Bringing "Baby" Out Of The Corner.

A few weeks ago, I was surprised. It wasn't a good surprise, though it wasn't a bad surprise, either. It was the kind of surprise that takes a minute to sink in and then makes you decide how you feel about it. It was the kind of surprise that makes you reconsider if you're a right-to-life supporter, or a pro-choice defendant. Let's be clear, here: I am in a monogamous relationship. We have sex. I take birth control. I get my period religiously on the afternoon of the second day of the green pills, between the hours of 2 and 6 PM, always. But occasionally, a girl takes antibiotics or accidentally misses a day of the population control pills and finds herself sitting on the toilet, counting the days back on her fingers, wondering when, WHEN is she supposed to start worrying that there's something more to the bloat than water-weight? In short, could she be...gulp...knocked up?

Now, I am not the most child-friendly person in the world. As an only child, I never had to deal with younger siblings, so I always felt awkward growing up when someone handed me their baby brother to hold while they wrestled him into his socks and shoes. Of course I babysat in my teens-- but only for children over the age of 7; it was a strict stipulation. In the beginning of my twenties, I found myself nannying for a family with three children, ages 1, 6, and 9. Primarily, I spent the most time with the baby while the two older kids were at school, and I promptly found myself falling in love with Patrick and his Tonka Trucks. The Diaper Genie and I bonded. I started carrying around the necessities of life in my purse. I strapped a baby seat into the back of my Civic. At the local rec center, I earned the nickname the "Sexy Nanny" after an unfortunate incident involving a string bikini and teaching Patrick to swim (flailing baby limbs were involved). I got used to fending off questions if the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pointy-eared little boy was mine. I decided, for the time being, that I was ok with babies-- as long as they were Patrick. (He was the man in my life.) But once it becomes a possibility that you might have found yourself incubating one of your own, you have to start asking yourself the hard questions: Could I do this? Would I want to do this?

As I pondered these thoughts, something strange occurred to me: I am no longer a teenager. I successfully made it out of the danger zone of having the social stigma of "teen mother" attached to me. I'd give birth at 22, a perfectly acceptable age to procreate. I'd have graduated college. I wouldn't even be showing by the time I accepted my diploma. I'd have nine months to decide what I was doing, where I was living, and establish a steady job (or more likely, jobS). I could still attend grad school, could still travel, could still move from Burlington to New York or Boston or Virginia or god knows where. I could still do all these things I wanted to do with my life-- it might just take a little more time, but I could do them. IF I wanted to.

I found myself touching my belly at random moments, as if I could learn about my state of affairs through touch osmosis. I got properly freaked out when TGIS curled around me one morning and started rubbing my stomach, then looked up at me and, out of the blue, said "Babies?" in a voice that sounded suspiciously similar to some kind of abstract hope. I hadn't told him; hadn't said a word, not even to my closest girl friends yet, but at that simple question, told him he better pray not, all while wondering if by some bizarre physiological design, he knew when he had hit the winning round of insemination and was able to commune with the budding baby. I excused myself to the bathroom and stared down my pelvic region for a good 10 minutes, looking for some kind of sign. The only one I got was that I needed to start going to the gym again.

Though I ended up getting my period a few days later (the operative part of that word being "late"), it still changed something in me to have seriously thought about the repercussions that getting pregnant at this point in my life could have. Instead of being cut-and-dry, I now was finding myself with options, which in turn opened the possibility if I were to actually want a baby at some point in time up to me. It wasn't anything I'd really ever considered before, other than a few other times when having an abortion was the only option I had even thought of. But now, that wasn't my only option. I had new ones opening up to me. And that was the first time in a long time that I realized that I was, in fact, growing up. And I found that that idea was more scary to me than the thought of another life-form growing inside of me.

XOXO

P.S-- I cannot stake claims on the impossibly adorable little bundle of joy at the top of the post. That is Steve Ward of VH1's "Tough Love" fame's nephew, and I think he is THE MOST unFUCKINGbelievably adorable child I have EVER seen. I have a massive baby-crush on him, and if I could get a promise that a child of mine would come out looking like this, I’d have one. Tomorrow. Before 8 AM. ASAP. This child makes my biological clock HAMMER. Ughghjjaksfhsadfkhkjsabdfkhasdfkkasjdfbasfdkj. I’m in LOVE.

Three Short, Hilarious Stories I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries.

Caught Red-Handed:

For a year, I slept with the same guy. While there were perks-- intimate knowledge of how each other's body worked, relaxed expectations because you knew exactly what you were going to get, the fact that you find a routine that works perfectly every time-- ending that relationship and having a new partner has been a little thrilling. Sometimes, more than just a little.

I had a gynecological exam yesterday morning because I practice what I preach (GET TESTED, PEOPLE!), as well as am very adverse the the idea of having babies, and needed my birth control script refilled. The first sign that this may have been a really potentially awkward experience was when I looked at the nurse and asked, "If I've had sex within the last 24 hours, is it going to affect my Pap results or cell samples?" The second sign would have been the fact that my ass is currently redder than a drunken Irishman sweating under a Caribbean sun with no sun umbrella in sight.

While it's great for health insurance perks and getting appointments ASAP, the problem with having a mother who works in a hospital and knows EVERYONE is that I'm pretty sure that while nothing was said to me, other than a shocked expression quickly covered up by some very pointedly raised eyebrows, someone might be asking my mother shortly if I'm "safe at home" or if I'm being beaten. Having to explain it's consensual...very, very awkward.

However, good news-- they've now replaced the metal duck-lips with plastic ones. Slightly warmer. Less terrifying than having metal inside of you.

Be The Bigger Man:

The guy behind the counter was cute. Very cute. Nice eyes. Very boy-next-door in plaid and shaggy blonde hair. I saw his eyebrows flash up and down in the universal sign for "well, hello there, gorgeous!" as I walked toward him, heels clicking through the thin nubby carpet, and he grinned as he asked, "Hi, how are you?"

"Great, thanks," I said, putting the box of Magnums down on the counter between us. And I shit you not, he looked down at the box, as did I, and stared silently at them for a full 5 seconds in dumb shock, then went on to complete the rest of the transaction in complete silence, except for a half-hearted "have a good night," as I slipped them into my purse.

"Oh, I will," I told him.

Ladies Is Pimps, Too:

I am firmly against parents being allowed on Facebook. Why? Because if your friends accept their friend requests, even if you don't, you still wind up finding things. Like this.

My friend Tessa griped in her status, "How to lose a guy in 10 days? Uhmm a more appropriate question would be how to get a guy in 10 days..."

My mother's response? "Tessa, you should touch base with Carissa."

THANKS, MOM. BECAUSE THAT LOOKS REAL GOOD. Something else to add to my resumee-- columnist, blogger, peer advisor, man finder, pimp. I'm so glad my $40,000 a year multi-faceted liberal arts private college education is paying off.

XOXO

Parents Are Weird. So Are Men.

My mother called me tonight under the guise of telling me that after some pleading on her part, my new landlord has been convinced to leave the ceiling mural the current-apartment-occupying UVM art student has painted in the living room, and not cover it up with a new layer of beige paint.

"I figure that after traveling, it'll be like you girls have your own Sistine Chapel," she told me. Not quite, but I dig the idea of having a sweet pro-bono painting commission in my new apartment, like some really Euro-trash Medici patron in the college housing central of Burlington.

And then she cut to her motherly chase. "So have your heard back from that guy?" she asked, meaning the Middlebury grad student I met in Perugia who's studying in Florence who I was supposed to be meeting up with sometime this weekend and going to the Boboli Gardens. I found out today that "going for coffee" changed into "going to the Boboli" because all national museums and the like are free this weekend, and promptly spent most of my afternoon and evening spontaneously bursting into laughter about how men can think they are being so smooth yet cheap at the same time and that we'll never know, when, in reality, we are well aware and think it is hilarious. But I understand-- Florence is expensive, and the "Bob" (pronounced "Bobe") as we fondly call it, is an amazing place. So I'll let it slide.

"No. We were supposed to get in touch midday today, but I forgot about it until six and he didn't call, so whatever."

"No!" My mother was surprisingly vehement. "It sounded like such a nice time! Why don't you call him now?"

I don't beat around the dating bush. "What, you want me to call him now to make sure he takes me out tomorrow, just so I can then tell him that I'm not really interested? I find that kind of counter-productive. He's great to talk to, but that's about all I'm looking for."

My mother just really wants to see me with some brilliant Italian Literature Middlebury grad student. My mother likes to live vicariously through me. This is the sort of guy my mother loves-- someone with a doctorate in something; anything, really. You could have a doctorate in moving drugs and stolen furniture, and she would still ask to see that diploma. I know I have some interesting (read: questionable) taste in men, and this leads my mother to worry that this will one day resolve in me running off with some "eccentric, alternative guy" to live in a nudist farm/commune in Arizona, where I will dread my hair and sing along as my dude-du-jour strums the guitar for spare change and pen the rest of "The All-American Nomad's College Life" on paper towels stolen from public restrooms, Kerouac-style, by the light of a headlamp at night. Unfortunately, my mother's wishes for me don't always align with my wishes for me. I really just want to see myself sleeping in as late as I want and not necessarily needing to shower tomorrow morning.

Men. Sometimes you can take them. Sometimes you can leave them. And sometimes, they can take you out, and then you can leave them. Or, sometimes you can just sleep in and avoid dealing with them all together.

XOXO

Foodie Love.

My favorite Florentine waiter, Nicolai, has now met my parents.

Does this make this a serious culinary relationship? It is more than most of my exes and men can claim to. Yet again proving that this is a family you can get closest to by wining and dining together. Tonight it was a bottle of Trebbiano d'Abruzzo and free shots of lemoncello.

XOXO

Miss Indipendenza

Late last night, I was chatting with a familiar gentleman when I remembered the fact that my parents are going to be flying across the Atlantic to join me here in Italy TOMORROW. I am tremendously excited, as one can imagine, both to see them since A.) They are my parents, and B.) Two of the most familiar of the faces that could ever be familiar.

I have restaurant plans and…oh, remind me to make reservations at Coquinarius!...day plans and must-see museum trips and meetings planned for them, but it wasn’t until he said, “Isn’t it great to show your parents that you’re making it?” that I actually started to think about it.

Initially, I brushed the thought off, as I have only, very, very rarely felt the need to impress my parents—the only examples I can think of were when I found, negotiated, and bought my car with minimal help from my father, the first time they visited me at college, and when I’m riding and they’re watching their little girl and multiple-K, hay-munching investment. (Dear Mommy and Daddy—I love you!) Maybe it’s because I wasn’t raised like most children are, but they only people my parents taught me are actually needed to impress are you, yourself, and on occasion, your bosses or professors. (Usually right around the time of yearly reviews or mid-terms and finals.)

However, the more I mulled over it, the more I started to wonder if maybe he wasn’t right—maybe there is something about showing your parents that you’ve “made it.” If I wasn’t making plans at Jazz Club and buying that white-and-navy striped dress at Zara and matching cage heels for a specific reason, then what was I doing? And where better a place to show them that you are no longer their little menace in rompers and scrunchies than in a foreign country, across an ocean, in a different culture? As I take them down the old, worn cobblestone streets, deftly navigating in my heels, maybe I’m actually navigating them through my independence. And with this food and music and wine, it’s a fabulously sweet independence, indeed.

XOXO