Author: catherinemryan

This week, which marks the beginning of my third trimester, has sent me a clear message: Our baby will cry, for good and unreasonable reasons alike, and often there will be little we can do about it.

The other day I came across an article in The Oregonian in the back of a coworker’s car. Tears and an ear-piercing wail are the baby’s best way to communicate and get what it wants—food, comfort, a dry diaper. That part is intuitive.

And it turns out that expecting an infant to cry it out simply won’t work because his brain is “the most neurologically immature of all the earth’s primates,” the author writes. I learned that even babies born at 40 weeks, full-term, are only functioning at a quarter capacity in terms of their brain. Neurons are there, but the synapses—the connections between brain cells—haven’t formed yet.

And how we respond to an infant’s cries can help form those connections for the better. Even when you’re bouncing and shushing and humming to no avail, “the infant is getting this message: Even when no one can figure out why I’m crying, they love me enough to stick it out with me.”

Of course, this crying doesn’t end with the culmination of the so-called fourth trimester, the first few months of a child’s life. I laughed at the random and completely irrational explanations why a little boy was captured throwing a fit in the pithy Tumblr Reasons My Son Is Crying. (“We wouldn’t let him drink whisky.” “We wouldn’t let him open the hotel door and run naked through Times Square.” “I wouldn’t let him drown in this pond.”)

I laugh realizing that our time will come, too. There will be plenty of moments when Peeper’s onslaught of tears will come from reasons so ridiculous (“The milk isn’t juice”) that humor will be the only way to stay sane.

Now if only we can remember that when we’re sleep deprived and half-deaf from the screaming in our ears.

I’ve been reading aloud to Peeper on and off for the last trimester or so. I picked one of my favorite young adult books, Hounds of the Morrigan by Pat O’Shea, which tells of two young Irish protagonists who embark on an adventure to prevent the Great Queen from destroying everything good in the world.

Although Peeper probably isn’t picking up on the plot (even with my laughable attempts at an Irish accent), our baby can hear me—and may even learn the rhythms of this particular book. A now-famous study by the University of South Carolina’s Anthony DeCasper found that when mothers read Dr. Seuss books to their babies in utero, their children later preferred the sounds of Seussian silliness to other kids’ books.

The fact that Peeper will learn to recognize my voice is reason enough for me to read out loud—even if I probably sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher, according to a Penn State psychologist. But the roots of my reading extend further than science.

I’ve been looking forward to reading to my kids ever since I decided I wanted to have a family. My parents read to me growing up, but the strongest memories I have are of Beth, my older sister, reading to me and my younger sister, Amy.

She started a tradition during the summer when I was about 12. Our mom had just been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, and my world had been turned inside-out. One day, Beth suggested reading to us while Amy and I cleaned our room (probably as a way to get us to undertake the detested chore). We picked up clothes and toys as Beth began reading The Hobbit.

I lost myself in Tolkien’s tale. Sure, it was a welcome distraction from taming the disaster area of our room. On a deeper level, though, I think the fantasy provided a much-needed escape from the horrors of chemotherapy, surgery and the uncertainty that my mom could die.

Beth continued reading to us even after the end of Bilbo’s quest, and after my mom was finally declared cancer-free. We tore through The Princess Bride, The Last Unicorn, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and my beloved Hounds of the Morrigan, among a whole shelf of others. Later, we read all seven Harry Potter books aloud—including one over Skype when Beth lived in Singapore and Amy and I lived on opposite coasts of the US.

So now, before I go to sleep, and especially if I’m stressed, I’ll crack open Pat O’Shea’s novel and read a few pages to Peeper. The practice won’t turn him or her into a baby Einstein, as some products claim to do. But perhaps it’ll provide some comfort and spark a later love of stories. I can’t imagine a better gift.

As I type this, I’m distracted by my green, pink and yellow fingertips. I easily get impatient with those metal dippers that come in a Paas pack, so at Easter, the eggs aren’t the only things that end up dyed.

I spent a sunny Easter morning with friends, and the hostess’s 5-year-old daughter, Aria, and I got some quality time in decorating eggs. It was one of my favorite activities as a kid, so I was happy that my enthusiasm matched Aria’s.

The day also got me to thinking that this is our last Easter without children. Granted, it hasn’t been a particularly important holiday for me and Eric, but I have a feeling it’ll become more central once a little one’s around to delight in the Easter bunny and chocolate eggs. As a colleague wrote to me, “While it may be difficult to imagine on a day like today, every Easter from here on will be brighter, more colorful and even more full of joy (albeit not always as serenely quiet).”

When we have our own family, we’ll get to start traditions or continue the ones we’ve inherited from family. When I was growing up, my mom would hide our baskets around the house. So to get our plastic grass-filled baskets, we’d scour the closets and pantry and even the oven. I loved the search and the reward (Peeps!) in the morning—something I hope to pass along to our tiny one.

Traditions can start later, too. When we lived in Berkeley, a small group of us threw an Easter party, intending to finish with a game of croquet on the lawn. The weather rained out that plan—but not to be deterred, we simply brought the game inside. We smacked the brightly colored balls around household obstacles like garbage cans and table legs to hit improvised wickets—in this case, post-it notes.

That afternoon was so fun that we began a Friday croquet league all through the spring (though we moved it outdoors), and memories of our silly and smack-talking croquet matches remain some of my favorites from our time in California.

With holidays being a blank slate for our soon-to-arrive Peeper, the possibilities are exciting. We get to shape the rituals that Peeper will look back on years from now. The beauty of choosing how to observe a holiday lies in blending treasured family traditions, recently adopted activities and the new practices that will surely pop up once the kiddo joins us.

I wonder—what are your favorite holiday traditions? Which ones do you want to pass to your family, and which ones could you do without?

Actresses like Emily Deschanel and Alicia Silverstone are catching flak for steering clear of the moms-to-be stereotype of pickles-and-ice-cream cravings, or at least the ice cream part. They are among the celebs who don’t give up a vegan lifestyle once there’s a baby on board.

“A woman’s body—and what she puts into it—are generally regarded as fair game for public speculation. Throw in a fetus and it’s open season,” writes Mary Elizabeth Williams on Salon.com. Both vegan and veggie women in the spotlight are criticized for endangering the life of their unborn child by avoiding animal products or meat.

Many people have asked if I’m sticking to a vegetarian diet in my pregnancy, which I am. Thankfully, I haven’t had to confront the kind of vitriolic judgment veggie or vegan pregnant celebrities have; most friends are supportive.

(An exception: When I spent most of my days in the first trimester trying not to puke, my brother blamed it on the lack of meat. “Baby wants steak,” he told me. But he was joking. I think.)

When I asked, my midwife concurred with researchers and doctors: A vegetarian diet is perfectly safe for a developing baby, as long as you are careful—just as meat-eaters have to be. I get plenty of protein and probably more of the important vitamins and other nutrients baby needs. (And, for the record, little ones can do just fine on meatless meals, too, according to the American Academy of Pediatrics. Eric and I haven’t decided what will be off-limits for Peeper yet.)

I’ve been lucky that my cravings and aversions have (mostly) kept me on the straight and narrow. Before morning sickness really hit, all I wanted was salad. I’d make a big one with all the fixings—pear, tomato, cuke, bell pepper, strawberry, red onion, nuts, topped with this amazing dressing, which tastes a lot like Yumm sauce—and end up eating the. Entire. Thing. It got to the point where my brother-in-law suggested we name baby Kale. (Mmm. Kale.)

More recently, my veg cravings are back (among the occasional “need” for fries or a milkshake). My favorite is a lettuce-less salad of avocado, bell pepper, cucumber, onion and tomato drizzled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Try it tonight—I promise you’ll love it, whether you’re carnivorous or not.

I’m fortunate, too, that I live in a place where no one startles when I tell them I’m vegetarian (or am seeing a midwife instead of an OB, or that I plan to give birth without medication). In many places in the country, it’s much more difficult to get by with an “alternative” lifestyle. So I’ll keep fixing my salads, keeping Baby Kale nourished and enduring the relentless stream of Portlandia jokes. That I can do all this in relative peace is just one more benefit of not being famous, I guess!

If I had a dollar for every time I heard a reference about that scene in Alien, we wouldn’t have to worry about the sticker price for off-road strollers or non-VOC crib mattresses. Yet the Ridley Scott horror clip has become curiously appropriate now that we can see Peeper kicking and practicing backflips in utero.

A few nights ago Eric was waiting with his hand on my belly (Peeper had turned shy and still the last few times he’d tried it) when he noticed he could feel where the baby was—in this case, all the way to my right side. I lifted my shirt up to see and that’s when our cage fighter-in-training  pulled its best xenomorph impersonation.

The undulations and jabs beneath my skin were mesmerizing. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Now whenever Peeper’s having a particularly active few minutes, I try to sneak a peek.

Eric is still feeling the effects of my bump’s resemblance to the Alien scene, though. “I could watch this all day, but it kind of creeps me out,” he said.

Sure—but in an amazing way.

Here’s hoping Alien-Peeper and I have a better outcome than the crew of the Nostromo.

A few weekends ago, my mom hosted a baby shower for me in Eugene, my hometown. Before I drove down with my mother-in-law, who was visiting from Michigan, she checked out my outfit. Thankfully, it passed the bump test by showing and not covering my then-22-week belly. “Now people will know it’s not a hoax!” she said.

The size of my bump, and how obviously pregnant I am, has turned out to be a topic that’s up for debate since the day I retired my pre-preg jeans.

At one of my recent midwife visits, for example, the midwife said I finally looked pregnant and not just like a skinny girl who ate a giant burrito. (Is that what I looked like before?) Friends scoffed when I pointed out my budding bump. And when my mom saw my first profile shot, from around 19 weeks, she skeptically asked, “Wait, are you sticking out your stomach?”

I was indignant. Of course I was showing! Monumental changes were occurring within me, and surely everyone else could see the outside evidence. Right?

Even stranger, I found myself feeling defensive. When I went in for a massage (a Valentine’s Day present from my husband!), the therapist remarked on how little I was showing. When I lay down on the table, I hoped my belly stuck out under the sheet to demonstrate how wrong the therapist had been.

Why all the need to “prove” my pregnancy? Am I alone in this compulsion? Or do the abundance of bump shots on pregnancy web sites and Facebook hint at a deeper wish to cement our status as pregnant women?

As it turns out, I probably don’t need to worry anymore when I ask the waitress if the Brie is pasteurized and if the Caesar dressing contains raw eggs. (“Does she think I’m a neurotic foodie or can she tell I’m carrying?”) Yesterday, for the first time, a stranger asked me when I was due. I was standing in line at Safeway, waiting to order a sandwich, when the woman behind me singled me out as a mom-to-be. I wasn’t even wearing an empire waist dress or another belly-accentuating outfit.

The conversation was brief. I went back to customizing my sammie, but I felt as if I had crossed some threshold. I am, for all the world to see, going to bring another life into this world. And my bump will precede the rest of me, announcing that I’m going to be a mom.

Yesterday a dear family friend visited Portland with her outgoing two-and-a-half-year-old son, Tai. We went to OMSI, where I hadn’t been since I was not much older than Tai. I remembered pushing buttons to make different part of a model’s nervous and circulatory systems light up, and standing beneath the enormous jaw bone of a shark.

Despite a long line, Tai was delighted with the trip the moment he spied a plane made out of duct tape, a part of the MythBusters exhibit. He was curious about everything, from the virtual reality ride that made all the noise with the pistons and compressed air to the puzzle where you have to fit a square block through the square hole.

I reignited my own open-mouthed wonder at an exhibit on the stages of fetal development. It began with a photo of a newborn that covered one wall; Monica explained that there was a baby in my tummy, too. He pointed to my bump. “Baby,” he said. I melted.

The main exhibit contained actual embryos and fetuses—as well as a few uteruses—from ages four to 32 weeks. I leaned in close to see what Peeper must have looked like back when we called it Appleseed: a tiny speck of a creature. I slowly walked along, imagining our own baby at each stage.

The folks behind me, a father with two children, talked about each step they passed. They guessed at the sex of each fetus and marveled at the miniature fingernails and eyelashes, just as I did. “What’s that coming out of its belly, dad?” the little boy wondered, pointing to the umbilical cord. “That’s what connects the baby to the mother, and when you came out and we cut it, it left behind your bee bo.” (This last bit of kiddie vocab I actually got! It’s a reference to the insanely cute Belly Button Book by Sandra Boynton, whom I apparently must pay close attention to, as I’ve already received three of her board books for Peeper.)

When I got to the fetus at 24 weeks, I was relieved to see it looked decidedly baby-like, not nearly as skinny and (frankly) creepy as the earlier ones. It also looked huge—bigger than a cantaloupe, even—and I tried to wrap my head around a Peeper that size fitting inside me. (No wonder it’s constantly elbowing my insides. Perhaps it’s trying to stretch my uterus to make more room.)

I felt a bit conspicuous as a pregnant woman staring at not-alive fetuses. (Where did the, ah, specimens come from? What happened to their mothers? Gruesome, but it’s science, right?) Really, though, we all fit on that timeline. The kids behind me were maybe at 300 weeks; Tai’s around 170; I’m 1,558 weeks. We’ve just stopped counting in seven-day increments.

And just as I seemed to see into Peeper’s developmental past, I could flash forward when watching Tai. He’s grown so much from the last time I saw him, at Thanksgiving. He knows so many words. And he can throw like a champ now. Yet he still retains the same generosity (offering me pretend oranges and tomatoes from a model fridge at the museum) and enthusiasm (literally dancing in the aisles at Whole Foods in his excitement for lunch) as the first time we met, when he was only weeks into his life with his new adopted family.

So I wonder at where Peeper and I have come from and look forward to the fun he or she will have pushing buttons at the museum. In the meantime, too, I’ll enjoy the now—while marking each Thursday’s graduation into a new week.

Before I was pregnant, I loved hearing the food references to my friends’ developing babies. (A dear friend in California nicknamed her fetus Lentil after a first trimester comparison—charming, no?) And since I’ve been pregnant, I often hear the question, “What fruit are you this week?”

I loved tracking Peeper’s growth from blueberry to raspberry to grape and beyond. Tomorrow, though, I’m 24 weeks—and a cantaloupe.

Kiwis are cute. Pears are charming. Even mangos have an aesthetic appeal. But once you get into melon territory, the only adjective I can think of is big.

I made the mistake a few weeks back of peeking ahead on The Bump’s fetus growth chart. In the third trimester, the produce comparisons get downright scary: acorn squash, pineapple (ouch!), pumpkin, watermelon. Some I might even have to ask for help to haul into my grocery cart these days, considering the near-constant admonishments to not lift too much weight.

In discussing what we had to look forward to veggie-wise, a pregnant friend asked of the pumpkin, “With or without stem?” An important distinction, to be sure.

The one thing that has bugged me about the fruit chart is now a consolation. There’s so much variety in the sizes, it’s been difficult to really imagine what size my baby is at any given time. (Are we talking a Ghanaian mango or one of those dinky, stringy ones from Safeway? If you cut up the banana, would it overwhelm a bowl of cereal or be just enough banana-ness? If I bought the avocado at Whole Foods, would I be charged the extra-large price?) So maybe, I tell myself, a pumpkin might not be so terrifying.

When I was little, my mom would take us to the pumpkin patch, and the deal was that my three siblings and I could get whatever gourd, or gourds, we could carry from the field back to the hay ride.

My older brother was crafty: He’d stash pumpkins in the hood and pouch of his sweatshirt and end up with four or five to carve. I, on the other hand, searched for one perfect for the jack-o-lantern design I’d brainstormed on the ride to the patch. I inevitably ended up trying to carry a big one from the far end of the field. After a few tearful Halloweens when I was terrified I’d be left behind (the hay ride waits for no one!), I wised up and picked an appropriately sized pumpkin.

So, in my imagination (= denial factory), I can edit “pumpkin” down to a manageable one a six-year-old could carry, even if it feels like a record-breaking monstrosity when it eventually comes out.

Perhaps that’ll be my mantra when delivering: While imagining the tiny, quaint decorations a la Thanksgiving cornucopia, I can repeat “Cute gourd that fits on my mantle!” while a jackfruit-sized baby enters the world.