And here's how you pass the time when you're pregnant:
The cat fits into newborn onesies surprisingly well!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
26 Weeks
Here are last weeks belly shots at 26 weeks:
And here's how you pass the time when you're pregnant:
The cat fits into newborn onesies surprisingly well!
And here's how you pass the time when you're pregnant:
The cat fits into newborn onesies surprisingly well!
Friday, September 17, 2010
Six months in...
In order to explain where I'm at mentally 25 weeks into this pregnancy, I feel an anecdote is in order.
Back in my theatre school days, three years of training culminated into an onstage sort of thesis called a Nightclub Critique. (Now that I think about it, that's such a weird name. I have never in my life referred to an establishment as a "nightclub." Dance club, yes. Nightclub, no.) The idea was to put together a little solo show consisting of 3-4 songs, a back-up band, lighting... the whole works. We then had to perform this mini concert for all of the students in the three year program, plus guests and an invited panel of judges - probably close to 200 people. At the end of each act, the performer would have to come out and sit at the front of the theatre and be critiqued by the judges while everyone watched.
Wait! Maybe that's how the whole Idol franchise was created!? I have never thought about that until now.
Anyway, one of the main classes that we took to prepare for this virtuoso moment was called, in my day, pop class. As in pop music. As in the kind of music they play during morning rush hour on the radio.
My fellow classmates were AWESOME at this class. They performed the hits of Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morrisette and Sarah Mclachlan beautifully. (It was the mid-90s.) In fact, I was often brought to tears listening to them, although that may have had something to do with the extreme fatigue and constant self-doubt that comes with the theatre school territory.
My own talents in this genre did not stretch quite so far. No matter what I attempted, including an ill-advised rendition of Bonnie Rait's, "I Can't Make You Love Me," and a still oft-mocked warbling of the tragic torch song "Black Coffee," which I sang with the same gusto and glee that I usually attack any national anthem, I was Julie Andrew trying to be Diana Ross. In a word: awful. And the teacher - very well-liked by many - seemed to give up on me from early days, preferring to concentrate on the budding rock stars surrounding me.
Alas, when it came time for nightclub critique, I was totally excited but also a little lost. So I chose a few innocuous jazz standards and concentrated on the part I knew I could control: My outfit.
I ventured into the big city from the 'burbs and scoured Queen West for exactly the right frock for the occasion, slapping down my mishandled student Mastercard like a pro for a flirty little number made of lime green raw silk that changed colours under the lights. Not being able to locate a pair of silver heels to match, I settled for some strappy black ones and attacked them with a can of silver spray paint. I even splurged on a visit to a nail salon and had a fake set of lengthy fingernails applied. (I cringe now to think of how much I actually paid in interest charges for those talons!) I found the right set of jewellery for a little sparkle and picked up some new nylons and a pair of false eyelashes.
I was totally ready!
The day of the critique arrived and I bustled around the dressing room, making sure I looked absolutely perfect. And then it was my turn and I strode out on to the stage...
My vague, long-buried memories of this event involve me sort of flailing around the huge space, microphone cord trailing behind me. I know I had roped a few of the guys in the class into being in one of the numbers with me, but I don't know if we ever actually rehearsed. I was supposed to have patter, which is the talking between songs part, but I can't recall saying anything. What I really remember is finally being done and coming off stage, only to realize that I had to turn back around and be critiqued in front of everyone. And it was the one time in my life where I very nearly actually ran away from a situation.
Anyway, that's kind of where I'm at about being a parent. I'm feeling really confident that this baby is going to have a cute nursery filled with good books to read and adorable outfits to wear, but I'm still not clear about what exactly I'm supposed to do with him or her once he/she arrives. I'm worried that I might not live up to everyone else around me and wind up looking back at the experience with an uncontrollable grimace of embarrassment and inescapable feelings of inadequacy.
But maybe that's how everyone feels?
Because unlike pop class, you don't get to practice every week beforehand. And maybe as a parent, you get to capitalize on your strengths more and don't have to try so hard to fit into someone else's mould. And you're not dependent on those outside critiques for a passing grade - if your child feels loved, you're good to go.
Fingers crossed! Because I already have a lullaby all picked out: Cyndi Lauper's "True Colours." Let's hope this baby likes pop music.
Week 23:
Week 24:
Week 25:
Back in my theatre school days, three years of training culminated into an onstage sort of thesis called a Nightclub Critique. (Now that I think about it, that's such a weird name. I have never in my life referred to an establishment as a "nightclub." Dance club, yes. Nightclub, no.) The idea was to put together a little solo show consisting of 3-4 songs, a back-up band, lighting... the whole works. We then had to perform this mini concert for all of the students in the three year program, plus guests and an invited panel of judges - probably close to 200 people. At the end of each act, the performer would have to come out and sit at the front of the theatre and be critiqued by the judges while everyone watched.
Wait! Maybe that's how the whole Idol franchise was created!? I have never thought about that until now.
Anyway, one of the main classes that we took to prepare for this virtuoso moment was called, in my day, pop class. As in pop music. As in the kind of music they play during morning rush hour on the radio.
My fellow classmates were AWESOME at this class. They performed the hits of Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morrisette and Sarah Mclachlan beautifully. (It was the mid-90s.) In fact, I was often brought to tears listening to them, although that may have had something to do with the extreme fatigue and constant self-doubt that comes with the theatre school territory.
My own talents in this genre did not stretch quite so far. No matter what I attempted, including an ill-advised rendition of Bonnie Rait's, "I Can't Make You Love Me," and a still oft-mocked warbling of the tragic torch song "Black Coffee," which I sang with the same gusto and glee that I usually attack any national anthem, I was Julie Andrew trying to be Diana Ross. In a word: awful. And the teacher - very well-liked by many - seemed to give up on me from early days, preferring to concentrate on the budding rock stars surrounding me.
Alas, when it came time for nightclub critique, I was totally excited but also a little lost. So I chose a few innocuous jazz standards and concentrated on the part I knew I could control: My outfit.
I ventured into the big city from the 'burbs and scoured Queen West for exactly the right frock for the occasion, slapping down my mishandled student Mastercard like a pro for a flirty little number made of lime green raw silk that changed colours under the lights. Not being able to locate a pair of silver heels to match, I settled for some strappy black ones and attacked them with a can of silver spray paint. I even splurged on a visit to a nail salon and had a fake set of lengthy fingernails applied. (I cringe now to think of how much I actually paid in interest charges for those talons!) I found the right set of jewellery for a little sparkle and picked up some new nylons and a pair of false eyelashes.
I was totally ready!
The day of the critique arrived and I bustled around the dressing room, making sure I looked absolutely perfect. And then it was my turn and I strode out on to the stage...
My vague, long-buried memories of this event involve me sort of flailing around the huge space, microphone cord trailing behind me. I know I had roped a few of the guys in the class into being in one of the numbers with me, but I don't know if we ever actually rehearsed. I was supposed to have patter, which is the talking between songs part, but I can't recall saying anything. What I really remember is finally being done and coming off stage, only to realize that I had to turn back around and be critiqued in front of everyone. And it was the one time in my life where I very nearly actually ran away from a situation.
Anyway, that's kind of where I'm at about being a parent. I'm feeling really confident that this baby is going to have a cute nursery filled with good books to read and adorable outfits to wear, but I'm still not clear about what exactly I'm supposed to do with him or her once he/she arrives. I'm worried that I might not live up to everyone else around me and wind up looking back at the experience with an uncontrollable grimace of embarrassment and inescapable feelings of inadequacy.
But maybe that's how everyone feels?
Because unlike pop class, you don't get to practice every week beforehand. And maybe as a parent, you get to capitalize on your strengths more and don't have to try so hard to fit into someone else's mould. And you're not dependent on those outside critiques for a passing grade - if your child feels loved, you're good to go.
Fingers crossed! Because I already have a lullaby all picked out: Cyndi Lauper's "True Colours." Let's hope this baby likes pop music.
Week 23:
Week 24:
Week 25:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
