The Best One

I think I've stopped weeping long enough to write this down.

I married the Best One.

Dean and I have had a lot of emotions in recent months- some hormonally induced (mine), some situational.  We've laughed for no reason, cried for no reason a bit more often, and have found ourselves laughing and crying simultaneously, unable to pinpoint exactly what has driven us to that strange combination of feelings.

It's safe to say that most of these emotional highs and lows have been brought on by how drastically our life together is changing.  How we are going from a two-person partnership to a three-person family.

We've had ample time to prepare our home, a fair amount of time to wrap our brains around this enormous change, and too much time to imagine/ worry about/ rethink our futures.

One big change that will come with the baby's arrival is finding time for Dean to write, so we both make an effort to carve out pockets of uninterrupted time when Dean can have some space and time to himself to think and write and work.  More often than not, this involves me having brunch with a friend, getting a pedicure, and seeing a chick flick (or another movie Dean is happy to miss.)

Today, on this gorgeous Saturday, I had brunch with my also-pregnant friend, came home for a few minutes, and then left to see "What to Expect."  (Surprisingly, I think I was the only pregnant woman in the audience.)  Dean was staying home to work on his projects and kindly wait for our new glider to be delivered.

I came home awhile ago to find that while I was gone, Dean assembled our new glider and set it up in the bedroom for me.  He used tools to put a ton of pieces together to make a comfortable place for us to rock our son.  He built a chair that actually supports our weight and glides, just like the name says.

Here I was watching a movie several blocks away, feeling proud of myself for providing Dean with this time to himself, and all the while, Dean is using his rare time alone to do something to make me happy.  Me.

And he took the laundry to the cleaners, too.

I burst into tears, as I often do, but this time was different.  This time it wasn't because I was overwhelmed or scared of giving birth, or frustrated that my shirt isn't covering my whole belly.

I burst into tears because I am so lucky, and so loved.

And so is this baby.

We both got the Best One.

The Ugly Truth. Very Ugly.

WARNING!!  If you have no interest in reading personal details about the ever-changing body of a pregnant woman, STOP READING NOW.  In fact, here is the link to a site that may better suit you:

http://cute-baby-animals.tumblr.com/

Still with me?  Excellent.  I never liked them anyway.

As I begin my 36th week of pregnancy, I have had ample time to watch my body change.  Sure, my belly has gotten a whole lot bigger, but I was unprepared for the other surprises that come with growing and internally toting around a small human being.

Some changes are welcome ones.  My husband had no complaints when "the girls"made their debut.  There is an immediate voluptuousness to a newly pregnant woman.  And while that voluptuousness keeps growing, with it come unfortunate side effects.  For example, my bra has become a crumb catcher, saving the remnants of all my meals and snacks, as if later we were having an archeological dig.  What is making me itch?  Why, it appears to be toast from the Pregnolithic era!  Eureka!

The same applies to my giant belly.  I look like a toddler after I eat, as more often than not, something drops and lands on my protruding stomach.  I should start color-coordinating my shirts with what I plan to have for lunch.  "No, we can't have pasta tonight- my red shirt is in the laundry."  Napkins in My Lap do no good, and at dinner last night, I graduated to Napkin Tucked into My Collar,  kind of like Al Bundy settling in for a plate of Peg's spaghetti.

I have begun to purchase- and actually use- some drug store products I never thought I would.  Ever.  Did you know that Preparation H is for more than just under eye puffiness?  And baby powder isn't just for babies, but for anyone who experiences chafing.  (Chafing occurs when two parts of your body rub together that weren't even in proximity to each other pre-pregnancy.  The pregnant body becomes a series of shifting tectonic plates.)

Pregnancy has given me body parts I never had before, as I now have something called "Cankles."  After long periods on my feet, my old slender-ish ankle disappears, and gives way to a soft and shapeless column of flesh that flows seamlessly from my calf to my foot, rendering my adorable ankle strap sandals useless.

My belly button is slowly turning inside out, morphing from an "innie" to an "outie."  So there's that.

There are other wonders I could share with you, but even I must draw the line.  Message me privately and I'll fill you in.  

But if you're that curious, there's probably something kind of wrong with you, and I'm wondering why we are friends.

How Did I Learn What I Know?

I've always felt like a know-it-all.

It may come from being an only child.  It may come from being on my own for so very, very long before starting my life with Dean.  Maybe it's because I can't stand a lot of silence, and I feel the need to fill uncomfortable periods of quiet with (typically) useless facts.

Over time, the information I know has morphed a bit.  In high school, I knew where the Hooters were touring and how to make my own skirts.  In college, I knew which bars would let you drink underage (Myskyn's and Big John's) and a bunch of other information my mother doesn't want to read about.

As a bonafide grown-up, I could talk your ear off about automobile bodily injury claims when I worked as an insurance adjuster for Nationwide Insurance (I refer to this period as the Dark Ages), and later, when I became a teacher, I could spend hours defending high school theatre programs to the closed-minded and ill-informed.

But lately, I sometimes have to take a step back and ask myself, "who ARE you, and what have you done with the old Monica?"

Well, Monica is having a baby, and there is a lot of new stuff taking up space in my (scientifically proven)  shrinking brain.  I know things I never, ever thought I would know.  Most of these things revolve around natural childbirth and baby gear, but some of them deal with...nope, it's all baby related.

Here are some of the more interesting tidbits:

*  There are benefits to allowing the umbilical cord to pulsate for several minutes before being cut, to allow more blood to be pumped from the placenta to the baby.

*  The placenta has lots of nutrients and some people save their placenta to eat later.  We aren't that hungry, though.

*  One does not need to be Jewish to have a mohel come to your home and circumcise your newborn son.

*  Skin-to-skin contact between the baby and mother immediately after birth is really important, and having the baby whisked away to the nursery isn't always necessary, if the baby is healthy.

*  A doula is a labor coach, and does not typically wear a turban or tell your fortune.

*  The center of a sunflower is an excellent visual reminder for the woman waiting to fully dilate.

*  When doctors use a vacuum during birth, it's nothing like a Hoover or Dyson.  It's tiny and doesn't plug in, but you still don't want them to use it.

*  Internal fetal monitors have a little metal part at the end that screws directly into your baby's head.  It will leave a mark, but with a cute little hat on your bundle of joy, you won't be able to see it.  (We held one in class.)

*  There is a birthing suite at Mt. Sinai that costs $4000 a night, and overlooks Central Park.

I know lots more stuff.  TONS.  Most of it is kind of gross or may seem a little "midwifey," as someone told me recently.  So, Dean and I are happy to keep it to ourselves, and save it for our Bradley classes.  (For the record, Dean knows as much, if not MORE, about this as I do.)

But if you want to know more about natural childbirth, comparing NYC obstetricians, or the menu at Lenny's Deli, let me know.  I'm becoming an expert on all three.

Where Did the Blog Go?

Many fans (3 people I know) have asked me why there was such a huge gap in my blog posts recently.  One loyal fan (not my mother) pointed out that until Sunday's installment, my last post was in mid-March.

The life of a professional blogger (pregnant actor) is a busy one, so I've compiled a quick list of all the things I've been doing while this blog has been on hiatus.

-  Walking back from the grocery store
-  Trying to get out of this sofa without assistance from Dean
-  Weeping
-  Reading about all the ailments that may befall our baby, like mad cow disease and colic
-  Alphabetizing stuff
-  Not drinking enough water
-  Walking Hank.  Again.
-  Looking for panties that fit
-  Pulling clumps of matted hair off Tater, our 20-lb cat
-  Rearranging pillows around me as I sleep.  As I try to sleep.
-  Watching birthing videos through my fingers
-  Thinking about cleaning out my closet
-  Lint rolling things
-  Watching Ellen

As you can see, there is a LOT to do to get ready for a baby.  And some things take much longer now than they used to take.  Like writing blog posts.  And climbing the stairs to get out of the subway.

There really is a thing called "pregnancy brain," I'm not just making it up.  During pregnancy, a woman's brain actually shrinks a little.  Apparently, it has something to do with making room for all the new stuff we will automatically know how to do, like keeping the baby safe from lions and knowing the difference between the "I'm hungry" cry and the "I'm going to major in poetry" cry.

Is it possible "pregnancy brain" contributed to the giant gap in my blogging?  Maybe so.

(Blinks.  Silence.)


What were we talking about again?

Church Giggles

A lot of things have changed for me over the last couple of years.  

Sure, there are the Big Ones that you already know about (turning 40, getting married, quitting my job, moving to New York, and having a baby), but there are other ones, too.

For example, the Old Me didn't go for many walks, unless A) the dog had to go out, and B) it was before I got a fenced-in back yard.  But the New Me walks everywhere all the time!  Granted, we no longer own cars, but even if we did, I'd still be a walker.

The Old Me was never stopped and asked for directions, but the New Me is always being approached by German tourists, guidebook in hand, asking how to get to Strawberry Fields.  The Old Me never stood in line for cookies, but have often found myself midway in a 20-person line for warm chocolate chip walnut cookies from Le Vain Bakery.

And the Old Me rarely went to church, except on Christmas Eve Morning, when my entire family would meet at St. Peter's, and giggle through the abbreviated service until it was time to have breakfast at the Original Pancake House.  But the New Me walks arm in arm with my husband (see paragraph one), usually every other Sunday, to an adorable church six blocks from our apartment.  

And it's pretty great.

Dean is the son of a minister, so church is in his blood.  I am the daughter of fun-loving non-ministers, so me...not as much.  But I really like going to church with Dean.  It's a guaranteed hour where I don't have a "to do" list, an hour of time spent right next to my husband, an hour of people watching.  And sometimes theres a message, too.

Mostly, though, church is an hour during which I am supposed to be relatively quiet, and THIS is where I fall a little short of what's expected of me.  When I am given an hour alone with my thoughts, hilarity ensues.  

This morning, for example, I cracked myself up when I saw that the Anorexics Anonymous and the Overeaters Anonymous met at the same time, together.  I imagined the anorexics' utter disgust with the "Mike and Molly" overeaters, and the overeaters' shared resentment of the rail-thin anorexics.  I imagined all the Saturday Night Live skits that could come from this scenario.  And- this is what gave me the Church Giggles- I wondered what sort of refreshments might be served that would be pleasing to both groups.  Carrots?  Ice?  Certainly not doughnuts...?

Later in the service, at an inopportune moment, I leaned over to Dean and whispered, "Nachos."  I'm pregnant, and think about food all the time, whether it's mentioned in the sermon or not.  (Though, actually, food WAS mentioned in today's sermon, something about Jesus eating broiled fish.)  This brought on more giggling.

I know I should behave.  I should sit still (hard to do) and keep my very random thoughts and observations to myself until the service is over.  I should be respectful of overeaters and old ladies with lighted magnifying glasses, and visiting choir directors who wave their hands all funny.  I should be reverent, and NOT try to grab my husband's tush on the way to communion.

But what fun would that be?

It Was a Star-Studded Friday in Gotham

Lately, I start most of my days the same way:  throw on some cotton/lycra blend "clothes," throw the hair in a pony tail, slog through pet-related chores, and have a good, pregnancy-related cry about something completely out of my control, like the effectiveness of lint rollers or the future of our downstairs air conditioner.

But FRIDAY was different.  I had a great reason to actually shower.  To put on makeup.  To wear accessories.  


From time to time, Marci Phillips, the head of primetime casting at ABC New York, will call me in to be a reader for a few hours.  It's pilot season (when actors are auditioning for pilot episodes of series that will hopefully make it on air next season), and ABC has a lot of roles to fill.  And when we audition, we need someone to play a scene with, and from time to time, that person is me.

So Friday, I head in to read opposite a lot of men who are up for roles in "Gilded Lilys" (sic), a pilot with a Downton Abbey feel, set in a grand hotel run by the Lily family in the 1920's.  It's shooting in Boston, but the big roles will be cast out of NYC.

The first name on my list is Andrew McCarthy.  Ladies of a certain age, I'll give you a moment to swoon.  Readers born after 1995, please rent "Pretty in Pink," "Less than Zero," and "St. Elmo's Fire" immediately.

I'm thrilled.  And I'm thinking I'd better re-read the scene so I don't muck it up.  I do not want to be blamed for McCarthy's failure to land a role in a pilot.  Bad enough they make him come in and read at all- he's ANDREW McCARTHY, for Pete's Sake.  Was his work in "Weekend at Bernie's" not a solid enough example of what he's capable of??

Long story short, a casting assistant had not sent me the scene McCarthy was reading, and rather than tackle it cold, I asked if the assistant would prefer to read it in my place.  I figured it was the right thing to do.  But I DID walk him back, and did NOT mention anything about my love for all of his work in the 80's.

While I didn't read with AMac (that's what I call him now), I DID read with Mo Rocca!  Looks like Mo is trying to move more into acting these days, in addition to his work as a correspondent, writer, and comedian.  He was adorable, and was just like you'd expect him to be.  We're having lunch this week, at Cafe du Imagination Monique.

After a couple hours of reading with some mighty fine actors, I headed home down Columbus Avenue, and passed Adrian Grenier on the street.  He was all starry eyed, twisting his hair, smiling at the tops of buildings.  High?  Yes, the buildings were very high.

Later that night, Dean and I went to see TRIBES at Barrow Street Theatre (a classmate of Dean's, Will Brill, has a fantastic role in it), and the one and only Ms. Mare Winningham was in the show, too.  Part of me wanted to say, "I just saw AMac- do you guys still hang out?"  But I refrained.

While Ms. Winningham was working when we saw her, Mr. Mandy Patinkin was not- in fact, he was enjoying the same performance, a few rows over.  We didn't speak to him, but he seemed to like the joke in the play about incontinence a LOT.

And that was my star-studded Friday.  That's the cool thing about New York- you start out thinking it's going to be just another day, and you end up getting surprised.  Sometimes pleasantly.

Maybe it's connected to putting on makeup and getting dressed....

So I'm going to try that again right NOW.

Quiet Time

I love television.

I'm not ashamed of that.  In fact, now that acting is my only job, I am pretty much required to watch TV.  It is literally research, and our cable bill is tax deductible.  (Side note- lots of cool stuff is deductible in this business, including getting my hair done, gym memberships, and makeup.  Acting is awesome.)

But every now and then, we need a little quiet time.  I say "we" because Dean is much more comfortable with silence than I am.  If I find myself at home during the day, working on a task, 99 percent of the time, the TV is on, providing comforting background noise.  Like a chatty friend.  Or a visiting parent. (Side note #2- my mom has the TV on a lot, too.  I noticed this when she visited recently. It's in my genes.)

Poor Dean even gets up before I do in the morning, leans over to me and whispers, "you stay sleeping," and then goes upstairs to supposedly walk the dog and make coffee.  OK, he actually DOES do those things, but when he's finished those two tasks, I lie awake in bed, listening, and I hear...nothing.  Maybe I hear the occasional "thunk" of his Sportsman's Lodge coffee mug on the dining table, or the flutter of a magazine page turning, but essentially, I hear...silence.

Which is probably the real reason he gets up so early.  It's the only time he can claim a few minutes of total silence, total Dean time, for himself.

And who can blame him?

When I get up, I immediately barrage him with every thought I've had since we went to sleep:  My dream about forgetting to feed the baby (Side note #3- this is a recurring dream I've had my entire life.  Only it scares the Hell out of me now that we're expecting a baby who will likely want to be fed.), ideas I have about paint colors for the Baby's Wall, items to add to today's grocery list, what Perez Hilton said about RiRi and Chris getting back together, and the overly realistic conversations I carry on with the pets.

They go something like this:


Dixie:  Meow.
Me: Not that great, how did you sleep?
Dixie: Meow.
Me: I beg to differ. You were walking all over my stomach last night.
Dixie: Meow.
Me: That is just rude.  You know I'm pregnant.
Tater: Meeeow.
Me: No, Tater.  You're just big boned.

Tonight, however, we were quiet.  Quiet-ish.  We had nice conversation about all kinds of creative things as we ate dinner.  Real-life artist things, that made me feel smart and thoughtful, and not at all like a Crazy Housewife About to Have a Baby.  We talked about travel and theatre and his trip, and artistic collaboration.

And then, we did something really nutty.

We sat on opposite ends of the sofa and read.  Books.  Not the internet on our phones, not status updates, not the new J. Crew catalog...books.

It was quiet and comforting and I loved looking over at Dean, who looked especially adorable wearing his reading classes and jeans with the torn knee, reading a book about parenting.  Our beagle lay snoring between us, and Dixie lay curled at my side.  The baby was kicking, surprising me, making me smile.

It was pretty great.

I should be quiet more often.  Especially since there won't be much silence around here in about 112 more days.

MW