Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Hands Off

Alright, people. I'm going to keep this short, sweet, and serious. (Well, I'll shoot for two out of the three, anyway). The topic at hand: the adult-human fascination with poking.

You all think it's so gosh darn cute to play your little games of Name-That-Body-Part every time I try, heaven forbid, to find a comfortable position in this shrinking little sack of fluid. You squish and poke and prod, feeling out distinctive shapes and textures, guessing what position I could possibly be in, what kind of acrobatics I might be up to. You knead at my rear like a knot of bread dough and cup my head in your hands Shaquille O'Neal-style while you try to feel the contour of my skull--if, in fact, that is my skull you're grasping at. Well, I'm putting my foot down! (Or up, I guess, into Mom's ribcage.) Mom, Dad, Doctors all, someone named Kitty (who daily tries to fluff me like a pillow), and anyone else who wants to cop a feel at any tiny parts from crown to rump, I've had about enough.

Imagine yourself for a moment, if you will, having already been placed inside of an opaque human-sized water balloon, you are hurled into the sea, where you float upside down and aimlessly. Your new quarters so tight that you must remain curled up, knees to your chest, your spine locked in a crooked crescent shape. The balloon is tensile but stronger than you, and you're only allowed brief moments of reprieve, stretching one exhausted limb at a time.

As if this all doesn't sound exhilarating enough, now imagine that each time you stretch out your aching limbs, joints, spine, or somehow find a comfortable napping pose, sea creatures begin to swarm around your bobbing little home. You can't see them, so you don't even know they're there, until you take advantage of a quick stretch break and, one by one, they pick you up, lodgings and all, and squish you like a stress ball. But I just want to work this cramp out of my leg, you think, as each creature takes his turn quashing your efforts, working you back into a cramped little orb.

Uncomfortable yet? Welcome to my world--almost. I forgot to mention that you'd also be covered in wax and eating through a tube.

My point? Keep your hands to yourselves! Please.

And, in case the desire to guess-and-check gets too strong to repress--you know, that one urging you to discover which side is up and what exactly that particular tumor is growing out of Mom's belly--I'm here to dispel any temptation by filling you in. I'm basically stuck in a perpetual headstand. As you may have gathered from my little exercise in imagination above, my current accommodations are a little too tight to make any serious rearrangements. So, that lump on the bottom--that's my head, and will remain so. Mom's kind of touchy, so very few people actually have access to that particular lump anyway, and you won't be missing out on much by following the new "no touching" rule I've installed. Unless, of course, you were super pumped to pinch my rump, which is most likely that pulsing protrusion in the northern belly region (and are you honestly ready to admit that you're just dying to touch my tush?). Every once in a while, it might be an elbow or a foot--but again, not so special.

So, in short (like, 20-22 inches from head to toe or so), I'd like to remind you of Baby Harper Law Number 1: Hands off. A soothing rub here and there is o.k. Encouraged, in fact. But don't let those pointy little digits of yours wander too far.

Make it happen.


Harper Jayne

Monday, September 27, 2010

I'm Back!

Sorry for the delay, folks. I know you've been dying to hear what's going on in the pre-life of Miss Harper Poirier, but I'm afraid it's been kind of a whirlwind of a weekend! Not to mention that Mom's been moody lately (to say the least) and I've been grounded from the internet. I tried to reason with her. "If not for me," I said. "If not for your stifled and slimy but soon-to-be-adorable child, then at least think of all my adoring fans!" Unfortunately, she was not to be persuaded. She and Dad were apparently too busy socializing this weekend to consider my interests. I can only hope their sentiments aren't an adequate depiction of our little postpartum family, or they better invest in some earplugs. I refuse to be ignored once these vocal chords of mine are functional.

And it won't be much longer before those little chords, along with most of my other life systems, are in full swing. Because if my calculations are correct (and they are), today marks the one month pre-anniversary of my cramped little trip down the birth canal. Of course, that date is tentative, as big life goals so often are. And goodness knows, if I could do anything to expedite this "being born" thing, I would. In fact, I overheard Mom's doula telling her the other day that if she worked at it, I could arrive in as little as two weeks. 14 days--how exciting! All Mom's got to do is start rubbing some pressure points in her hands and feet and we can get this show on the road. And I know that if she loved me, she'd get me out of here! So, anyone up for a mani/pedi? I know a lady who really needs one and would love the company...

I suppose I can't pretend that I don't have some anxieties about joining society, though. Most of them having to do with the journey there. I mean, I'm looking at the opening to the tunnel I mentioned that I'm supposed to travel through, and I gotta tell you, I can't see the light at the other end. How the heck am I supposed to make it out in one piece? Or at all? I hope to be briefed on the POA sometime soon. Or Mom and I both might be in for a bit of a shock. (Does she even know what I'm working with in here?)

But regardless of the style of transport, I'm so anxious to stretch out and sit upright, even for just a moment, that I guess I'll do anything. I just hope there's a good masseuse waiting for me on the other side.

Well, it's time for karate practice, so I'd better be heading out. (Is there any other way?) I can't make any promises about the exact time of my next post because Mom's hormones are unpredictable and apparently in command of the house and everyone in it, but I do hope to check back soon. In the meantime, take advantage of your dry and giant living quarters. Some of us should be so lucky.

With my utmost respect and gratitude...or something like that,

Harper Jayne

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Escaping Streisand

Hello again.

Mom and I are pretty exhausted today--she, from an early wake-up call and me, from a long day scoping out escape routes from the world of amniotic fluid. After a great deal of effort, I have so far eliminated the possibility of clawing my way through this uterine wall with ten of the softest, sorriest excuses for fingernails anyone could be honored to sport. Nor is it possible, according to current data, to get through the wall by means of a reverse bear-crawl directly against the belly. As much as I thought she was tired of lugging me around, Mom is clearly not on my side in these endeavors. The moment I get a good push with my rear against her belly, she starts pushing against me, like I'm some hernia or knotted muscle that must be kneaded out, and I'm forced to resign for a moment. If I didn't know better, I'd think she didn't want me to get out at all. Anyway, needless to say, it has been a long day and I'll be keeping this post rather shorter than the last.

I merely wanted to remind those of you who may have already lost track of time, that shortcut or not, I am scheduled to make an appearance in the outside world in only 34 days. Although, if Mom makes me listen to one more Streisand film, it might be much sooner. Last week-Yentl. Today--Funny Girl, for at least the third time since my hearing developed. I mean, I like Babs as much as the next fetus, but it's like, c'mon, Mom. I have a whole world to experience. Maybe we can lay off the show tunes for awhile? (Or maybe I can put that much more effort into my escape through the uterine wall. The choice is yours.)

A special note to mom, while we're making suggestions:

I'd just like to point out that I love ice cream. Like, really love it. I know I can't actually taste it or anything, but I always know when you eat it, and I just love the buzz I get while you digest. But if you're going to eat it before bed, I'm going to keep you awake. If not directly, then I'll make sure that your acid-reflux will. That's really all there is to it. So, unless you're just in the mood for some quality bonding time and a sleepless night, don't do it. Again, just a suggestion.

And that, ladies and gents, concludes this evening's reflections. I'll be back tomorrow with more tales from the wombfront, but for now it's hasta la vista, Baby.

Cheers and stuff,

Harper Jayne

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

And So the Tiny Reflections Begin...

Hi folks,

Pleased to make your acquaintance. Well, sort of. I know we won't officially meet for another 5 weeks or so, but Mom has gotten severely behind in updating the world about my progress, so I've taken it upon myself to fill you in. It's the least I can do for her, after all, now that I've learned to write.

For those of you who don't already know me, or at least something about me, my name is Harper Jayne Poirier, and I come to you from beyond the womb. I'm roughly 35 weeks old in fetus years (which makes me something like -35 days in postnatal human years), which means I'm getting pretty big by now. Don't let that profile picture fool you--if, in fact, you were able to even ascertain that it was me pictured there. (We certainly will not hire that photographer again.) Anyway, that was months ago. I was just a child then. Now, I'm nearly full grown, and running out of womb!

Mom is always going on about how she can't wait to not be pregnant (which I have to admit does hurt my feelings a little bit. I mean, I'm sorry I'm making you uncomfortable, Mom, but did I ask to float around in this gooey nest for 40 weeks?) but no one is more anxious than me to get out of this incubation nightmare. (Ok, "nightmare" is a little strong, especially since I only just figured out the difference between day and night a couple weeks ago. But for those of us who--despite any assumptions to the contrary--are a little claustrophobically inclined, 9 long months curled up in a ball and eating through a tube is hardly my idea of a good time.)

Still, I've tried to make the best of the situation. I spend a majority of my time practicing skills and things that I know will come in handy on the outside world. I try to wait until Mom is resting so that she can feel how hard I'm working. It's hard for me to hear exactly what she's saying because everything is a little muffled in here, but she seems the most enthusiastic when I do my warm-up stretches. She must be proud that I've taken the initiative to prevent injury before I get on to the more exhausting exercises like kick-boxing and my cardio-circuit. Anyway, I like to hook one foot between her ribs for support and stretch my arms and spine as far as I can into her pelvis. It actually feels really good because I can rest my head on Mom's bladder like a pillow for extra support.

Speaking of pillows, I think Mom is about to do some walking around, which is my cue that it's nap time. So, I'm afraid I'll have to sign-off for today. But I know the occasion is rare that you're able to converse with we(e) members of the prenatal world, so please check out my profile to get an idea of my interests and hobbies and feel free to post any other questions you might have for me! Remember, my time in Uterine Land is limited, so don't be shy. Meanwhile, I'll keep you posted about the final leg of my gestational odyssey and all my hopes and fears as I approach the end (or, some would say, the beginning) of my journey!

Best wishes and all that,

Harper Jayne