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A few weeks before the last Maryland Primary, one of my clients called me.  He’s someone I’ve worked with regularly for more than two years, and I think I’ve done a fairly good job of demonstrating my general capacity for intelligence in that time, but only on work-related issues.  I have helped him with employee relations, changes in his health plan, and the retooling of his employer sponsored retirement plan.  I would guess that at some point he has spotted my general liberal bent, but until this moment we had never talked about anything but work.  Then this conversation happened:

“Janet, B.R. here.”

“Yes, hi Dr. R.  How can I help you?”

“Would you vote for a woman just because she’s a woman?”

[Pause so pregnant the head is crowning.]

“No, I’ll admit to a general pro-woman bias, but I’d like to think I vote on the issues.”

“Okay, now about the health coverage…”

It’s one of those times that your head goes spinning because you don’t know exactly how you wound up where you just wound up.  Holy segue.  Still, my statement was accurate.  I love being a woman.  I love the clothes, the accessories and the ability to make people.  I love having women in my life, and do admit that I assume that because someone else is a woman I’ll be able to find at least some common ground in a conversation.

But, lest anyone be confused, I will not vote for a woman just because she is a woman.  Not red, not blue.  Not liberal, and not conservative.  Someone, during my 7 years of all-female education, taught me to make decisions based on ideas, and not merely on sisterhood.

I’m really hoping we’re ready for Obama.  By “we” I mean Caucasian Americans, and by Obama I mean the mixed-race person with a commitment to public service who is the first person of color with a real chance at leading this country.  Now, if you don’t happen to support Obama’s positions, then that’s okay by me.  I may disagree, but disagreement is fine.  Disagreement is, in fact, healthy.  By debating issues we learn from each other, grow our understanding of the issue, and learn to support our opinions with facts.  The people who are bothering me are the other people who “should” support Obama, but don’t.  Some of the people who spent most of their lives voting Democrat, and talking about equality, are now part of the Obama resistance.  Or, I should say, resistant to the idea of Obama.

So far I’ve seen non-Obama supporting Democrats fall into two categories.  The first I do not interact with directly, but I read about at length in the paper.  I’m assuming they really do exist, and they seem to exist mostly in the states east of California and west of Pennsylvania.  These are the people who are Christians and moderate Democrats with too much time on the internet.  They’re the ones who believe every anti-Obama story about his faith, his upbringing and his patriotism.  I won’t repeat those stories here, because I don’t want to add to the already ubiquitous coverage of lies.  I think it’s a little easier to believe lies when you’re suspicious already.  When something in your head is looking at that light brown skin and saying “is he really one of us?”  Then the doubts can slip in.  It’s sort of like the old Richard Gere vs. the rodent tale.  No one would have believed it about Hulk Hogan.  But that Richard Gere?  He did always seem a little suspect.  How did he know so much about opera in that hooker movie anyway?

The second category is the people who really think of themselves as Liberal, live in Blue states, and are of varying religions and ethnicities.  They live in communities where they see and work with people of diverse backgrounds all the time.  Here in the DC area, it would be really difficult to not have diversity in your community.  Sure, there are places that are mostly Caucasian (some by accident and some by design), but getting through a day without interacting with a mix of races, ethnicities and religions would be really difficult.  Even though diversity is the norm for these people, they still live under the burden of their own assumptions and stereotypes.

For example, I invited a man to my wedding who is African-American.  On the way to the cocktail hour he had not yet met up with the friends of mine who he knew, so he was standing alone for a moment.  Several Caucasian guests came over to him to ask him questions - like when the bar was opening, where the bathroom was, and when the meal would be served.  Ugh.  Thank goodness this man has a strong ego and a great sense of humor.  When I talked to him about it later, he agreed with me that the reason he laughed it off is that these are not actual racists.  He believes that if I was invited to any of these people’s homes, and brought this man as my guest, he would be welcomed by them as my friend.  But, in that setting, in that context, a Black man was the hired help.

Assumptions are the hardest thing to fix.  Gut reactions are just that.  They are the thing we think before we actually think.  Years of door-to-door environmental campaigning taught me that no matter who answers the door, no matter the color of the skin, no matter the outfit, make no assumptions.  Never, ever, ask if the owner is home.  Assume you are talking to the owner.  When a woman of color wearing a maid uniform comes to the door of a 5 million dollar house you’re better off starting your spiel, and then having to say “oh I’m sorry.  I’ll wait while you get the owner” than asking for the owner and having to say “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you owned this home”.

Seeing Obama as the President, and not the Black President, will be hard to do.  Recognizing that we are all subject to pre-conceptions about race really hurts, but it makes us real.  I hope that the people who agree with Obama’s ideals, but are struggling with their own pre-programmed conceptions about race, will be forced to confront their biases.  It will make this election a true representation of where the USA is today, and will make everyone that much stronger for it.  Meanwhile, I hope I can stay up late enough to watch Obama’s acceptance speech when it happens, and not the next day on youtube.

I’m continually shocked at how expensive this baby is, and she’s not even here yet.  For someone who has lived as cheaply as I have, this is a major change.  I’m trying to get used to the idea of long-term investments in my child’s future.  It’s very difficult to swallow.  Child care will cost about the same per month as our mortgage.  I’m spending considerably more on baby furniture than I’ve ever spent on my own.  Already women at work are warning me about the cost of diapers, laundry detergent and formula.

The good news, of course, is that I have options.  I have an awesomely supportive family who’ve made it clear that we, and this baby, will never have to worry about having enough.  That’s good to know.  Of course, I’d also like to think that I can afford to raise my child.  Then again, I’m not stupidly stubborn on that point.  Even if “help” is just knowing that my MIL will pick the kid up from daycare in a pinch so that I can continue to work a full-time job, that’s more than most people get and I’ll take it.  That I’m already worrying about how to afford a second child is completely irrational, so I’ll put that all aside for the moment and just wait to see how it goes with one.

I think I really do have a phobia about spending.  I didn’t always have this.  At one point in my life I even got into debt.  Maybe that’s what made me so tight about money?  Anyway, I had myself all convinced that I could never justify spending more than so much on a crib, so much on a dresser, etc.  I looked at the cribs and it confirmed my assessment.  Everything I saw looked so cute.  Then I started banging on things and opening drawers.  Ugh.  I really like the expensive cribs and dressers a whole lot better.  There is a difference, and it’s not just style or name, it’s quality.  I soooo did not want to find that out.  I feel like I walked into a Honda dealer and drove off with a brand new Lexus.  I’m scratching my head wondering how it all happened.

Someone with four children just told me to get over myself and get used to the idea of wanting to give my child way more than I would ever give to myself.  That sounds right.  Ramen noodles for me, but only the best for my baby.  It gives me that martyr image that goes so well with the mother one.

As a side note, I have finally found a comment that I don’t like.  I don’t like it when people tell me that I don’t look pregnant - or that I don’t look any different from my usual.  Do I always look like I’m stealing a honeydew?  I’m confused.  I’m going to assume they mean that the rest of me looks the same, and that’s a good thing.  Still, a part of me wants to look really pregnant.  I want my glow, damn it.

I haven’t posted in a while because there’s been too much to say, not nothing to say.  Last week was rough.  I was in a lot of pain.  So much pain that I couldn’t wear maternity pants because they caused pressure on the belly.  So, I had a week of dresses and Tylenol.  I’m feeling better now, but I hate being told that I can’t do things.  I can’t work out or do yoga, I can’t eat salty foods, I can’t lift anything heavy…it’s downright annoying.  I’m not used to having anyone tell me what to do and I don’t like it.  I also don’t like the feeling of not being able to get dinner on the table, or work a 10 hour day.  My normal is 9-10 hours at the office followed by grocery shopping, cooking and serving dinner.  Followed by, at least three times a week, enjoying my husband.  Now I’m told that I can work for 8 hours, but then I immediately need to go home and put my feet up.  No shopping (which is “my” time), no cooking, and no nookie.  I hate this shit.

I would do anything for my daughter, and as I’m being told that following these instructions will protect her I will play along.  I will admit to contemplating loopholes.  Like, if I do pre-natal yoga with all the pregnancy modifications that’s not really working out, is it?  How about a quickie - that can’t do much.  And I have done some cooking.  Well, heating up anyway.  I mean, take aways are sodium-packed, so if  I can’t cook what are we supposed to live on?  Cold cereal and anything Josh can put together?  This kid will just have to tough it out.

Summer of 2002 I was contacted by a guy from the Speeddating website.  He was attractive in a Dungeons & Dragons player kind of way.  Slightly overweight, long hair in a ponytail, not well-dressed, but somehow geeky and not frumpy in his initial impression.  The geeky thing has always appealed to me, so I began to correspond with him.  When I found out he was getting a PhD in Physics at Johns Hopkins he became that much more attractive to me.  I reasoned, correctly I still think, that it was impossible to have that credential without a certain minimum in intellectual power.  IQ points are definitely hot.  He invited me out for dinner, and I was looking forward to the date.

I drove to his house, we both got in my car, and we went for Indian food.  We finished pretty early, so we decided to go out to a tea house afterwards.  We definitely weren’t ready to say “goodnight”.  He told me that when he saw my picture online he thought I was “cute” but that in person he had decided to upgrade me to “attractive”.  It was flattering, especially because I was really impressed with this guy’s mind.  I was finding him attractive too.  I’m such a sucker for a big brain.

We got back in my car and decided to drive to a nearby park for a walk.  Right.  We walked about 20 yards before jumping each other.  The making out got pretty intense, and it definitely got to the point where I was afraid of horrifying anyone out for a stroll.  I was also a little afraid of getting arrested.  I suggested that we go back to someone’s place so we could do what we wanted without hesitation.  He thought my place would be best as he had roommates, so we got his car, and he followed me for the half-hour drive back to my apartment.  We went straight to bed, and I thought it was a really great time with a smart and interesting guy.  Then, the pillow talk started.

“So, how many guys have you been with?”

“Enough.”

“What’s that mean?”

“More than 3, less than 100.”

“Why those parameters?”

“Well, it’s enough guys that you don’t have to worry that my consent to sex implies anything other than sex, and it’s not so many guys that you should be afraid that I’m about to ask you for money.  It’s somewhere in the middle.”

“I bet I’ve been with more women than you have men.”

“Good for you.  Maybe you have.”

“I’ve been with over 50, if you count oral.”

“Who the fuck counts oral?  You definitely don’t want to know my numbers if I need to count oral.  As a matter of fact, I don’t think I know my numbers counting oral.”

“Right, if that were true, you’d want to tell me about it.”

“This isn’t a competition.  I’m not responding to this line of questioning anymore.”

We talked for another hour before he left, and despite the confrontation portion of the evening I thought it was a really good date.  We made plans for later that week.  He emailed several times, and then I never heard from him again.  Just like that.  I was disappointed at first, but as I thought about it I wondered if it was a viable relationship anyway.  I don’t think I could have wound up with someone who believes in strength in numbers, and who can’t let go of the need to win.

I have come to realize that I have much thicker skin than most people.  Sure, a glance from my mother can send me spinning in a million different directions, but out in the real world I find things to be funny that would make other people cry.  So many pregnant women who contribute to message boards online, and pregnant women I know in person, complain about the “you must have more than one in there” and “wow, you’re getting big” comments.  I’ve made these comments many times myself, and it had never occurred to me that I could be hurting someone’s feelings.  I knew that such a comment, if I were pregnant, would not hurt my feelings, and didn’t process it any further.  I mean, if you’re pregnant, getting big means you’ve got a growing baby in there.  It would be more disturbing to me to stay the same size!

I was right, the “that must be twins” and the “wow, you’ve grown” comments just make me smile.  What I didn’t expect was how much further people would go.  Maybe it’s because the initial comment about size does make me smile and they take that as permission?  Whatever the reason, I’ve heard repeated comments, sometimes from the same person again and again, about how much weight I’ve put on.  Or how large my backside has gotten.  How wide my hips are.  How I’ll never take all of this off after the baby comes.  How they can’t believe I’m eating a bagel.  Or a cookie.  Or (this is my favorite) so much fruit, what with all that sugar.

None of what’s being said to me is accurate in the least.  I’m below the average pregnancy gain, and I’m posting really healthy numbers for blood sugar, blood pressure, etc.  My doctor thinks I’m doing great.  I’m exercising regularly, and I feel good at least most of the time.  Will I have weight to take off after the baby comes?  Umm, yeah, I had weight to take off before I got pregnant so that’s not really a surprise.  But it should definitely be in the “normal” range.  So far, I’m 24 weeks and I’m up 14 lbs.  Yes, I’m hoping I won’t add that much more, and that when I birth the baby it all goes away, but I’m also a realist who knows that I’ll have to diet and exercise.  I also know that my hips haven’t grown a single inch.  I have measuring tape.  Fortunately, I also still have my sense of humor.

The funniest part, without a doubt, is the compliments.  Women know how to give a compliment.  They say “you look so great” or “you’re carrying so well” and I know from where they’re looking when they say it that they’re talking about my size.  Hey, I’ll take the compliment any day.  Then there’s my brother.  He’s really trying to be lovely, and he’s totally supportive, but he can’t hear what he’s saying through my (or, apparently, any woman’s) ears.  Here’s yesterday’s conversation:

“You know, you look more proportionate now that you’re pregnant than you did before.”

“So my stomach has finally gotten big enough to balance out my enormous ass?”

“No, I was trying to say you look great.”

“And what exactly prevented you from saying that?  From saying ‘you look great’?”

“I thought I DID say that.”

We were on a level of disconnect that I could not fix.  I did think it was funny that his intention and my interpretation were so far apart.  Thank goodness for my thick skin.