Is Life Like a Standardized Test?

When I first became pregnant, I proudly refused to write a birth plan. People have enough trouble planning their bowel movements; why would I try to plan a longer and more complicated process? The futility of planning the unplannable boggled my mind.

I didn't mind the idea of a natural childbirth, but I didn't mind the idea of an epidural, either, and I found the thought of a C-section only minimally frightening. I have an experienced and progressive doctor, and my hospital has the best labor, delivery, and neonatal professionals in the city. I ask a lot of questions, but they don't stem from distrust.

Nonetheless, the more I learned about epidurals, the less I wanted one, partly because of the risks but mostly because it would restrict my autonomy without guaranteeing an absence of discomfort. If I'm uncomfortable, the last thing I want is to be confined to a bed.

So I started preparing. We pumped up my husband's old exercise ball. I found an inexpensive beanbag chair. I bought my first iPod, a refurbished Nano from 2007. We hired a doula, something I never thought I'd do. When we toured the hospital, I examined the delivery room with a careful eye and asked if they all had thermostats. Indeed, I was trying to control as much of my environment as possible. But the hospital is not my environment, and while the staff are accommodating and the rooms are nice, I will not have total control, even when I'm moving autonomously.

I can only prepare so much.

More than a decade ago, I devoted hours of my time to preparing for the GRE. First, I studied from books. Then, I practiced on free software in my dorm room. After that, I practiced on a different brand of software in my college's career center.

I went through a ton of scratch paper.

I knew that the software in the testing lab would differ from the practice software; the lighting might be weird; the computer might suck; I might have to adjust the height of the monitor and maybe the sensitivity of the mouse. I dressed in layers.

The testing lab was attached to the back of a small office, which housed its gatekeeper: a gruff, middle-aged man with a greying, overgrown beard. He gave me five sheets of scratch paper, stapled together.

I asked for more paper.

"I can only give you five sheets at a time."

"What?!"

"You won't need more than that."

I was ready to deal with weird lighting, fluctuating temperatures, crappy computers, poor ergonomics, and unfamiliar text formatting. I had not prepared for some jerk to tell me that I would have to waste precious seconds of a timed test requesting more paper! I knew I would need every spare second and way more than five sheets of paper. I had practiced. I was prepared.

But we can only prepare so much.

I nervously chose my computer, adjusted the monitor, and assessed the temperature of the room. I began my test.

At the time, the GRE consisted of three sections: verbal, mathematical, and analytical. Each section was divided into randomized subsections, so we could get a verbal subsection, followed by a mathematical one, followed by another verbal one, and so on. The order was nearly unpredictable, and each subsection required a different amount of scratch paper.

Between each subsection was a short break, maybe a minute or two. I had hoped to spend those breaks collecting my thoughts. Instead, I spent them begging for paper.

I had used less than a quarter sheet on the first subsection, but I returned to the troll bridge, five pages in hand.

"You hardly used any!" the gruff gatekeeper said.

"I can only have five sheets. Eventually, I'll need all of them."

He slowly stapled five more sheets as I quietly panicked. The breaks between subsections were very short, and I feared the test would start again without me.

After the second subsection, I asked for another five sheets.

"You only used one!" he said.

I looked at the clock and back at my antagonist, my face bearing the urgency of a person in need of a toilet. He slowly handed me five more sheets.

I returned from the third subsection with my five sheets, unstapled, every white space covered in scrawl. "Told you so," I said.

Despite the fact that none of my GRE practice tests simulated a scratch-paper limit or a human antagonist, I did just fine, partly because I had practiced enough to know how much paper I'd need. But dealing with the surprise limitations was not pleasant.

Even more than the GRE, childbirth is full of unknowns, and some of them will be difficult and frustrating and impossible to control, but as my GRE practice sessions taught me, preparation might help me adapt to the things I cannot change.

Safety Maven

"You're traveling?"

It was the middle of my second trimester. My husband and I had plane tickets to visit a friend halfway across the country. I could either make the trip without telling my mom, which seemed deceptive despite years of financial independence, or let her know so she'd be in the loop.

Telling her, I realized, was an invitation to worry, but she might be more upset if I didn't tell her. So I told her.

"You're traveling?"

"It's perfectly okay to travel in my second trimester. The most alarmist pregnancy literature says it's safe. My doctor says it's safe."

"You're going to be so uncomfortable. When I traveled six weeks before you were born, for a funeral, by the way, my ankles swelled up so much that I ran for the gate."

"The baby's not due any time soon."

"What if you have the baby while you're away? Wouldn't you rather have the baby in town?"

"If I have the baby while I'm away, it will probably die. I won't be that far along."

"The airplane is full of germs! You'll be in an enclosed area!"

Ugh. Maybe I shouldn't have told her. Yes, she cares about the baby and me--a very good thing--but a person can care without acting irrationally. Eventually, I figured out a reasonable series of counterarguments.

"It's a good thing I don't live in New York," I said. My mom spent the first part of her life in New York City.

"The subway's an enclosed area, underground. How often do they clean the cars? And the tunnels are full of vermin!"

"But the metal detectors!"

"Good thing I'm not taking the train to Washington, D.C., to visit our national monuments. And it's a good thing I don't work at one of our national monuments! I'd have to pass through those metal detectors all the time."

"Those body scanners are worse."

"So I'll get a pat-down."

"Are you going to an international airport?" she asked, inquiring about foreign diseases.

"At least I don't work in Midtown. It's full of Asian tourists, and they all have SARS!"

She laughed and said I should do comedy for a living. I promised to write down our conversation, and I finally did, months after it occurred. Maybe this is my version of nesting.

But that's not the whole story. 

The day before our departure, I had really bad heartburn. In the midst of a late dinner, I threw up, only the fourth time in my whole pregnancy. Neither symptom disturbed me.

The next morning, less than twelve hours before our 6 pm flight, I woke up to spots on the skin around my eyes. That freaked me out. What if my mom was right, and something horrible would happen on this trip?

Fortunately, the doctor squeezed me in for a midday appointment. Apparently, throwing up can break blood vessels if you hurl hard enough. Of course, I was fine.

I made it through both rounds of airport security without openly referring to George Orwell. We sat in the back of the plane on our departing journey, but my seat did not recline all the way. I was very uncomfortable, but that was the worst part of our whole trip.

In Search of Names

Help us find a name! Two names, really, since we don't know the baby's sex.

 

Seriously, two names. If you suggest the same name for both, you're doing it wrong.

See my requirements and deal-breakers below; I cannot attest to my husband's. 

See how my list is mostly deal-breakers?

At least I made it cute and colorful, an unnecessary and perhaps aesthetically atrocious decision, but I am pregnant and can get away with murder.

Also, given my track record, I might totally hate the name you suggest. I might even stick out my tongue and make a gagging sound when I see it.

Have fun...if you dare.

EasyToSpellAndPronounceButNotTooCommonAndNotASurname

NeitherACityNorCountryNorStateNorProvinceNorATopographicalFeature

OrEvenAFruit

GenderSpecificButNotTooMasculineOrTooFeminine 

InappropriateForAStripperAndTooNonThreateningToBeASerialKiller 

NeitherAnAdolescentCrushNorAChildhoodNuisance

IWentToAVeryBigSchoolByTheWaySoGoodLuckWithThose

NotALivingRelativeAndMyHusbandHasAHugeFamily

ConstitutesMeaninglessInitialsOrInterestingOnes

ButTheFirstTwoCannotBeBSBecauseThatWouldNotFlyInAcademia 

AndItCannotBeTheFullNameOfAFamousPerson  

Pregnancy Rage, Second-Trimester Edition: Or, after babbling for hundreds of words, I tell you how I got my money back.

Early this morning, I dreamed that I drove a school bus full of people off of a flyover. It's a variation on a recurring dream I've had for years.

My clock radio is on NPR.

First, I heard about a forced, late-term abortion in China. It sounds even worse when you're pregnant.

Second, I heard that the New York Giants' pitcher threw a perfect game against my hometown baseball team. As far as I'm concerned, Houston teams are more famous for spectacular losses than spectacular wins.

Fun facts:

• The Astros made an early appearance at the World Series in the 1977 TV movie, Murder at the World Series, a film so unimportant that it is no longer on imdb.com.  You can see the cached entry here.

• In 2000, they moved from the Astrodome to Enron Field. I consider the Enron association a loss by proxy. 

• The Astros made it to an actual World Series in 2005. They were shut out.

• The Oilers have a Wikipedia entry devoted to their 1993 playoff loss. Apparently it's called "The Comeback." History's always written by the winner.

• They made it to the Super Bowl shortly after they changed their name to the Tennessee Titans. Of course, they lost.

• The Rockets won two consecutive World Championships. Back then, I heard that they owed their success to Michael Jordan's retirement.

• The Texans had a brief musical relationship with Chad Kroeger of Nickelback. 

One great thing about pregnancy is that I get away with murder: this is not a sports blog, and that was a very long tangent. Now, back to the things that enraged me.

I got to work and grabbed my yogurt from the refrigerator.

• Fun fact: I'm increasing my dairy intake to benefit my calcium stores. Apparently, the baby takes all it needs, and I get what's left. Darling parasite.

I could not open my yogurt; the foil was off-center and held fast to the plastic.

The tiny extremity of the foil tab came off in my hands.

I grabbed a knife and started cutting. Of course, I made a mess.

I rinsed my hands and pulled a napkin from the dispenser. The napkin disintegrated.

I hoped that those few minutes would be the worst of my day, realizing that it already paled in comparison to what that poor lady in China went through. I still can't imagine....

I wanted a donut, but there were none. Remember this. It is important information.

I checked my email: more problems, all boring to everyone but my coworkers and me, so I will not enumerate them.

On a coffee break, someone in my periphery bumped into the table where my coffee-and-milk sat steaming. Some of my coffee spilled. I gave my mug, and the room, an awful death glare. While I never located the culprit, I think I scared the person with whom I was speaking. I chalked it up to pregnancy rage. Since she doesn't have kids, I don't think she understood. I wouldn't have understood, either.

A network-server error inspired me to take an early lunch.

I went to a nearby donut shop. The clerk, having just slipped on the wet floor in the kitchen, limped to the register. She, too, was having a worse day than I.

I bought a dozen and a half donuts to share with the people who listened to me complain this morning, plus the unintended victim of my death glare and some other friends, too.

I sent out the email and bit into my long-awaited donut. It was stale, like a day-old slice of bread. I've eaten day-old donuts, and they were never that awful, so in retrospect, my batch might have missed the second rise and baked for too long. For simplicity, let's just say it was stale.

Most of my work-friends called them stale, but they were hungry, and some came back for seconds.

At 5:20 in the evening, three donuts remained in the larger of the two boxes. I took them with me, all the way back to the donut shop, where I spoke with an unfamiliar, quiet-voiced clerk.

"I bought these around noon today, and they are stale. I want my money back."

"You bought these today?" 

"This is a representative sample. Take a bite. They're stale."

She shook her head. "Where are the other donuts?"

"Should I have put the half-eaten donuts back in the box?"

"Yes," she said, nodding.

"These are awful. Have a bite."

She shook her head.

"Look at the reviews on Yelp. Lots of people say your donuts are stale. You guys have to fix whatever you're doing."

"I'll talk to my manager later. I need to talk to him, anyway. Where are the other six?"

"Someone said that one of the Boston Cremes was a little stale. I got no complaints about the cake donuts. But I want all of my money back because I had to schlep out here. Here's my receipt."

She looked at the timestamp. "Ohh, you bought these today. Fresh?"

I got my money back. I cannot entirely attribute the outcome to pregnancy rage. Feeling ripped off and asking for my money back is not out-of-character, but my level of aggression toward an innocent party, not quite expressed in this account, was very out-of-character.

Tomorrow, I'll bring in make-up donuts from another shop. Gestational diabetes, here I come!

Pie Crust #4, a.k.a., Chocolate Pie #4

Ten Signs I Suddenly Entered My Second Trimester

1. Exercising for an hour without thinking, "I am going to die."
2. Coming home awake at 9 pm, ready to empty the Dishwasher of Doom, clean the counter tops, freeze two batches of Campari-citrus sorbet, and roll and blind-bake four pie crusts.
• Fun fact: I'm pretty inexperienced with pie crusts, so the probability of frustration was high.
3. Watching, fascinated, and without screaming, as cheap ice-cream-maker #1 fails to freeze its batch of sorbet and cheap ice-cream-maker #2 freezes but subsequently melts its batch.  
• Fun facts: at the times of measurement, the sorbet was about a degree cooler in cheap ice-cream-maker #2, and the base of cheap ice-cream-maker #2 was a degree-and-a-half cooler than the base of ice-cream maker #1.  The two motors spun the cooling vessels at the same speed.
4. Not caring that I won't eat the proto-sorbet once it leaves the freezer.
5. Calmly realizing that one of my mother-in-law's homegrown summer squash, obtained only two days prior, had rotted and leaked. 
• Fun fact: during my first trimester, I would have raged at the squash over its non-compliance.
6. Producing two shrunken pie crusts and one doughy, shrunken pie crust, all with minimal complaint.
7. Setting off the smoke detector without lamenting the other inconveniences of the previous two hours.
8. Accepting the reality that uploading a photo of pie-crust #4, an attractive specimen, will have to wait until my cell phone decides to stop roaming.
• Fun fact: I am at home, where my phone should not roam.
9. It's 1:53 am, I am still awake, and I think I have two more hours in me.
10. I look a little bit fat.

Maybe this belongs in the "Tiny Fists of Rage" blog.

My life is wonderful.
I'm incredibly lucky in almost every way.
Here's a bulleted list of things I hate.

• The dishwasher, still.  
• Sticky and powdery things are its kryptonite.
• Our dark, narrow cabinets.  
• I shattered the glass lid of a casserole dish by forcing a salad spinner onto the bottom shelf. 
• I guess the salad spinner won?
• Home-decorating shows. 
• Our house decorates itself. 
• I don't need some lady from North Carolina telling me what looks good. 
• I'm sure that lady disagrees.
• Nearly all nineteen-eighties pop music.  
• I've always hated it, but now I really hate it.
• The ubiquity of aioli.
• Raw eggs! 
• Raw eggs!
• Other people's baby names.
• Some of the baby names I thought I liked.
• The fact that I've started to like names I thought I disliked.
• Posting a list of complaints when my life is very good.

And now, a bit of what I like:

• Ingenuity.  
• I retrieved the glass fragments from the back of our lowest kitchen-cabinet shelf with
• a flashlight
• a cookie spatula
• a frying pan
• a dustbuster.
• Refined sugar, for its medicinal properties.
• My husband, who laughs off my rage.
• Even when he's temporarily out of underwear.  
• I think the dryer's done now.