Living on a Question

I’m a pretty talkative person. My family would probably tell you that I don’t shut up. This is probably true when it comes to those I am the closest with but I am not a "tell my life story to a stranger" kinda gal.

When I was pregnant with Rylee it was really hard to get around this. My nickname was “beanpole” growing up or the clever play on my maiden name,  “where’s your butt Werner?” Pregnant, I looked extremely pregnant even in my second trimester. Going through something that pretty much everyone can relate to, coincidently brought on a thousand questions from strangers.

At this particular state in my life, I worked part-time at a friend’s store: a woman’s boutique shop. The questions were always the same and in the exact same order:

How many months are you?

Is it a boy or a girl?

Are you thinking of names?

I seriously thought of making a fill in the blank maternity shirt. (A poet has to make money somehow, right?) I tried to turn conversations away from the seedling in my belly… “The last book I read was” or “There is supposed to be a storm today” or “So…Mitt Romney?” No matter how hard I tried, their eyes would wander on my stomach. On a few rare occasions, some even tried to go for a rub. (I am not The Buddha; I will not bring you luck.)

In the hospital, I thought about the new presence in my life. The new space she would fill and how exciting this was. I coincidently, thought about how my stomach would shrink (hopefully) and people would see me as an individual again. But questions remained and they turned to:

How old is she?

Boy or a girl?

What a cuttieee.

  

I started to expect people to talk about the little girl attached to my hip. After all, she is the creation I am the most proud of. If I am standing in line at CVS and you don’t look over my shoulder to see my sidekick lounging in her stroller, I’ll think you are heartless. Ok, maybe not.

One of my very very best friends is pregnant. While I told myself I wouldn’t smother her with questions about the pregnancy, I realized it is almost impossible. I’ve begun to realize that we ask questions to share an experience that changes everything. It frustrates you, blows your mind, and fills you with love like never before. And when you know someone else has the privilege of experiencing this, you want to ask.

What I decided to do was ask the different questions. I had one friend who asked me the good questions during my pregnancy: Are you getting sharp pains down there? It’s weird right? Eat a lot of ice cream! Brute honest questions helped me find reality. After all, we don’t live on a rainbow. We live in a place where people read books, hurricanes take out an entire city of families, and where voting matters.

Good questions, then, are vital.

Since the day my friend began trying to become impregnated and during my last few months of pregnancy with Rylee, we’ve openly discussed the wild process of pregnancy and motherhood. For the sake of art and openness, here are the questions (verbatim) that have emerged from the last four months:

 
                                 How’s the sexin’ going?
(Insert picture of app with lots of “hearts” indicating sexin’ was happening just fine)     
                               Wow…is your bed still on its feet?


Want to go out for Nutella Creeps?
Damn *Crepes
                               I would prefer creeps.


                              Any word from your Aunt Flo?
Nope J
(Insert picture of recently peed on preg stick…POSITIVE)
                              lerekjd,mdsvlsdvksdoigsdoghsdg


                                How is hubby responding?
He is high-fiving me.


Did you have a c-section? Baby doesn’t have a cone head to be a vagina baby.
                                 Haha. Vagina Baby all the way.

Holy Fucking Nauseous ness.
                              Yay. Go Baby! P.S. I got a breast infection.

Hey, how’s your boob?
                           Much better. How’s the pukes?


                              How are the dreams?
Sex dreams?
                               Haha. No. Well sure. Vivid dreams when preggs.


(Insert sonogram pic)
                              dfhsdflsdfpsdjfdspgjtyerihwefsdf


Can I eat a hot dog?
                               ……

 
                             How’s the little human?
I’ve popped blood vessels in my face from puking.
 
 
And …my favorite from this morning…
 
Any remedies to help with this preg constipation?
 

And a few hours later….
                                        Did you poop?
 

I should have made the title of this post, “Did you poop?” It’s a personal question, yes. A question perhaps you shouldn’t ask a pregnant woman you meet on line at CVS. “Did you poop?” is a question that emanates concern, interest and sincerity of someone’s condition.

Life needs questions. My challenge for you today: ask someone you care about a real question. One that matters; it doesn’t have to be about poop.

For realz,

A