Inquiring minds want to know!

On CBS’s Sportsline you too can vote for the “Hottest American Olympian.”

Oh yeah. Let me add that the definition of the phrase “American Olympian” is specifically white and female. Non-caucasions and males are apparantly neither American nor Olympians, and so do not make the qualifying bracketed rounds.

Currently, with over 22,000 votes, it’s a not-so-close race between Jennie Finch (32%) and Alicia Sacramone (68%).

Let’s discuss: Although it’s true that Jennie is blond, she is several years older than Alicia, does not wear skintight leotards, and is, afterall married and a mother to a toddler. All of this makes her far less hot than she was during the Olympics in Athens.

Finally, J. Darin Darst, the Sprotsline staff “writer” who devised this little contest, asks of us the deep question, “Will Olympic performance influence the voters in this Hottie Battle?” since Sacramone did not bring home a gold and Finch is actually on the way to pitching her team towards top honors. Because come on now, what does athleticism and ability have to do with a beauty contest?

Surprised by any of this?

Sadly, me neither.

(Thanks to Sweet Cheeks for bringing this whole wad of crusty chauvinism to my attention. “I think I’ve become a feminist!” he says. “I mean, where are men?!”)

Visualize Athena, Goddess Warrior, and channel her strength during your mother war of love—during the loving fight to bring your baby to the world. Lean against the graceful history of women who have labored for thousands of years before you when you are most afraid. Stay present in the moment of your labor and relish your unique and powerful ability to birth your baby. 

This is the kind of natural birth speak I have been reading. I’ve got labor on the brain. And at three in the morning when the world is asleep and I am not, it all falls into a pile of bullshit at my feet, squishy and pathetic and disgusting between my toes. And I feel totally overwhelmed, frightened, and alone in what’s ahead, even though I’ve done it before.

Pitter and I have been sharing a cold for nearly two weeks now and it’s not the coughing that keeps me up, it’s the head congestion. When two hours after I successfully fall asleep, Pitter wakes us up with coughing or whining. Sweet Cheeks attends to him but it’s too late because I’m awake and I realize my hip hurts and the baby is stabbing me in the ribs. And then I am aware that I cannot get enough oxygen even when I breathe with my mouth open. And then this happens:

I am alone. Alone in this body. I cannot trade it with anyone. And I have no control over this body. I cannot make it go to sleep. I am running out of time to sleep. This is the best sleep I will have until at least next spring. As tired as I am during the days now, I could run a marathon tomorrow compared to the dilirium that will crash upon me by the end of September. I can’t breathe and it is so dark and the height of the ceiling is all wrong–it is pressing down upon me. I am healthy and sleeplessness is normal for the third trimester and despite my cold I am not really sick. People get really sick all the time. People with chronic illnesses, or people who are dying from cancer probably can’t sleep either. What is that like? Are the racing thoughts a blessing when you know you have limited time left for them? My body is not in my control. If I cannot handle this, my life during a beautiful time of creation, because I cannot fall asleep, how will I cope with whatever way my body shuts down during my final moments on earth? How will I leave my body with grace? I will lose my mind. I am losing my mind. I am alone and we are all so alone. Please let dawn break so that I can pretend that none of this is real. 

This is how I wind up on the couch at three am, taking Sudafed in the hopes that it will knock me out, eating cereal and watching a program on A&E about a place called Meth Mountain in Alabama where women who have birthed three children are unable to care for them because they have lost their minds in addiction. We are not in control of our bodies. And on some nights the mind follows suit.

I’m nearing the stage of things where I’m happy to recline on the couch and stare at the ceiling for long periods of time. When I worked full time and was in graduate school in the spring of 2006, this brain melt was deeply disturbing. My lack of intellectual (not to mention physical) engagement with the world made me feel totally off kilter and, well, stupid. 

The second time around, I have a new mantra, and it goes something like this: What. Ever. 

I’m calmer, less distressed about my loss of identity (such as it currently is/what’s left of it), and generally consider it a good day if I *think* about doing yoga (whether I actually do it or not is irrelevant), sneak away half an hour of reading, and do a 1-2 hour activity with Pitter, like going to the playground. 

I suppose this is the wisdom of motherhood. Or exhaustion. Or maybe they’re the same thing. 

++++

Random note: Michael Phelps is tops in my book, not for the 8 gold medals, but because after Pitter watched him swim on DVR several times, he took his first bath since ??? April ??? because “Michael Phelps splashes.” And so he needed to do the same. Swim on.

Despite my current state of rotundity (partially caused by my Michael Phelps-like eating habits minus the physical activity) I resist the overwhelming urge to do the following almost every day:

Cartwheels and handstands (oh to be upside-down for a 30 second head rush!)

Lace up a pair of running shoes and run as fast as I can (oh to regain that bliss of body detachment!)

Roll over onto my stomach while reading in bed or playing with Pitter (oh to take my belly for granted!)

Dance to loud music in a dark place while holding a bottle of Sunshine Wheat that I am actually allowed to drink (in public!)

Aside from finally meeting this little boy, who feels it necessarily to press his heel into my ribcage hourly, the thing I most look forward to at the end of this pregnancy is the absolute relief expelling him from my body will bring. I recall that for at least a week after I had Pitter, and before my total submergence in the waters of sleep deprivation caught me breathless, I was absolutely giddy with my non pregnant body. I cannot wait.

So, in the meantime, do me a favor.

If you are physically capable of any of the above activities, go do a cartwheel for me or run around the block after work.

Today. And love it.

The certificate arrived in the mail yesterday.

My brain has officially turned into cow cud.

I’ve accidentally ordered two toddler basket-ball hoops from different online retailers for Pitter. And the idea of shipping one back is so exhausting I think we’ll keep the second for Patter/to appease Sweet Cheek’s dream of a “Full Court” setup.

[ETA: Turns out the "second hoop" is actually a random box the shipper used to pack Pitter's new potty chair. And it never occured to me to open it and see what was inside. Instead, I assumed it was another piece of sports equipment. Cow cud.]

I’ve thought (and still somehow believe) that I can finish Doris Lessing’s 672 page The Golden Notebook for my book group next Wednesday when I have not yet cracked the cover. Seven days. That’s 96 pages per day. Uh-huhright. People? We’ve the Olympics to watch + I have 150 pages left of New Moon to read.

Now that Indianapolis is entering its second  week of delightful weather, where the skies are blue with puffy clouds and the temperature is not going over 80, I believe that the gods are specifically arranging said weather just for me, so that these last weeks of pregnancy are less awful. Just for me.

Driving 3 hours each way with a toddler to Columbus, Ohio for a cousin’s wedding still seems like a reasonable thing to do in another week and a half.  When I’ll be 38 weeks pregnant. Even when at my OB appointment yesterday my doctor told me the lower part of my cervix is already 2-3 cm dilated. But the upper part is still tightly shut! Bring on the long car trips and hard hotel beds!

So to recap, I’ve now written a post about online shopping mishaps, the weather, and reading.

My god, the excitment must be killing you.

Don’t worry. There’s more Sarah Haskins here.