Nice bag!

I have a new job. With new jobs come new coworkers...and their accessories. I share an office with two women. One of them has a bag I've been admiring since Monday. It's sturdy, cute and looks like it could hold a lot of stuff in an organized fashion. Lately I'm paying attention to bags because my own $20 H&M rig, which has been on my shoulder for almost two years, doesn't have enough pockets to keep me out of the chaos zone. Lip balms, receipts, keys and sunglasses mix into an awful lump--a very un-magnificent bump--at the bottom of my sack. I'm hunting for an alternative. This is why it made perfect sense for me to compliment my coworker on her bag yesterday:

Me: I like your bag.

Coworker: Huh?

Me: That bag--it looks really practical, and it's cute. I'm on the market for one.

Coworker: Oh this? It's my breast pump. 

Silence.

Me: Oh!

Needless to say, I'm still looking.

Bump watch: the mall.

I grew up in a teeny town surrounded by other teeny towns. The closest true shopping mecca was over an hour's drive away. My parents, never to be confused for soccer mom and dad, didn't believe in transporting me more than five miles in any direction, so The Mall was a shimmering enigma in my mind, the Emerald City where my better-dressed friends shopped with their better-dressed moms, leaving me to my hand-me-downs and ragamuffin identity. 

Now I live in the midst of what my dad would call The Vast Retail Wasteland.  Not only is my apartment within two miles of a mall, but I can drive a couple of extra miles and have my pick of several malls and shopping centers. I don't shop much, and I still have a lingering ragamuffin complex, but I've come to appreciate malls for reasons that go beyond the material--malls are an excellent place to bump watch!

Is it a rule that all pregnant women must get a regular dose of the mall? Is retail therapy a secret prenatal vitamin? Saturdays are especially intense. More shoppers equals more bumps, more squirmy recent deliveries, more toddling tots in overalls and baby Pumas. I'm seated in the food court, and I'm in heaven--they're everywhere! Occasionally, I spot a Doting Dad. He tosses a cloth over his shoulder and burps Baby while Mom is ordering burgers and fries. Dad looks relaxed and even skillful. I give him some credit on the condition that he's not just putting on a show for shopping strangers.  

My boyfriend, who's patient and helpful when I'm on a shopping mission, steers me away from the maternity clothing. He'll walk with me through labyrinths called Juniors, Misses and Intimates, but he draws the line at the bump zone. "I just want to look--please?" He doesn't even humor me with a verbal response. I'm almost relieved. I mean, c'mon--perusing the bump wear at the mall? That's ridiculous. No, it's downright pitiful! The word "pitiful" has barely cleared my mind before I'm turning my head at an unsafe angle to follow a red bump that just sidled by. There may be no hope for me. 

First, be famous.

Not everyone worships the bump magnificent. I know this, so I decided to interview my friend and colleague, Madeline (pictured), while we were bounding over mountains on side-by-side elliptical machines at the gym. An amazing young woman who hasn't expressed maternal fever, Madeline could provide a nice counter-perspective to my bumpalicious blog. Well, imagine my surprise when she made a confession to the contrary...

Me: Do you have baby fever?

Madeline: No. Well, actually, here’s something you don’t know—I’ve been fantasizing about being pregnant! I want to be pregnant—not have a baby, just be pregnant—so I can have a huge belly and wear a bikini. I like the idea of being BIG. I think that gaining weight for pregnancy is really quite sensual. It would be so amazing to be that connected to life. Being pregnant is very trendy right now. Also, I like being the center of attention.

Me: Has your mom told you stories about her pregnancies?

Madeline: Mom called me on my birthday and told me a story. Apparently, a few days before I was born, she went out looking for a nightgown. She just had to have one. She traipsed all over New York City like a mad woman, looking for that perfect nightgown. She never found it. Her theory is that this is why I’m good at walking and bad at shopping.

Me: That’s hilarious, and it kind of makes sense. What does your boyfriend (Ben) think about pregnancy?

Madeline: Ben’s dad has a theory that good pregnancies lead to good kids, so he just spoiled Ben’s mom rotten when she was pregnant—back rubs, foot rubs, the works. Doesn’t that sound so nice?

Me: Yes, amazing! What a good role model.

Madeline: Ben and I have a deal about babies—have I told you?

Me: Yes, but remind me.

Madeline: Basically, we’re not going to have a baby until one of us—me, really—is famous. I have to win an Academy Award first.

Me: Why an Academy Award, of all things?

Madeline: I want to set the bar really high for myself. Otherwise, I might settle for less or, worse, make up an award for myself and then say Okay, I can have a baby now!

Me: So aside from the Academy Award, how will you know if or when you’re ready to be a mom?

Madeline: I like the idea of having a baby when I’m in a really good place. I want to have a strong sense of accomplishment and I want to like myself a lot but not be too focused on myself, you know? Too many people live life according to a time line rather than their own true happiness.

****

You might want to go back and read that last line again--it's pretty meaty. Madeline is full of truisms. And, by the way, she IS going to be famous, so you'll want to keep an eye on this rising star.

Beyond pickles & ice cream.

My boyfriend's mother suffered two difficult pregnancies and subsequent C-sections but looked gorgeous the whole time. She had "that glow"--people told her they'd never seen a more beautiful pregnant woman. Her secret? Fish and polenta, and about 40 pounds of baby weight.

Bump watch: the farmers market.

What draws you to the farmers market? Most ostensibly, it's a place to stock up on locally grown food. The market also provides a dose of crunchy granola/hippie/yuppie culture, in case your everyday life doesn't offer such stimulation. And, for people like me, the farmers market is a prime place to bump watch.

Bump watching is a more specific form of people watching. The main attraction, of course, is the bump magnificent. Nestled among the new potatoes and sugar snap peas are women cultivating their own special produce. I've enjoyed farmers markets from Vermont to Louisiana, and it appears that the must-have market-going accessories are bumps, babies and dogs. In lieu of one of these, I take my friend Dan. He's almost as charming as a baby, and he can count change. Plus, he doesn't seem too annoyed when I stop mid-sentence to admire a bump or make googly-eyes at a particularly charismatic tot.

I enthusiastically recommend a Dan to anyone in my position.

Happy Birthday, tambourine boy.

My brother's birth is somewhat legendary. Twenty-one years ago this morning, Sam was born to Tambourine Man, among other Bob Dylan tunes. Why Dylan? Well, my dad is the world's biggest Dylan fan. The only thing that could be better than having your son born on your idol's birthday is this: my mom's doctor was also a Dylan nut, and he ran out to his car to grab what would become the soundtrack to Sam's birth.

Nowadays, when Sam lets his fro grow, he's a dead ringer for the young Bob Dylan. It doesn't hurt that he can also sing and play multiple instruments. My father, as you can imagine, is very proud.

Happy Birthday, tambourine boy!

She loved every moment of it.

I grew up with a mother (see above) who is a spokeswoman for pregnancy. Is it any wonder that I have baby fever? Mom has never had anything but glowing things to say about growing me and, four years later, my brother. Last night I gave her a ring so we could delve a little deeper:

Me: So how did you find out you were pregnant with me?

Mom: Well, back then, you had to go to the doctor to get a pregnancy test. And I think there was some waiting involved before you got the results.

Me: Oh, right! [Insert little prayer of thankfulness to the person who invented the home pregnancy test.]

Mom: We were trying, and I missed a period.

Me: How did you and Dad know you were ready to start trying?

Mom: I decided.

Me: What? Dad had no hand in it?

Mom: Well, it’s like a lot of things in our marriage—he didn’t have a strong opinion about it, and I did. I was ready. I was 29 years old. I could have had five or ten kids, and he wouldn’t have said anything.

Me: Right. Do you think that has anything to do with the fact that he comes from a big Catholic family?

Mom: Maybe.

Me: What are your best memories from being pregnant with me?

Mom: I loved it. I loved the whole thing—watching my belly grow, waiting for you to move and then sharing that with others. I was huge, and I let people feel my belly. It was a good pregnancy. I didn’t really have any unpleasant experiences, at least not that I can remember.

Me: So how big did you get, exactly? I’ve seen pictures.

Mom: I stopped paying attention after the scale passed 160. I gained 30 or 35 lbs. I didn’t care—I just ate whatever I wanted.

Me: That’s nice. [Insert little prayer for all of the poor Hollywood starlets who don’t know how to let up on a restrictive diet and exercise regime, even while pregnant.] What did you crave?

Mom: Pizza. And I started eating meat after being a vegetarian for five years.

Me: Oh, wow! Any other special memories?

Mom: Well, there was the time that I picked up a stethoscope and listened to your heartbeat. It was so cool! And then I found out it wasn’t your heartbeat at all. And then, when I was really huge, I found out that my good friend Kim was pregnant, too. That was fun!

Me: Was anything different with Sam [my little brother’s] pregnancy?

Mom: That was a good pregnancy, too. I didn’t get as big. But boy, he was so active—he used to kick so hard! For years after I had dreams about being pregnant and having the baby punch right through my stomach.

Me: Yikes!

Mom: And the smartest thing I ever did was get my tubes tied after Sam was born. I was 35. I wanted another baby so bad, but somehow—I don’t know where this wisdom came from—I knew that I didn’t want to have a teenager when I was in my fifties.

Me: That was really smart, Mom.