Wednesday, April 02, 2003

I'm feeling very out of control of my life right now, which isn't surprising, considering that I'm a first class control freak and I'm pregnant. Pregnancy is joyful and exciting, but it's also hard for control freaks. First there's the inability to schedule exactly when you conceive - either birth control lets you down, or your body refuses to reproduce on demand. This is followed by 9 months of hormone poisoning - nausea, exhaustion, dizziness, and manic-depressive mood swings, not to mention the transformation into the Venus of Willendorf - all of which happens according to some pre-programmed genetic plan, entirely without your volition or direction. Your body takes over, subsuming everything into the baby making project. If you can surrender your will to nature's ingenious machinations, this is supposed to be a blissful and serene experience, but if your plan is more along the lines of making a baby in your spare time while you blithely continue on with the rest of your life, it can be a tad bit frustrating. (Of course it's also good practice for being a parent, which is all about letting go. Not that it's cured me of my need to make it all happen my way.)

Sylvia Plath (a control freak if there ever was one), wrote a poem which neatly sums up both the heady anticipation and the eerie loss of will which accompany pregnancy:

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeast rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.


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