the information age

Half the time I'm begging for information about pregnancy, the other half I'm running from it.

At eight weeks, I told Trudy I was pregnant. Medical student that she is, she informed me: "Eight weeks. Hmm. All the organs are there." My reaction was, how in the world is that possible?! After which, I quickly decided that if that's the case, its little organs must be pretty weird. For example, based on what I could manage to eat at the time, I figured the heart is made of chocolate pudding. The lungs are lined in orange juice. The rib cage is built from saltine crackers. The mind, it'll run away if unchecked. There is such a thing as too much information.

When I told a midwife during a phone conversation that I was 19 weeks along, she quickly offered "Oh, half-way done!" I stammer and try to recover, try to ask for what I need like a grown up. "Please don't say that," I finally get out. "That isn't comforting." I've had over four months now (well, over three if count how long I've known) to get used to this idea – this PREGNANT idea, as opposed to say, a BABY idea, or a MOTHER idea. I'm admittedly still freaked out, but nonetheless settling into my new paradigm. I bring emergency snacks with me when I go out (be they sometimes locked in my car). I sleep on my side. I don't expect to look fashionable in my clothes. I cry a lot. There is a stroller in my shed. I'm familiar with yoga directions that come complete with "make room for your belly." These are things I now accept. This is pregnant for me and it's not too terrible. The next stage – that is, live baby stage, I'm not ready for. The book recommendations stream in yet. The pages of so many beg me to think ahead, do ahead, register my 4-month-old fetus for pre-school.

Medical professionals always want to know if I object to the genetic testing on religious principles. I should have learned by now to say yes, at which point they might leave me the hell alone. Like when I was in college and I ditched the "languages" line for "computers" when people kept asking me my major. It was the late 80's and "computers" shut anyone up, whereas "languages," or even a specific language, brought scrunched up looks and dubious queries about employment with "like, the UN or somethin'?" But stubborn idiot that I am I say no, it's not a religious thing really, and the door stands open for their crusade. "I always recommend the AFP blood test," one person told us. "It's just data. You don't have to do anything with it." Uh...

The information I'm after is usually more personal, so I asked my mother for her birth stories. What happened? How did she feel? What route did she take in labor? Any potentially genetic clues that could help me or that I should know? Anything she might have done differently? There's lots she can't remember. Like whether or not she had an epidural. And anyway, what is an epidural? she wants to know. Doctors told her dumb things here and there, but overall she was just so very happy to be having a baby. From this, I pan for any small glinting nuggets to pocket. There is such a thing as too little information.

At first, I find myself – perhaps unduly – surprised at the holes in her story. Greedy for something else. Today, we are gluttonous. Information is everywhere. I don't want my mother's experience. But admittedly, once in a while, I just want that little bit less. A chance to breathe. A little more space between contractions.