Gwaaah blurrghh blahbhhh Eat! Gwaaah blurrghh blahhhh Eat! Eat! More eat! Gwaaah!
Forgive me, carbon-based beings. I used to be human. But now, now I am pregnant. I am no longer like you, free-willed creatures of the Earth. I am more like a golem, a life form mindlessly bent on doing whatever it is my taskmaster wants of me.
And right now, my tiny taskmaster wants me to eat.
In Jewish folklore, the golem was given life by having the word “emet,” or “truth” written on its forehead – with the letters “aleph,” “mem,” “tav.”
The letters that have turned me into an anthropomorphic human-like substance are “A” “T,” “C” and “G,” the four nucleic acid bases that make up DNA. Far from the poetic beauty and suggested danger of the word “Emet,” “Atcg” seems like an exclamation from a Cathy cartoon, as in, “Atcg! I’ve outgrown my maternity pants!” Or, “Atcg! I’m never going to lose this baby weight!” Or, more often than not, “Atcg! I’m out of chocolate!”
People talk about the beauty and mystery of pregnancy – and it’s true. It’s a joyous miracle to house the next generation of humanity inside your body. But it’s also just plain weird. Your body, moods and predilections are all hijacked. For the better part of a year, you are at the mercy of someone else. Someone, you haven’t even met.
The tiny evolving stranger who is now controlling my every mood, this morning, demanded that I drink a glass of milk. I don’t like milk. I haven’t touched the stuff since childhood. But not only did I down the entire glass, I then ate a cream cheese and olive sandwich and packed a lunch consisting of – among other things – a cheese burrito, a piece of string cheese and a container of yogurt.
I’m guessing someone is need of a femur because this menu was definitely not my idea. I’ve never been officially diagnosed as being lactose intolerant, but suffice to say if I keep up this baby-mandated diet, I will no longer be safe around aerosol cans or open flames.
And it’s not just my food consumption that is out my control. My tiny puppet master pulls my strings to do all sorts of things: Visit the restroom in the middle of the night, or in middle of my commute, or – increasingly and quite abruptly – in the middle of a sneeze.
I’ve also been made to wake up for no reason at all. I’m not hungry or thirsty. Don’t have to use the bathroom. I’m just … up. Awesome.
I’m also highly moody. I can be the patient Earth Mother with Zev through his 15-minute long explanation of how catapults work, but if he takes even one second longer putting his lunchbox into his backpack I am going to LOSE MY MIND.
I’m as lazy as a basset hound one minute and as listless and jittery as a meth addict the next. I’m sensitive, insensitive, achy, fast-walking, angry-for-no-reason and perfectly contented – all at the same time.
I’m also unfocused, or rather, I’m extremely focused – but just on robots. I spend my free time surfing the Web for robot wall decals, robot crib sheets, robot lamps, a robot mezuzah (no luck with that one, unfortunately).
I don’t own a Roomba. R2D2 is far from my favorite Star Wars character. I didn’t even read “The Iron Giant,” until Zev came into my life, but now I’m all about mechanical creatures whose fate is tied to the forces that control it. Hmm, maybe this is less about nesting and more about an existential crisis.
Maybe that could be the premise of a novel. Or of a parenting book. I will make a note of it. But first, I will make cookies. I have no choice.
Gwaaah blurrghh blahbhhh!