A thud raised me out of my sleep. One of my worst fears had born fruit. Elijah was no longer in the bed next to me, and with the realization came guilt, horror and fear which rumbled deep in my belly and burst forth in screams that roiled the night, each successively louder than the next. Elijah had fallen off the bed. I dropped to the floor; the soft white of his onesie had caught the glow of the street lights shining through the window. He whimpered slightly as I snatched him off the floor and clutched him to my chest still screaming, but now also sobbing.
Ryan had flown to his knees in the bed above me, his fear spewing forth in guttural hollers that joined in chorus with my screams. And then, he hit me.
Once, twice, three times he swung a pillow at my kneeling form as my screams broke down into racking sobs.
“Lakiya, stop crying,” he yelled. He tried to take the baby from me, but I clutched him tighter in my madness. “Stop crying,” he said again.
His commandments only induced me to do the opposite.
Finally reason broke in and I handed Elijah to Ryan.
“Take him! Take him! Stop telling me to stop crying,” I said through a dry heave.
Elijah lay quietly in Ryan’s arms, looking back and forth at the two of us.
My hands shook violently and I prayed in gibberish, asking for Elijah to be okay.
He was and more shocked than hurt, he stared at me wide-eyed.
And then, I began to laugh in joy. My laziness had finally been good for something. A pile of clothes on the floor had broken his fall. But the emotion that poured forth, took over my body, and made me move so quickly filled me with such awe, that I could only crack up till the tears rolled freely down my aching cheeks.
Ryan turned on the lights and we inspected Elijah’s head and back for evidence of knots or bruises. He lay there quietly, and smiled at us through his sleepiness. He was okay.
I put him back in the crib where he belonged, but an hour later he was back in the bed, refusing to stay asleep unless he was next to us.
This time, I put him in the middle.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Almost A Year Later
So, I've let the blog slide would be an understatement. But, I believe with a little revisioning, I can get back on track. I'm no longer pregnant, but actually 8 months into motherhood. Wow. I've been a mother for eight months. I don't have anything profound to write at this abiding moment except that his name is Elijah and he is the llove of my life. Though I'm no longer Pregnant in the City, my life is pregnant with possibility. So shall I rename? or continue with this blog? Not sure, I haven't decided. Maybe I'll finish the 11 posts I started and never finished.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Things I've Gotten Away With While Pregnant
Forgetting people’s names. Including people I’ve known for at least ten years
In fact, forgetting anything for that matter. Sometimes I’ll write down important dates. Most of the time, I forget to look at the date book.
Being a flake. Now I actually feel bad for canceling dates, and appointments, but because of the afore-mentioned catatonia that grabs me when I least expect it, or just the all-out desire to nest in my room, I can get out of a lot of stuff. Blame it in the hormones.
Refusing to eat things that look, smell or sound revolting. I work for a Marketing company, and at one point everyone in the office was encouraged to try our client’s latest drink—a combination of Clamato(that’s tomato and clam juice) and Budweiser. This drink is highly popular in the south of the border set, but even my desire for weird food combinations does not extend to juiced clam and tomatoes .Thank goodness the alcoholic content gave me a reason to “sadly” decline. I swear I wanted to fall out laughing while watching my colleagues each take a swig and fight the urge to spit the drink back in their cups while expressing that “mmmm” tone reserved for foods that are actually good.
Crying, yelling, and laughing uncontrollably…..respectively in a five-minute period or all at the same time. I blame it on the hormones.
Going to the front of a really long bathroom line. The other day I walked up to a woman standing at the front of a ridiculously long line at Starbucks and told her my baby was sitting on my bladder, and that I don’t think I could take the pressure anymore. I probably could have waited another two or three people before begging a place at the front, but why wait if you don’t have to?
Waking my significant other up at 2:30 in the morning for any reason I like. I tend not to have night cravings that involve food, I usually wake him up for booty . this he loves or to talk, this he doesn’t love. But I’m usually telling him something that I’d wanted to say at 7:30pm but forgot about and know that I won’t remember by 7:30 am.
Being unreasonable. When you’re pregnant, people kind of expect you to be irrational and if they don’t expect it, they’ll eventually come to blame it on the hormones. I once saw this pregnant lady at Cosi order a salad. After telling him everything she wanted on it, and he put all those things in the Cosi salad dish, she asked for Oil and Vinegar dressing. Apparently they didn't have it. She was so mad she said she didn't want the salad anymore and asked him to make her a sandwich. Just as he was making the sandwich, she asked if he would just give her the salad. I don't think I've been that bad yet, but why not fulfill my potential for unreasonableness?
Not answering my phone after ten o’clock. I love my friends. I love hearing the latest stories (gossip) et al. But after ten, I’m barely able to watch the news much less listen to the latest testosterone-induced tragedy. I have my own testosterone-induced issues to deal with.
In fact, forgetting anything for that matter. Sometimes I’ll write down important dates. Most of the time, I forget to look at the date book.
Being a flake. Now I actually feel bad for canceling dates, and appointments, but because of the afore-mentioned catatonia that grabs me when I least expect it, or just the all-out desire to nest in my room, I can get out of a lot of stuff. Blame it in the hormones.
Refusing to eat things that look, smell or sound revolting. I work for a Marketing company, and at one point everyone in the office was encouraged to try our client’s latest drink—a combination of Clamato(that’s tomato and clam juice) and Budweiser. This drink is highly popular in the south of the border set, but even my desire for weird food combinations does not extend to juiced clam and tomatoes .Thank goodness the alcoholic content gave me a reason to “sadly” decline. I swear I wanted to fall out laughing while watching my colleagues each take a swig and fight the urge to spit the drink back in their cups while expressing that “mmmm” tone reserved for foods that are actually good.
Crying, yelling, and laughing uncontrollably…..respectively in a five-minute period or all at the same time. I blame it on the hormones.
Going to the front of a really long bathroom line. The other day I walked up to a woman standing at the front of a ridiculously long line at Starbucks and told her my baby was sitting on my bladder, and that I don’t think I could take the pressure anymore. I probably could have waited another two or three people before begging a place at the front, but why wait if you don’t have to?
Waking my significant other up at 2:30 in the morning for any reason I like. I tend not to have night cravings that involve food, I usually wake him up for booty . this he loves or to talk, this he doesn’t love. But I’m usually telling him something that I’d wanted to say at 7:30pm but forgot about and know that I won’t remember by 7:30 am.
Being unreasonable. When you’re pregnant, people kind of expect you to be irrational and if they don’t expect it, they’ll eventually come to blame it on the hormones. I once saw this pregnant lady at Cosi order a salad. After telling him everything she wanted on it, and he put all those things in the Cosi salad dish, she asked for Oil and Vinegar dressing. Apparently they didn't have it. She was so mad she said she didn't want the salad anymore and asked him to make her a sandwich. Just as he was making the sandwich, she asked if he would just give her the salad. I don't think I've been that bad yet, but why not fulfill my potential for unreasonableness?
Not answering my phone after ten o’clock. I love my friends. I love hearing the latest stories (gossip) et al. But after ten, I’m barely able to watch the news much less listen to the latest testosterone-induced tragedy. I have my own testosterone-induced issues to deal with.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
I'm sleepy even when I'm sleeping
Throughout the first trimester of pregnancy (that’s the first three months for you lay people) a catatonic states lurks in the shadows awaiting a moment of weakness. That five minutes you take to think about the best way to organize your day. The ten minutes you spend on the toilet relieving last nights meal and this mornings beverage. Fifteen minutes after someone on the train realizes you are in fact pregnant, and not just fat, so they give you their seat. It tenses, pupils wide, and pounces. Blackness overtakes you at your desk, on the toilet, and during the train ride to work or home.
You begin to think that with all the little cat naps during the day you’ll be awake all night. But what you find is instead of watching how House is going to save the autistic, cancerous, hemophiliac she-male, you fall asleep with the TV on. But see, this is a threatening situation, because somehow, even though you’re knocked out, you can hear the 10 o’clock news (which if you’ve ever watched New York news you know they put the boogie man to shame).
As you sleep, instead of the blackness of those five, ten, or fifteen minutes you racked up at work or on your way to work, you start dreaming of she-male babies that have blown up historic town homes in uptown Manhattan with Paris Hilton as an accomplice and she has somehow captured a terrorist who is praying to the honorable Barack Obama to be saved from being eaten by Kirstie Alley who is shilling for Lipitor. And the dreams go on in intermittent blackness, and you wake up mentally exhausted—unprepared to start a new day.
Rinse, wash, repeat.
You begin to think that with all the little cat naps during the day you’ll be awake all night. But what you find is instead of watching how House is going to save the autistic, cancerous, hemophiliac she-male, you fall asleep with the TV on. But see, this is a threatening situation, because somehow, even though you’re knocked out, you can hear the 10 o’clock news (which if you’ve ever watched New York news you know they put the boogie man to shame).
As you sleep, instead of the blackness of those five, ten, or fifteen minutes you racked up at work or on your way to work, you start dreaming of she-male babies that have blown up historic town homes in uptown Manhattan with Paris Hilton as an accomplice and she has somehow captured a terrorist who is praying to the honorable Barack Obama to be saved from being eaten by Kirstie Alley who is shilling for Lipitor. And the dreams go on in intermittent blackness, and you wake up mentally exhausted—unprepared to start a new day.
Rinse, wash, repeat.
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Announcement
I'm 25, not single, but not married, if that makes any sense. My boyfriend and I have been together for roughly a year-and-a-half and though we each fantasized about a future together--fantasize being the key word here--neither of us envisioned it being required by an impending child. So, I've told all the easiest people to tell, my closest friends, my Dad's second ex-wife (who I love to death) and the boy-toy's family, all of whom have been generally pleased to hear of the little blessing. The problem lies in telling my father and his side of the family. He has high expectations for me that don't include pre-marital sex, much less a bastard child from a green-card wielding, non-college-educated immigrant. Don't get me wrong, I love my boyfriend, but he is what he is.
You'd think at my age, I'd be able to tell him he's going to be a grandfather without my heart tap-dancing on my ribcage, my mouth being simultaneously dry and full of extraneous saliva, and that pizza from last night puttng undo strain on my bowels. I mean, I'm well on the road to over-education. I have a legitimate position at a marketing company, though I've seriously considered shaking a little T&A to supplement my income, and though I doubt I'd be some supermom, my boyfriend and I are committed to ensuring the new bugger won't become a statistic. Yet, after my announcement last Friday, and my Dad's reaction, which began with "Oh My God" and ended with me not hearing from him for the rest of the weekend (and I'm presuming for the next few months), I spent Saturday curled up in my bed, underneath the covers, eventually bursting into the kind of sobs I haven't engaged in since I was not allowed to go on my high school graduation trip to Barbados because as my Dad said, "For what, so you can get pregnant?"
This is interestingly prescient, since my sperm donor is from the island of Trinidad. Maybe, this was all some sub-conscious Freudian mode of revenge for not being trusted enough to spend four days and five nights in the Carribean. Considering the large Carribean population in New York, it was inevitable that I'd be drawn here to end up with a Fresh Water Yankee.
You'd think at my age, I'd be able to tell him he's going to be a grandfather without my heart tap-dancing on my ribcage, my mouth being simultaneously dry and full of extraneous saliva, and that pizza from last night puttng undo strain on my bowels. I mean, I'm well on the road to over-education. I have a legitimate position at a marketing company, though I've seriously considered shaking a little T&A to supplement my income, and though I doubt I'd be some supermom, my boyfriend and I are committed to ensuring the new bugger won't become a statistic. Yet, after my announcement last Friday, and my Dad's reaction, which began with "Oh My God" and ended with me not hearing from him for the rest of the weekend (and I'm presuming for the next few months), I spent Saturday curled up in my bed, underneath the covers, eventually bursting into the kind of sobs I haven't engaged in since I was not allowed to go on my high school graduation trip to Barbados because as my Dad said, "For what, so you can get pregnant?"
This is interestingly prescient, since my sperm donor is from the island of Trinidad. Maybe, this was all some sub-conscious Freudian mode of revenge for not being trusted enough to spend four days and five nights in the Carribean. Considering the large Carribean population in New York, it was inevitable that I'd be drawn here to end up with a Fresh Water Yankee.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)