I've tried really hard not to be that whiny "I can't take this anymore" pregnant person, but I can no longer hold back. I'm tired and big and swollen and puffy and trapped in the house with a cough. It's snowy and cold outside, meaning the satellite dish was snowed under on the roof for two days and I missed the finales of all of my favorite American shows that are on season six in the U.S. and season two here. Who won Top Chef four seasons ago? My blood pressure jumped for a day, and I was on pre-eclampsia watch with my swollen sausage legs and feet up. But I only had three Italian channels so I was really bored. Now my coccyx hurts. I was told I have to bring my own salt, pepper, sugar and parmesan (if I want it for my pasta) to the hospital with me and that sent me over the edge. Do I pay 40 percent of my salary in taxes for nothing? Can these people really not provide me with a sprinkle of parmesan for my pasta? It's bad enough I have to bring my own diapers and bandages and coffee cup (for when they come around with coffee - no coffee cup, no caffè), cutlery and napkins, but now they are hitting me up for basic food condiments as well. I bought paper cups (for tea, I don't drink coffee) and plastic cutlery so I won't have to go in the communal bathroom and wash things every day like some kind of gypsy in the train station. Fortunately, I hate parmesan but what if I'm sharing a room with four women with parmesan in their bags? That'll be really gross since I'm sure we won't have dorm fridges.
I really am just ready to meet the baby, and I am sure that when I see him, all of this ridiculousness on which I am focusing will just melt away. I got all of the information for signing Dylan up to be a U.S. citizen at the consulate and getting his Social Security number. I have to jump through all of these hoops to prove I'm a "real" American and not just an imposter with a U.S. passport and a U.S. birth certificate. They want old tax returns, pay stubs, electric bills, high school transcripts and diplomas, Homecoming dance photos of me from the 1980s with fluffy hair. Whatever will show I'm "authentic." I have to prove I lived in the U.S. for at least three years as a child and two years after the age of 14. Uh, OK!
I'll keep you all updated. Those of you for whom I have a cell phone number, I've put you into my Italian phone for a special SMS alert when baby arrives. I don't seem to have any problem sending messages to Cingular or T-Mobile customers, for example. Keep checking back. You know, the hospital doesn't provide Band-Aids or parmesan much less Wi-Fi so I may not be on the computer for a few days. Though I'm sure when Cristiano comes home from the hospital (visiting hours for fathers end at midnight), he will send out updates. I feel better. Thanks for listening to me whine!
