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adventures of a half-chinese yalie in hollywood

I’m Ready to be a Mom! But Not Till I’m a Wife

I’m Ready to be a Mom! But Not Till I’m a Wife

Now that I have those Beyoncé pregnancy-related GIFs out of my system, let’s be candid.

I’ve always been serious about settling down. I truly don’t care how unpopular, pathetic or retrograde this makes me seem. Just as Josh’s date, falsely quoting Hamlet, was corrected by Cher, correctly quoting Polonius: “To thine own self be true.”

Friends! Though he isn't sure.
Friends! Though he isn’t sure.

I used to walk to work at the aforementioned converted West Hollywood bungalow, and would arrive all sweaty from the hike (professional). I’d walk through the door, make a beeline for a years-old abandoned bag of frozen soy beans in the communal Frigidaire (sanitary) and shove the soothingly chilly pods down my dress to cool down (ladylike).

Yo *soy* loca.
Yo *soy* loca.
Like so.
Roughly like so.

Upon my coworker Sam’s inevitably horrified expression, I’d shift the bag to my womb area and loudly announce, “I’m ready to be an edamame!”

I know what you’re thinking, and yes — I was handily voted Employee of the Year 5 years running. (In my mind.)

"Booting up" for motherhood
Booting up for motherhood?

All gratuitous puns, inappropriate workplace behavior and unsanitary practices aside, I am ready to be a mom. I am from Georgia, after all, and I never was one of those types to think my career needs to explode before my waist circumference does. Scary phrasing! But on that note, I’m also just young and stubborn enough not to worry that having a kid will inevitably blow my body to hell (ridiculous terminology/idea whose very premise I abhor, but I’m just citing common arguments). I mean, you can still run 50 miles/week all the way up to your delivery date, right? (Rhetorical question.)

This poor baby is being paraded around like he's mine in this blog. He's not! (Obviously.) But he's the son of one of Deepak's closest friends and is very dear.
This poor baby is being paraded around like he’s mine in this blog. He’s not! (Obviously.) But he’s the son of one of Deepak’s closest friends and is very dear.

To be clear, there is absolutely no way I will become pregnant before getting married. (Stock answer for my mom/maternal grandmother: “Indeed, it is medically impossible, as Violet Inviolate shall carefully uphold the nightly tradition of chastely kissing Deepak on the cheek, thence repairing to her segregated bedchambers.”)

This was the day baby discovered the riotously fun air vent at Manhattan Beach's MB Creamery. What a coincidence! We also make that face when going there.
This was the day baby discovered the riotously fun air vent at Manhattan Beach’s MB Creamery. What a coincidence! We also make that face when going there.

There are 2 primary safeguards assuring prenuptial nulligravida.

1. The wedding dress I have is too small. I don’t currently fit it — again, at 50 miles/week and fairly reasonable indulgences. There’s nary the space for an errant quaff of water, for goodness’ sake, let alone a blastula.

Added benefit: We'll take the time to enjoy a few more of these.
Added benefit: We’ll take the time to enjoy a few more of these.
And be shellfish a little while longer.
And be shellfish a little while longer.

2. Finally, they don’t make bridal parkas strong enough to withstand the polar winds of opprobrium I would receive from my mother and maternal grandmother on the occasion of becoming premaritally pregnant (again, please see “Georgia upbringing”).

This is our "little one" for now.
This is our “little one” for now.
Or him?
Or him?


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