Sunday, January 26, 2014

"Private Practice" Syndrome & craigslist

Today, Heather called me at my desk:

"No more craigslist, baby.  I don't want anybody cutting your baby out."

She had my attention.


"I don't want you going on craigslist anymore.  We'll pay full price for baby stuff.  Promise me!"


So I guess that's the end of craigslist for now, and yet another windfall for Target and Amazon.  It's not like they weren't getting the bulk of our disposable income anyway, but, man, I was feeling all frugal and whatnot with my used maternity jeans.  As someone who totally dreads social contact with strangers, I felt like I was spreading my wings by talking-- on the phone and in person-- with some lady who shared my pant size.  I think my fear of small-talk overwhelmed any safety considerations.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.  A few months ago, I arranged to buy two breastfeeding pillows from someone on craigslist, having gotten such conflicting reports on the relative strengths of the Boppy and My Brest Friend that the opportunity to get both at once seemed heaven-sent.  Heather asked that I send her the seller's contact information and address in case something happened during the exchange.  Admittedly, it was a somewhat strange encounter, as the sale was made by a grimacing father while his wife and small child were silent on the other side of the room, but I was grateful to keep things quick.  Seemed like a win.

Earlier this week, I found that a lady was selling four pairs of maternity jeans for $30.  I have survived on leggings and dresses since my bump exceeded the spandex on my regular jeans-- even unbuttoned-- and I figure I could make it for another three months the same way, but Heather herself pointed out that I'd probably be wearing maternity clothes for several months post-partum.  $30 sounded like a sweet deal, and what were the chances that they'd be in my exact size-- even petite, to accommodate my stubby little legs?

Pregnancy: maternity jeans and antacids
The seller had worn maternity jeans, she explained, both during pregnancy and during some abdominal surgeries she'd had since then.  We ended up talking for quite a while on the phone, and then again when I went to pick up the pants.  I liked her and was interested, just anxious about craigslist pick-up protocol and whether the variety of religious paraphernalia on the walls forbade mention of my wife.  I got some advice on baby equipment (including a welcome endorsement of the exact model of Pack N Play we'd already bought), commentary on C-section anesthesia, and pediatrician recommendations.  It felt like a pretty solid interaction, as things go.

However, I was with Heather during most of her "Private Practice" Netflix marathon, including, memorably, the episode in which some crazy patient drugs a pregnant doctor and extracts her nearly full-term fetus.  That show is silly, and I actually don't much care for the character in question, but you can't look away from fetus-kidnapping.  One thing I can say, six-plus months into my own pregnancy, is that my investment in this child is not only maternal.  It's also practical: I've thrown up so many times that I want something to show for it.  Pregnancy is not a casual endeavor, and when you've peed on yourself for a cause, you don't take a casual approach to its failure.  Plus, getting my abdomen sliced open sounds pretty gross.

The real bitch of it is, Heather is getting her way again.

1 comment:

  1. Looking fabulous, friend. That top is perfect on you.