I have a terrible problem with scratching open mosquito bites until they bleed. I also chew either nails or cuticles -- one or the other, typically, for months. My nails are grooved from the cumulative damage.
(Miss T. already is getting hangnails -- perhaps there is some built-in tendency for the skin to split, especially on the thumbs -- and she chews on them. I don't know if she's seen me do it, or if it's just the obvious thing to do. I can't bring myself to criticize her for it, so I offer sympathy when she complains, trim down what I can, and try to get thick lotion on them before bed.)
Now, I'm reading the comments to the big Alex Kuczynski piece on the birth of her child through surrogacy. The editors certainly stirred the pot through their choice of photographs! and the author is as honest about her classism (and that of the surrogacy "industry" -- they don't want surrogates who are, you, know, actually poor) as she is about her grief and later her joy.
(How different would reading getupgrrl have been, if there had been pictures? She was so careful in the details she chose to include.)
On the one hand: we spent our money and took our chances for exactly the same sorts of selfish reasons: to have a child who is genetically Beaker's. And there are a lot of (mostly appalling ignorant) people over at the Times who are saying "SCREW YOU, SELFISH BITCH!"
On the other hand: every time I sat in that Cornell waiting room (where Kuczynski starts her journey) I knew I didn't fit -- we could only fake it enough to be there by living off two incomes in a cheap damn state. So each comment that picks up another detail of the outrageous presumption of privilege tickles a little -- and I keep reading.
During our peaceful Thanksgiving dinner at home, there was a blizzard of kicks.
Since then, nearly none -- and definitely none so distinctively kick-y. I know it's still early, but I can't help panicking. Were those death throes? It's so easy to slip back to the disoriented sadness of October.
Eleven days until my next midife appointment. I'd rent a Doppler, but if I didn't find a heartbeat it would kill me.
Maybe -- presuming it goes well -- I'll get one after the next appointment.