View profile

Issue 25: Drinking Vinegar Straight from the Bottle

Last night I ate a handful of heart-shaped gummy candies. The kind that beckon to me from bulk bins a

Woman About the Internet

January 26 · Issue #25 · View online
I am a writer, mother, and decent human being living in Seattle, Washington. My monthly newsletter pairs perfectly with the everyday and the End of Days. I think you're swell.

Last night I ate a handful of heart-shaped gummy candies. The kind that beckon to me from bulk bins at our bougie neighborhood grocery store this time of year, covered in nonpareils. A few hours later, I brushed my teeth and spit bright red, barely phased for a moment that it might be blood. I say this not as a gleaming example of how very chill I am (believe me, I am a walking molten core of anxiety whose skin suit is an amalgamation of every supposedly chill woman I have ever admired) but that I’ve grown accustomed to the wild symptoms that pregnancy delivers daily. 

Should I publish a niche coffee table book of exam room interiors?
Should I publish a niche coffee table book of exam room interiors?
Luckily, my tangled history of autoimmune disease has really primed my entire family for this journey into gestation. When your husband has seen you heal from having fourteen inches of your intestine removed he tends not to flinch when you describe what a c-section entails or panic when you call from the OBGYN’s office to relay the painful news that yes, apparently you can develop mastitis before giving birth. 
Still, there are times I find myself so stereotypically pregnant that it’s almost embarrassing. I’ve thrown a small, private fit after finding out the sandwich shop was out of meatballs with which to make me a meatball sub. I’ve teared up while John Legend’s “All of Me” played gently at dusk as I navigated the aisles of Walgreens on a Tuesday night. I’ve had the sudden urge to drink vinegar straight from the bottle. 
All of my deep thoughts as of late are true stoner revelations. “Man,” I say to Jacob as we watch hours of talking heads on cable news, “all of these people came out of women whose bodies told them to grow their bones and joints and eyeballs and lungs and now they’re all shouting at each other on TV.” I think about our baby, currently the size of a baseball mitt, listening to the muffled TV voices. She flips and kicks as if to have an opinion about the world around her. I am forever thankful that my body took the wheel on growing her as it would be a nearly impossible task for me to remember to multiply all of those cells. She has a tibia, for Christ’s sake. Two of them! I forgot what a tibia was until the ultrasound technician began measuring the baby’s tiny bones on screen.
We’ve officially been living in our house for three years today, during which time we’ve managed to thoroughly futz with its interior, build an entire cottage for my mothers in the backyard, and a little fence out front. If I said this was all part of some master parenting plan I would be giving myself far too much credit. But I will note that while worrying things into being is not a technique I’d recommend for anyone’s mental health, it has worked for me so far. Let’s call it creative visualization driven by my very own personal brand of anxiety. At least I’m not in charge of remembering all of those bones. 
I love you and you are deserving of great things.
xo Drew
Need to catch up on an issue? Explore the archives right here.
Some of my other writing lives here. If you’d like to follow me on Instagram, you can do so right here. I also hang out on Twitter.
Did you enjoy this issue?
If you don't want these updates anymore, please unsubscribe here.
If you were forwarded this newsletter and you like it, you can subscribe here.
Powered by Revue
Seattle, WA