Belly Envy?

[A quick disclaimer: This stunning ultrasound? It's neither Toddler nor Baby.  I'm not that crazy.]

I am clutching my BlackBerry extra tight these days.  Why? A couple of my very best friends are about to go into labor.  One with her first baby and one with her second.  And just as I craved the odd egg sandwich or glazed donut or Tootsie Pop during my latest pregnancy, I find myself salivating for details.  The more, the better.  And maybe it is a bit odd, but I want to know numbers, about dilation and effacement and softening.  I like to hear about contractions -- the Braxton Hicks and the big-time.  I like to hear about what's in the hospital bag. Maybe this isn't so weird?  I'm a writer after all.  I love details.  The more obscure, the better.  I love to see the poetry in the everyday.  

You know what is a bit weird?  That I am envious.  Of the profound fever of anticipation.  Of the glorious mystery.  Of hearing that first primal cry.  Of seeing what the creature looks like for the very first time.  Of changing that first tiny diaper.  Of swinging that car seat over the threshold for the first time and saying, "welcome home, baby."

And six months out from all of this, I wouldn't go back.  So maybe envy is not the right word.  I'm happy to be right where I am. Baby is sitting and babbling and as of today eating (okay, spitting) oatmeal.  Toddler is a sassy spitfire, in love with her sparkly sunglasses and a stone lion on our sidewalk named Steinway.  It doesn't get better than this.

But I guess I am excited for my friends (and sister) and frankly every pregnant woman I see waddling by my Starbucks window.  Because for each of them, in a matter of minutes or hours or days or months, life's best adventure will begin.  Or begin again.  And when I allow myself to dream big (and shouldn't we all?), sure,  I imagine published novels and book signings and good reviews and maybe a motion picture.  But if I squint hard and envision the most beautiful future, I see something more.  I see bellies and births and babies.  

But now, entrenched in this poetic, borderline pretentious, present moment, I will make do with the beckoning buzz of my BlackBerry and the blissfully good news it brings me.

Short and Tweet?

The slow trickle continues.  A few days ago, I sent my Agent the link to this blog.  And held my breath and let those trademark tidal waves of worry buffet me: Is the site too edgy?  Are the topics alienating?  Does anyone care what I have to say?  Thankfully, a response came in short order.  She likes the blog!  Now this is incredible news as she is at the helm of my very rookie literary career.  BUT.  She had a comment.  And said comment was something along these lines: Your posts should be shorter.  People are on Twitter these days and they don't have tolerance for longer essays.  And though a fan of the longer, more meandering, philosophical essay, I knew one thing and knew it immediately: she was right.  And another thing hit me: maybe I should check this Twitter thing out? Perhaps there is no better way to practice spewing exceedingly short and meaningless bits of personal information into the atmosphere? 

Maureen Dowd's Op-Ed To Tweet or Not to Tweet got me thinking that it might behoove me to start tweeting if not just to experience first-hand another seismic shift in technological tectonics.  Is Twitter just the latest and greatest avenue for celebrity chatter and self-aggrandizement?  Is its popularity problematic evidence of society's shrinking attention span? Dowd asked Twitter's founders (whom she deemed quite charming unlike their invention): "Was there anything in your childhood that led you to want to destroy civilization as we know it?"  And they laughed it off.  But is this tweeting thing a laughing matter?  Not sure yet.  But if Oprah and Agent deem life tweetworthy, then maybe, just maybe, I can be convinced.  

How's that for short and tweet?  No, it's not under 140 characters.  But it's a start.

[Okay: indulge this philosophic-meanderer in a few more characters, will you?  An Earth Week Inquiry: Why is it that so many  modern technological toys (think Apple, Mac, BlackBerry, Twitter) are named to conjure natural goodies -- like lush fruits and sweet birds?  Is this meant to distract us from the fact that these are decidedly unnatural gadgets?]

Don't Read This Post

You rebel. Here you are doing what I said not to do.

I got home from jury duty at about 5:30pm and my toddler flung herself on me and I felt like I had been gone for a week (and suddenly I had immediate and intense sympathy for working moms who are gone all day long), but that is not the point of this post.  Well, toddler asked for a Cookie Monster juice box and I'm pretty lax in the nutrition department (as you will learn) so I fetched said box from the fridge.  And I handed it to her and said, "What's the rule?" and she said in her irresistibly singsong voice, "NO SQUEEZING!" which was the correct answer.  And then she took the little box and what did she do?  You guessed it.  She squeezed it.  Hard.

But, suddenly, I had sympathy for my little girl.  Why suddenly?  Because I had a couple moments today where I was explicitly told not to do something and all I wanted to do was that forbidden thing.

Moment One.  The supervisor in the Jury Room was a man named Larry and literally the nicest man in the world and he told us a cautionary tale about how we should under no circumstances use our BlackBerries in the courtroom.  He told us about an ill-mannered sports agent who dared to use his BlackBerry while he was being questioned by the judge and how this terrible man was kicked off the case and ordered to sit in the jury room for a full week.  This story had two effects on me: (uh oh - the list within the list) (1) It made me happy because it underscored just how addicted we are to our BlackBerries and my forthcoming novel BlackBerry Girl (Summer 2010) is all about our society's addiction to the Berry among other things; and (2) It made me want to use my BlackBerry in the courtroom.  Literally, while the DA was questioning a witness, I felt my sweaty palm inching into my pocket to grab my Berry.  Thankfully, I am not a toddler and was able to resist.

Moment Two (and Three and Four).  Every time the judge dismissed us jurors, he turned to us and said sternly, "Do not under any circumstances talk with your fellow jurors or anyone for that matter about this case.  Do not read any articles about this case.  Do not look up this case on the Internet.  Do not visit the scene of the crime or what you believe to be the scene of the crime." He even waved that foreboding and fatherly finger.  And what did I want to do the second I stepped outside of the courtroom?  I wanted to turn to my fellow jurors and ask what they thought about the opening statements.  And what did I want to do when I stepped outside the courthouse?  I wanted to call my husband and tell him all about the defendant.  And what did I want to do when I walked inside my house (after doling out infinite hugs and kisses to the girls of course)? I wanted to Google up a storm.  Again, thankfully, I was able to resist.

But...

Is there a lesson hidden here somewhere? Maybe if we removed that word "don't" from our vocabulary (or at least limited its use) we'd be better - or at least more efficient - parents?  Maybe if our parents or society didn't tell us not to date bad guys or drink too much wine or gossip... Well, you get the picture.  Who knew a day spent at the New York Supreme Court would have me contemplating behavioral psychology?  

Okay, off to go visit the scene of the crime :)