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Today I woke up at 3AM when my hand hit a wet spot on my shirt. Slightly disturbed to find most of my t-shirt wet, I checked myself for the source of the problem. It was my boobs. They even got the sheets wet. As Rachel was sound asleep, I pumped for a while, and then went back to bed too tired to change into a clean shirt. I guess my body is telling me to either breast-feed or pump more than I have been. What I’m wondering now is what will happen in February when I go back to work. I’m trying to imagine the look on a client’s face if I leak in a meeting. Ugh. One more question for my pediatrician.

I’m not going to say that last Saturday was the first time I’ve fallen asleep at 4:30AM on a couch, with sore nipples, surrounded by empty bottles, with someone else on top of me. Or that, then and now, I wasn’t scared to move for fear of waking the other person. But, I am going to suggest that if I’d been married during a previous instance, my reaction upon hearing my husband walk into the living room would not have been “this is yours. I’m going to bed.”

I weighed Rachel last night, and she is 11.5 lbs. That’s one big seven week old kid. My only complaint is that she always wants to eat. Then again, anyone who can increase her body weight by more than 50% in seven weeks on just milk…well, I suppose she should be hungry. As a result of her hunger, she can’t seem to get to sleep. She struggles against the Miracle Blanket, otherwise known as the baby straight jacket, and the expression on her face says “Can’t sleep. Must. Stay. Up. Food! Where’s the food!” So, I have a baby who can sleep through the night, but can’t get to sleep at night. I’m back on my college sleep schedule of staying up late and waking up early, only I’m about to turn 35, and that just isn’t going to work for me. And her defiance against the straight jacket is working. Most mornings I find her partially, if not entirely, busted out. I’m raising a little Houdini. I’d better start preparing now for her teenage years.

Josh is back to work, and most days I wish I was back to work. This job is way harder than my other one. At this job I take orders from someone who’s younger than me, way shorter than me, and I have no assistant. I still think I’m a very lucky woman to have such a precious girl, but when I go back to the office I’m going to feel like I have nothing to do all day. Still, I’ll miss that face.

I haven’t been writing anything longer than a paragraph lately because I haven’t had enough energy. That can be explained by the best news I’ve ever shared. Rachel Weslee Pitlick. She arrived November 18th. Thanks to a rather smallish head, and what I can only assume is an indomitable will, she came the day before I was scheduled to be induced, after only 6 hrs of labor. She’s healthy, and to my eyes one of the prettiest babies I’ve ever seen. See for yourself. http://www.solidpcs.com/Rachel. She was 20.5 inches and 7 lbs, 6 oz at birth, but at her two week visit to the doctor she was already 21 inches and 8 lbs, 4 oz. Quite a little handful for someone so young. She’s an angel all day, and we’re working on nights. We’re getting there…slowly.

I didn’t know how much I didn’t know. I didn’t know how unconditional my love could be. I spent the majority of the first three days of her life just holding her and looking at her in awe. I automatically wake up minutes before she cries out for food. My body just knows she’ll need me, and even when it hurts to move that’s all that matters. Motherhood is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but when those eyes look up at me, and I feel that petal-soft cheek rub against mine, I know that Rachel is the best part of what Josh and I have together.

I just found out that the sister of an old friend and lover, who I’ll call J.H., was killed by her husband. Even if I did not know this woman, that would be a horrifying story. In this particular case, though I had only met this woman twice, I cared for her a great deal. When she was a teenager - maybe 16 - I put makeup on her and gave her my I.D. so she could sneak into a bar with me. A few years later I spent the day (and the night) with her brother, and witnessed a “fight” between them over the name of their childhood pet. She insisted the bunny was named Thumper. He wouldn’t give up calling the bunny Rambo. I loved her right away.

I was involved, on and off, with J.H. for many years. His family always extended themselves to me, and I loved them for it. I loved him too, sometimes in a messed up way, but I did really care. His family was a bigger part of that than I realized at the time. They were kind, affectionate, and shared my messed up sense of humor. The last time I spoke to J.H. his sister was about to get married. Who could have ever thought it would end like this. I’m sending the family all my love, even though I know they will probably never see this. Just putting it out there into the world will have to be enough. Leah, you will be missed.

Can’t write. Can’t think. Brain obsessed with counting contractions and feeling for “something different” in my cervix. Not that I’m in labor mind you. Oh, that would be too easy. I’ve been having regular whatever they are pains for several weeks now and it could last for several weeks more. It’s a little hard to focus on anything else when I’m constantly looking at a clock trying to figure out if my contractions meet the test for driving to the hospital. Co-workers are joking that they’re going to put a bassinet in my office. Just in case.

When this actually does happen, and it will, I’ll update here asap. There will be a birth story. There will be pictures (of the baby - nothing gross - ick). I’m hoping it’ll be very, very soon.

With four weeks left in my pregnancy (maximum) there is both absolutely no chance that I can think straight, and a million things I want to say. This makes it incredibly difficult to write. My head is spinning with every pivotal moment in my life. I want to write it all down so that I don’t forget what to tell my daughter. I want her to know that it’s okay to be strong and have a broken heart at the same time. That if she tries drugs I’ll understand, but that she really shouldn’t because in the end she’ll either decide they’re not for her and feel stupid about her choice, or she’ll make a lifestyle out of drugs and actually be stupid. That she might love people and hate them at the same time, and that I might be one of them. That someday she will do something, whatever it is, that she will regret…and that’s just a part of life.

I’ve always wanted a child, and always pictured myself having a little girl. It’s the mini-me concept. I see myself raising someone just like me only with a completely unwritten path in front of her. Of course, I’ve recently realized that I could be completely wrong. My daughter could turn out to be nothing like me, and nothing like Josh. I grew up in a family where we are, for the most part, all exactly alike. There are some differences in personality style, but basically we think about the world with one vision. My husband grew up in a family where everyone has very distinct personalities, and important differences, but still only one set of values. What if that isn’t how this turns out? What if I raise someone who I can’t relate to. It does happen. I hear people talk about their parents as these lovely people who they care about but barely talk to. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. Even on days I can’t stand my parents I call them to talk about it.

This little person growing inside of me, whose squirmings have turned into distinct efforts to get out and know the world, will soon be here and my life will change forever. I couldn’t possibly be more scared and excited. The joyous vision I have always had in my head of the kind of parent I will be is about to explode. Now I’m just hoping to fuck it up as little as possible. As Chris Rock says, your only goal is to keep your daughter off a pole - if she’s on a pole wearing clear heels you’ve failed as a parent. I’ll admit I want a little more than that out of my parenting, but basically that’s the idea. I’m taking it in baby steps. First goal, figure out how to feed, change and bathe my child. Second goal, figure out how to get my child to sleep. From there I’m going to make it up as I go along.

It’s this funny quirk of mine that on the one hand I have the ability to lie without blinking, and on the other hand I’m morally opposed to telling a lie. It really does depend on the situation. In personal relationships I think that lies are wrong, and will go to great lengths to avoid them. In pricing negotiations however, I have no such hesitation. I see “lies” as a way to even the playing field.

Baby stores, car dealerships, and similar places of ill-repute always have the upper hand on their customers. They’re negotiating with all the facts. They know what their cost was for the item, what the average customer is paying, and tricks of the trade to convince you that you must buy this item. Now. At retail. So, if I come in and tell lies, it’s without regret. Do I have a coupon? Of course. Oh no, how did I manage to leave it out of my purse today. You wouldn’t make a pregnant woman drive all the way home for a coupon would you? Sure I can bring it next weekend - right after I call customer service, add myself to the mailing list, then call back and insist that my old coupon was lost in the mail so another one needs to be sent out to me asap. Oh right, that’s the part I lie about. I don’t tell them the last bit. See, if I didn’t tell this lie I’d be paying way more money, and for an item that another couple may get for even cheaper still. For an item that will still make the company I bought it from, and the salesperson who sold it to me, a bunch of profit. I see this as a tactic more than a lie. No guilt, not even a little, and I can look you in the eye while doing it.

The lie I can’t tell is the lie to a friend or family member’s face. The more I care about the person, and the stronger I think the person is, the more blunt I become with the truth. Maybe an aquaintance who is sensitive about her weight will get “I think I’ve seen other things flatter you more” when she tries on something that makes her look fat. But a totally strong close friend who tries on an unflattering top and asks my opinion is going to hear “your arms look big in that; put it back”. And I’d want someone to tell me the same thing back. There’s no excuse for being allowed to walk out of the house looking like a bigger piece of flab than you actually are because someone refused to tell you about the wing-shaped flaps on backfat that you can’t quite see in the mirror.

Okay, but people recover from bad fashion decisions. My entire wardrobe from the 90’s proves it. There are other decisions that aren’t as easy to let slip by, and aren’t quite as reversable (though no one can ever erase the sight of me in a baby-t from their brain). There are decisions that impact the direction of an entire career, or an entire marriage. One small moment can ripple out. These are the moments when I definitely say what I think. Sometimes it’s hard to hear. I think most people in the world, when you tell them about something or someone that’s making you upset, immediately rush in to say “it’s not your fault”. I do the exact opposite and try to find the parts of it that ARE your fault. This isn’t mean-spirited, it’s actually the only way to solve the problem. If nothing is ever your fault, then you have no ability to fix anything. By seeing how you contribute to your destiny you are better able to steer. Ego coddling may pump up the person’s spirits, but then what.

There’s another advantage to my blunt approach, and it’s easy to forget about this one. When I give a compliment, I mean it. Someone who is always worried about hurting other people’s feelings to the point of masking her own is hardly trustworthy when giving any feedback. My feedback is always real. Always. I’m shocked at how few people realize this about me, and see my bluntness as only applying to critiques. No, it’s universal. I mean what I say.

I had a friend in college who said that I was her way of filtering out the weak. If someone could take my personality then she knew how strong that person really was. At the time I don’t think I understood that comment, but now I think I do. I guess it takes a lot of inner confidence to hear the truth.

As I’m sitting here at my desk, my daughter-to-be is wiggling inside of me. Thirty-nine more days til I’m due. Thirty-nine days, at most, til I get to meet this little girl who will both love me and rebel against me, but who I will always just love.

When I got pregnant I was only looking forward to this, but now I’m scared to death. The pregnancy has been uncomfortable. Every morning and every night I change the pad in my underwear so that I don’t pee on myself when I cough, or sneeze, or laugh, or turn to the side. I used to be able to reach every part of my body, even the middle of my back (okay, not my elbows), with both hands. Now I’m lucky if I can reach most parts with one. Damn my short arms! And why didn’t someone tell me to buy a few pregnancy clothes up a size? I believed Ann Taylor when she told me to buy everything in my regular clothing size with “maternity” at the end. Ha!

Still, none of that is such a big deal next to the enormous joy of having a child. I wish I could be one of those women who says how much she loves being pregnant, but I’ll settle for being someone who loves the end result. Even though I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me learning to be a mom, I’m excited. Marriage has been a very good thing so far, and I keep telling myself that the strength of that relationship will be the foundation of our newly expanded family. So, I guess it’s just about time to bring on the baby! I’m still reserving the right to be absolutely scared of fucking this up beyond belief and having to pay for the therapy bill later.

Love is simultaneously being annoyed with someone and knowing that he is the most important person in your world. It is having and holding and finding both insufficient to express how much you care. Not knowing where your own needs and the needs of the other person stop and start because there is only one true need, and it is the one you share. Love is judging your partner only by what he is capable of instead of against some objective ideal, and being grateful when you get his very best no matter how lame his best may be. It means that when you’re apart whether for a few hours at work or a few days on a weekend trip, the best part of the apart time is coming back together and telling each other everything that happened. It’s thinking the same thing at the same time, not because you’re so much alike but because you see and hear and experience everything together in one collective memory that informs everything new you encounter. Love is knowing you could live without the person if you had to, but not being able to imagine doing it by choice. It’s the glue that sticks you, not to each other, but to a meaningful life in general.

I always look forward to Jewish holidays for family and food. Normally I’m pretty committed to getting to services as well. Not so much this year. The thought of getting more sleep was far more compelling than the thought of getting to services on time. Or even on time by “Jewish Standard Time” reckoning. Once at services, all I could think was “why don’t they blow in more air conditioning? Are they trying to kill all the pregnant people?” I didn’t have half the stamina I usually do.

At dinner “we” tend to “debate” politics. By “debate” I mean that a large group of well-educated liberal Democrats sit around a table and yell at each other in agreement for two hours. By “we” I mean everyone except for my husband. Josh does not participate when politics are on the table instead of brisket. I knew I married him for a good reason.

Since I couldn’t travel up to New Jersey to see my parents, they made an effort to come to DC to see me. I was a little worried about the visit. The last time I saw my parents they hit me with such force about my weight, blood pressure, health, health of my baby, etc that my body couldn’t take anymore and I wound up in the hospital with contractions. This time I promised myself that no matter what was said I’d find a way to deflect the comments as a sad representation of what my parents are, as opposed to an attack on me.

Fortunately everyone behaved themselves. What I could see they wanted to say was almost nearly never said. And, let’s face it, even though I actually can read their minds it’s better to be able to assume that I could be wrong about their opinion of my flab than have them tell me and erase all doubt. They were so close to leaving. I thought I was safe. It was 1PM, Sunday afternoon and we were all saying our final goodbyes. Then my father says “so you’ll have this baby, and then we’ll address what you need to do for yourself.” It wasn’t the worst thing he could have said - far from it - but it did let me know that he misses the point.

I held my dad by the upper arm and said “look at me. I know you love me. I know you only say what you do because you love me. But really Dad, there’s no “we”. There’s just me. I’m the only one in this body. I’ll do what I have to for myself. If you keep commenting like this, you’re going to kill me.” Then we hugged it out.

I don’t think he understood what I was saying, or why I needed to say it, but he did actually hear the words come out of my mouth. When I repeated the interaction to Josh he said “if there’s any “we” here, it’s you and me, not you and your Dad.” I agree with that. Josh is the man who’s in my life every day, and whose unconditional love doesn’t come with the baggage of my youth. His skewed image of my body makes me more attractive than I am - and while that doesn’t help me with my weight it does help me with my self-esteem.

Most importantly, first I have to have this baby. Everything else will come later. It just has to.