Title: Cry Me a River
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Blog Entry: I knew I couldn't get much out of my mom, but if I were sly, I'd get more information from my dad. So, I asked him, what was our first house like? Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, and an apartment we rented out. My lip began to tremble. He said our other two rental houses were nothing spectacular until I was about the age of 4, when we moved into a house so grand that it was almost a part of the family: five bathrooms, four bedrooms, a sunk-ink living room, a huge greenhouse with a hot-tub in the center, all of it sitting on just over an acre of land. As my mom got back on the phone, I cried quietly. I live in an apartment. I have no garden for my baby to play in, and how in the world am I going to pay for toys? My mother said that I was crying because I was pregnant and tired ... I told her that moving to this country is one thing, but raising a child here is quite another. The next morning, the boyfriend woke up up at 9.15, obviously having forgotten that my first doctor's appointment was that day at 9. In tears again, I called the doctor, whose receptionist told me the woman is booked solid for 2 weeks, yawning at my "but I'm here in a foreign country without my family" appeal. Cried for a good part of the morning. Felt fragile most of the day. Smells are so strong that they make me want to vomit, and that makes me want to cry again. Was briefly calmed when I walked into an Indian shop because that thick smell of heavy curry was so comforting. Mom sent a text saying crying when you're pregnant is perfectly normal. Best friend here, S, who had her baby last year, confirmed it. The boyfriend was so sweet. He made dinner last night -- just a small steak and some bread and cheese -- and after we had chestnuts. He'd found me a doctor that will see me Thursday. In the middle of such a calming moment, a thought popped into my head: "How did you know where to find a good fremale obgyn?" I ask, picking up a blackened chestnut. "Well," he hesitates, seems to shrug a little, then does what he always does best: he tells the truth, even when a white lie would be welcome. "I asked Rosaria." I hear a crack as the chestnut in my hand is suddenly crushed. Tears come again. He knows I can't stand Rosaria ... how could he do this? I fume for another ten minutes. What a hellish day. I cry a little in the bathroom, and then, enough. I'm so emotional that I'm annoying myself. This can't go on. Besides, I have too much to do today: I have to work, to figure out how I'm going to buy a house with a garden for my little baby ... I have a doctor's appointment to cancel.
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