing inside of me. I finally feel “pregnant” instead of “fat and crazy.”

So now, at 5 months pregnant, I have to say I feel very happy and very lucky. But it had been a bit of a bumpy ride and I think it is important to acknowledge that. It is so easy to get caught up in what you think you should be feeling that you start feeling guilty about your own experience. If there is one thing that I hope to be able to do in these last 4 months, it is to just relax and be in the moment -- whatever that moment may bring.

The Art of Daily Communication

I was sitting at my desk at 11:45 AM this past Thursday. By all measures, it had been a fine and typical morning in the life of an editor. I had just done an interview, had polished up a couple documents, and was about to get ready for an afternoon meeting. Something didn't feel right, though.

Then it hit me: I hadn't heard from Bridget yet.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Ugh. Where's the back button on this damn browser? I don't want to read this sappy prose about how this insufferable couple talks to each other every 10 minutes.

Don't worry; that's not my angle. Well, not completely.

Lately, I'm finding myself fascinated by how couples communicate on a daily basis -- especially at work. Do they text all day? Are they glued to Gchat? Do they call each other once? Twice? Every hour on the hour? Or do they say goodbye in the morning and hello in the evening?

I, like most of you, I'd guess, have seen all of these techniques in action. There's the couple that talks every day for their entire lunch break. (A little too much? Maybe.) There's the couple that seems more like buddies than romantic partners. (Not enough? Maybe.) And there's the couple that seems to have it all together. (They never do, of course, but appearances are powerful things.)

Obviously, there's no secret sauce and no silver bullets. What works for one couple might be a nightmare for another.

Which brings me back to Thursday morning. After my realization, I texted Bridget: "Morning! How was your drive?" She texted back a couple minutes later: "Good, but I hate traffic. I'm really looking forward to seeing you tonight." I'll stop there and spare you the sugar-coated electronic conversation, but that little daily communication is incredibly important to us. It's not always meaningful, but it's a small way to say, "Hey, I'm thinking about you and I want you to know it."

(For the record, we exchanged four text messages during work and three after work when I went to the bar for a bit. I'd say that's pretty average for us.)

I wondered, mostly to myself, if our daily communication would change after we got married last March. We'd always stayed in great touch during the day, which I thought was a pretty great thing. But I wondered if having more security meant we wouldn't feel the need to check in as much. So far, that hasn't happened. It could, of course, but I secretly hope it doesn't.

What about you? How often do you communicate with your partner during the day?

What Bridget Does When Mike Plays Kickball

Summers are generally fairly busy for us. It is the magical time in New England when the weather is bearable, there is daylight until 8pm, and Bostonians pretend to like each other. It makes up for those 15 months of miserable winter. 

Mike likes to spend a lot of this free time engaged in some type of athletic pursuit. Tonight, he is playing kickball (turns out I use the term “athletic” loosely). So on most Thursday nights this summer it is just me and Oscar, kicking back, shooting the breeze. I’m heating up a nice frozen meal. Oscar is playing with his rope. Life is good. And while we both miss Mike immensely, Oscar and I tend to look forward to these nights alone. 

Ok, I can’t speak for Oscar. He’s actually probably miserable right now. But I do know that for me, Thursday nights are a little slice of heaven. Why, you ask? Because it is the one night of the week that I get to watch terrible TV with reckless abandon. 

You see, Mike has no tolerance for reality TV of any sort. He is physically incapable of sitting through an episode of Real Housewives. But not only that, he is also physically incapable of being in the same apartment with me when I watch Real Housewives. 

Because Mike just doesn’t understand why I would waste hours of my precious day losing brain cells. He just can’t help himself from asking things like, “Sweetie, why do you watch this crap?” Or, “Princess, what could you possibly enjoy about these terrible women and their awful lives?” Or he simply looks at me with that look in his eye. The one that says, “I have very seriously misjudged this woman’s intelligence.” He tries to understand. He really does. But it takes a special type of person to really appreciate terrible TV. You could say I am extra special. 

So you can understand why for me to really enjoy bad TV, I have to be alone. It’s like binging. On these precious Thursday nights at home by myself I get to catch up with all my friends. My girl Bethenny, the crazy ladies from RHONY, the even crazier ladies of RHOC, and Kim and Kroy and Kim’s meth-head mom making sure they aren’t Tardy for the Wedding (seriously, worst show title ever). Don’t even get me started on those Kardashians. I could watch them for days. There is something about Kim’s plastic face that just fascinates me.

Basically, if it is on Bravo or E!, I’ll indulge in it. Pregnant in Heels? Check. Interior Therapy with Jeff Lewis? I’m on it. Miss Advised? Don’t mind if I do. Mrs. Eastwood & Company? Well, no. I have to draw the line somewhere. That show is unwatchable. 

Bad TV is my guilty pleasure. And I prefer to indulge in this pleasure in the company of my accepting pooch, Oscar. So this Thursday night I’m looking forward to hitting the couch, turning off my brain, and indulging in a freeze pop or twenty. 

Just don’t tell Mike. He things I’m listening to NPR and reading Book Four of Robert A. Caro’s The Years of Lyndon Johnson while solving a sudoku puzzle and doing pushups.   

FOD (Fan of Death)

A wonderful thing happened last night. After a scorching day and night, we came home from a work outing at Fenway to an unbearably warm apartment and a panting Oscar. Even though it was approaching midnight, Mike bravely ventured down into the depths of our basement to bring out the trusty AC window unit. After some light wrangling, we were set to enjoy a summer of artificial coolant and lower sleeping temps. 

The wonderful thing? This annual event signals the end of FOD (Fan of Death). 

As Mike noted in a previous post, we are a couple that has exceedingly different opinions about comfortable room temperature. I like to be at 72 degrees. All the time. No matter the season. I’ll begrudgingly accept a few degrees higher or lower, but I won’t be happy about it. Mike, on the other hand, enjoys pushing his personal limits of temperature endurance. 

Like the winter when he was still living in Salem but spending quite a bit of time in Cambridge with Oscar and me. It turns out he never turned on the heat in his apartment. EVER. The one time he turned it on all season was when I stayed over and complained about seeing my breath. It was like a meat locker in there. Mike was happy as a clam. 

If I had my way I’d always have the heat at 72, but Mike starts to break out into hives if the thermostat is set about 65. So we compromise. And I wear a lot of unflattering sweatsuits and furry slippers with thick socks. But in the shoulder season, between heat and AC, comes the most contentious time of the year. It’s when Mike installs the big box fan, known affectionately as FOD, in the window right next to our bed. 

FOD is so aggressive it makes me feel like I’m in a wind tunnel. I wake up with chapped lips and a sore throat from sucking in air from what is essentially an industrial wind turbine. And it doesn’t matter how cold it is out. As long as FOD is installed, FOD is running. So it could be an arctic blast and Mike will turn to me, beaming, and say something like, “Oh, Honey, don’t you just love feeling the fresh night air while curled up snug in bed? Isn’t it delightful?”

No, Mike. I don’t like it. It makes me irrationally angry to be cold in my own bed. Trying in vain to read my Kindle without exposing any skin to the ruthless FOD. Wearing multiple sets of pajamas and a ski mask to brave the unyielding gusts of cold air from that damn fan. 

Plus, having FOD installed means that the window is without shades and it starts to get light in our bedroom at sunrise...which is approximately 4AM. Or at least it feels like it is. And then Oscar thinks that it is time for his breakfast and starts his mournful wailing, which eventually progresses to clawing insistently at me with his paws, and then licking my nose until I rouse myself from my breezy slumber to shuffle off to his food dish. 

But these dark times are behind us now. Thank the lord for freon and more reasonable sleeping conditions. Until the Fall, FOD. 

2 Years Down

Today is the 2 year anniversary of our first date. We remember so vividly because it was game 7 of the 2010 NBA finals (Celts lost. Boo.). Since this is the last year we’ll be celebrating this particular anniversary (3/31/12 will become the obligatory anniversary date from now on and I can’t remember more than one date. It's like a mental block.), I thought it was appropriate to sit down and look back on the past 2 glorious years of coupledom. 

I should point out that Mike hates the idea of celebrating anniversaries because he thinks it is forced and arbitrary. He dislikes milestone birthdays for the same reason. I’m from another school of thought. I appreciate these markers in time, however arbitrary they may be, because they provide an opportunity for reflection. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mike!

The last 2 years have been busy. We started dating, discovered we could stand each other, moved in together, got engaged, planned a wedding, and got married. Mike also changed jobs (twice!), became a pet owner, joined two new gyms, and discovered a love of Cambridge and hipster shoes (“They are just so comfortable,” he says in his defense). I started dabbling in grad classes, did a lot of traveling, and got bangs. 

Along the way, we’ve had some really great moments. Enjoying the best risotto of our lives in Boothbay harbor, eating seafood on the water in Newport, wine tastings in Sonoma, drinking pints of Guinness in Galway, and champagne in the middle of the street in Paris. 

But perhaps more memorable are the regular, day-to-day moments of our lives. Taking Oscar to Fresh Pond. Walking to Harvard Square to grab a drink or sit in Harvard Yard to read. Lying on our couch on a Sunday afternoon napping to the dulcet tones of golf. All the dinners at home, and the quick phone calls to check in, and the goodbye kisses before work. And the heated discussions and crossed-armed arguments (let’s be real, it ain’t all roses all the time). 

These years have passed quickly, and I’m told the pace will only pick up once we procreate and I become a soccer mom. But right now, this life we have is pretty great, and I hope we can enjoy being married and selfish for a little while longer.  

Last night we celebrated by going to one of our favorite restaurants and doing what we like best... sitting at the bar, having a beer, eating delicious breadsticks, and splitting a potato pizza. Oh, and talking. Mike commentating about golf, mostly, but also just chatting about our day and our lives and our future. I wish I could take last night and shove it in a time capsule and bury it in our backyard under the oak tree. But since I can’t do that, I hope that I can at least remember that feeling. The feeling of being newly-married, content, and full of potato pizza. 

Five Reasons Why Being Married Is Different

I was golfing the other day with my good friend, Walter, and he asked me if it felt different. "What? Being married?"

"Yeah," he said. "Or is it just basically the same thing?"

I thought about it for a while. Then I missed my putt by a good four feet. Then I answered: "Dude, it is completely different."

I honestly wasn't sure if it would be. There are obviously two schools of thought here. Some people say it's the exact same thing -- you go back to eating the same meals, going out with the same people, and emptying the same dishwasher. Others, on the other hand, think it's a whole new world. After 2.5 months of matrimony, I've decided that I attend the latter school. And here are five reasons why:

1. The ring. I don't wear rings. I mean, I did when I was 15 and trying to look cool, but those days are long gone. The positive here is that I have something to play with when I get bored. Spinning, tapping, tossing -- it's like a new toy. The negative? Having a ring gives me another thing to remember. It used to be phone, wallet, keys, watch. Now it's phone, wallet, keys, watch, ring. This may seem small, but my responsibility just increased by 20%. Don't tell Bridget, but I've found my ring at the bottom of my gym bag more than once.

2. You feel older. You just do. When you hear about "getting married" when you're young, you think those people are old. They are. And now I am. (I actually like being old, so I'm fine with this.)

3. You have a deeper connection. It's not just about the institution of marriage. To me, it's about the experience of sharing your vows and your intentions in front of close friends and family. Think about it: How often do you cry in front of 50, 100, or 200 people? (Watching Rudy sack the Georgia Teach quarterback in a movie theater is obviously the exception here.) A public display of affection and love instantly makes you closer to your partner.

4. The money thing. Bridget covered this on our blog last week. I may retort with my own account (get it?) at some point. Suffice it to say that figuring out a joint account, going on the same health insurance/car insurance, and taxes are significant changes.

5. You're generally happier. Whenever you have a bad day or get in an argument or the dog poops on the floor, it's just not as bad. You always have support, which gives you more confidence and more joy. It's good stuff.

And those are just five reasons. I believe there are hundreds. Feel free to chime in, if you have any of your own.