As I mentioned in my last post, there are the names that I use to refer to this pregnancy.
Oh, btw, the latest is Don Johnson. Not Don. But Don Johnson. Not sure why, but this makes me laugh.
Anyway, my mother has her own slew of names/phrases that she uses to refer to this pregnancy.
- My baby.
Yes, my mother regularly refers to the person who will be exiting my body as her baby. I’ve tried to point out that it is not, in fact, her baby. To this, she has responded, “Fine. Our baby.” Still not quite right, but what are you going to do.
- My grandbaby.
At around eight weeks, I had a little spotting that sent me reeling. It ended up being nothing, but I’m a headcase. In my craziness, I disclosed my pregnancy to my mother earlier than I intended. Like 8 or so months early. She was a real champ during my tear-laden call, saying all the things that actually calm me down in a crisis. I should have taken notes to share with HC, who routinely says the opposite of what will actually help me calm down in a crisis situation.
After the crisis blew over, she called me and asked, “How’s my grandbaby doing?!” I was so stunned – in part because I just don’t think that way – that I let it go. Letting it go that one time meant that it would stick. And it did.
My mother called a few weeks back because she was thinking about something and had something very important to tell me. “Are you singing to my bambino? You have to talk to him. No, sing. You have to sing him sounds. Oh, and you should talk to my bambino in Italian. It’s never too early to start, you know. They are very smart. Even in the belly.” I explained that no, I was not speaking or singing to my stomach, but that I played lots of show tunes for it. And I reminded her that I don’t speak Italian, which would make it hard to speak to my stomach in Italian. Unless we’re talking about chicken parm or something. That I can do.
“Well, then speak Spanish to him!” Yeah, I don’t have enough command of the Spanish language to hold a conversation with my stomach. My mother was not pleased by this news. I think she considered asking me what she spent her money on when I went to college. Luckily, she didn’t share that with me on this call.
Oh, and I’m not sure that bambina is even a word in Italian. But when my mother is “feeling pink”, she says bambina.
My parents drove to Florida on Sunday to escape the cold and snow. My Canadian father said that he had seen enough snow and needed to get out of town.
Anyway, I got a text from my mother on Monday morning reporting the following: Dad mailed your insurance card, should get it soon. We are in Savannah, Georgia and were stuck in traffic. Dad is not happy. Rubs to my peanut. Love Mom.
Okay, the message was a little more coded than that, but this is what she meant. And the “rubs to my peanut” part was verbatim.
Now, you would think that I’d immediately recognize that peanut meant my stomach. I didn’t. I was focused on the Georgia part and thought this might have been some sort of reference to my mother wanting to pull over on the side of the highway to get peanuts but my father nixing that idea for no good reason other than he didn’t want to stop.
But no, she meant my stomach. And it sounds kinda nasty. HC has taken to saying this to me periodically in a high pitched, sorta crazy way.