ten tiny toes

I've always had a love-hate relationship with my toes. Perhaps "always" is an overstatement; I don't actually recall having any feelings at all about my toes before age 8 or so. But certainly by the time I was well into elementary school, I was aware of the fact that my toes, while very important to such activities as standing and walking, were not going to receive the treatment they deserved. You see, by that time I was on my way to a long relationship with ballet, and I quickly realized that my toes were going to take the brunt of the impending damage.

Yup. Those small nubs on the ends of my feet were going to find themselves shoved into pointe shoes, holding my entire body weight up for hours upon hours. And the most I would do to protect them was some first aid tape, maybe some moleskin if they were really good, and a lambswool pad stuffed between them and the glue-and-fabric blocks of my pointe shoes. No wonder that now at age 31 I'm still sporting toenail bruises from a bad pair of Blochs from the winter I was 13! I still can't wear open-toed shoes without nail polish.

Small price to pay, I suppose, for the pride I have for the commitment I made to dance, for the strength of body and mind I earned by spending my life in a ballet studio, rehearsing while my "normal" friends were at the mall, or the beach, or on ski trips or summer camp. Never mind that I did take a long break, from age 19 to 24. That time away from ballet allowed me to shift my perspective, and come back to the hard work with a new level of dedication - made easier by the unwavering support of my darling husband - one I hadn't had when I was a teenager.

What's the point in all this? I stare at the tiny toes of my two-week-old daughter and I wonder, will she want to follow my path? Will the siren song of ballet rope her in too? Will I be able to handle it if she wants to trade a normal childhood and adolescence for the probable pain and suffering that is the unfair trade for the occasional joy of a good performance? Or will I find myself tempted to keep her away from the romance of a dusty, sweaty ballet studio, wanting to lead her instead towards safer pursuits like basketball, rock-n-roll, or college? Her soft, sweet toes will carry her to a future I can't even imagine now. She'll probably paint her toenails all sorts of colors, squash her feet into uncomfortable shoes because they just go so perfectly with the outfit, and most certainly she'll stub those toes on furniture and swear like her Dad does when he does the same thing.

The swearing, at least, I can be absolutely certain of.

Oh, irony

Remember how I thought the Olympics were going to be a great distraction for the unending final weeks of my pregnancy? Well, go figure - I went into labor less than 24 hours after my first post! My water broke at 9pm Saturday, we were at the hospital by 10pm, and an IV of antibiotics, pitocin, more pitocin, a shower, a birthing ball, more pitocin, fentinol, lots of tears, an epidural, the best nap ever, 8 more centimeters and an hour of pushing later, little Miss V made her joyful debut at 4:41 Sunday afternoon! She showed off her healthy lungs as hubby and I checked her for the right number of fingers and toes, and she scored 9s on her Apgar tests. Clever darling.

Those two days in the hospital are now a bit of a blur, filled with many nice nurses, lots of ice, and a slow realization that a) I was no longer pregnant and b) we were someone's parents. Miss V might well be the cutest baby in the entire world, not that we're prejudiced or anything. She is surrounded by a huge gang of loving family and friends, who seem to agree with us on the cuteness factor. We're settling into a routine at home, and while both of us would prefer to sleep through the night just once we're not complete zombies (yet). V will be two weeks old tomorrow (two weeks! how is that possible?) and on Wednesday, I'll be 40 weeks pregnant. HAH!

As it turns out, the Olympics have been a wonderful companion for V's first days of life. We've held her, fed her, tickled her and kissed her as Michael Phelps won 8 golds, as Nastia Liukin won the overall, as the US track teams dropped batons and May&Walsh rocked the heck out of beach volleyball. And thank goodness (mostly) for DVR, because even sleep-deprived new parents need to go to bed sometime and we can catch up on the events the next day (the mostly is for when events run beyond the scheduled time and the DVR cuts off before the final round of gymnastics or the last set of volleyball - grr!)

One final note: Bob Costas is my hero.

Worst writer's block ever

I dunno what happened, but the second those pregnancy hormones rushed into my system my ability to write anything fancier than a snarky email response simply dried up. Poof. Perhaps all my creative energy was being spent on creating a new life (how cheesy is that) or maybe I just threw up one too many times during the first 20 weeks to find the time or strength to be pithy.

This is not to suggest that this baby was unwanted. To the contrary, hubby and I were thrilled. A little taken aback, since we found out the day before our fabulous 2-week trip to visit friends in Bristol and Edinburgh (flying business class! here I thought I'd be chillin' sippin' wine and Bailey's the whole way there and instead...). I got permission from my doctor to enjoy one glass of Champagne at New Year's, sorta ironic considering I'd drunk my way through a staff holiday party, a number of parties and Christmas itself before we knew there was a zygote hanging on to my uterine wall by a thread. And so, full of new life and a strange sense of looming adulthood, I spent the two lovely weeks of car tours, food and castles growing more queasy by the minute.

I waited until we were back home in San Francisco before I started the puking that would rule my life for two months. Gosh that was fun. Nothing so enjoyable as throwing up a bowl of Cheerios when the milk's gone warm... and then following that with another 5 rounds of puking before you're just dry-heaving, bruises forming on your knees from the repeated pressure on the tile floor. Rinse and repeat! you didn't want to go to work anyway! You're much happier memorizing the daytime TV schedule!

Lucky for me there's actually a medication that's safe in early pregnancy, to help you get off the cycle of morning-my-ass sickness. But by the time it had been prescribed and kicked in, the ability to write was gone. I missed three official deadlines, and by missed I mean "attended the performance and have yet to write the review - and that was six months ago." Good thing that wasn't my real job. Thank god for accrued sick and vacation time, health insurance and a very understanding boss.

And now I'm due "any time now" which means I'll be pregnant for the rest of my life. due date's in 19 days. Will I make it? remains to be seen. Will this be the only blog I manage to post? almost certainly. Dare I hope that after baby comes I'll have the time for this? Probably not. But a girl can dream. And maybe this will end up being the lifeline connecting Mom Me to the Me I Was. Time will tell.

Side note: I'm watching the opening ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics. Trying really hard to ignore the hypocrisy in China claiming openness and unity, the disgusting smirk on Bush's stupid face as he applauds the Iraq Olympic team, and the fact that there are no female Saudi Arabian competitors. Other than all that, the performance part of the ceremony was completely mind-bogglingly gorgeous and unbelievably well choreographed and the Parade of Nations always brings tears to my eyes. I'm looking forward to this Olympics - it'll provide a nice distraction from the incredible pain and discomfort of the interminable final weeks of my third trimester.