Sunday Solace

It's Sunday, and I figure that Sunday is the appropriate day to dial it down a little and seek some sort of desperately needed spiritual solace for the coming week. For me, this solace comes in many forms, whether it be meditation, breathing, praying, writing and/or reading something that is genuine.

I recently read a book called Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott, a book given to me by a person named Gracia. Gracia sent the book via mail with this sticky note affixed to the cover: "I don't know about you, but chickies and bunnies got real old. Here's a different take on the baby thing. Enjoy."

First of all, I have to say that this is the only "parenting" book I've been able to get through without feeling absolute fear and consternation, and maybe this is because the book is actually a memoir. It details the first year of Anne's life with her new son, Sam, and how she absolutely has to rely on her community and her faith to make it through. It is both funny and witty, and extremely genuine. I identified with this part especially, though its only solace is that I get to say, "At least I'm not the only one". Here's the excerpt:

from June 16

I'm trying to keep my faith high, but I feel sort of disgusted and puzzled by God right now. It makes me think of Sam's gratuitous looting; God standing there bored at his table, dropping or letting people's lives drop, to the floor. It's like he doesn't even care, isn't even paying attention. It's like James Joyce said: he's doing his nails.

I have a friend named Anne, this woman I've known my entire life, who took her two year old up to Tahoe during the summer. They were staying in a rented condominium by the lake. And of course, it's such a hotbed of gambling that all the rooms are equipped with shades that block out every speck of light so you can stay up all night in the casinos and sleep all morning. One afternoon, she put the baby to bed in a his playpen in one of these rooms, in the pitch-dark and went to do some work. A few minutes later she heard the baby knocking on the door from inside the room., and she got up, knowing he'd crawled out of his playpen. She went to put him down again, but when she got to the door, she found he'd locked it. He had somehow managed to push in the little button on the doorknob. So he was calling to her, "Mommy, Mommy," and she was saying to him, "Jiggle the doorknob, darling," and and he didn't speak much English - mostly he seemed to speak Urdu. After a moment, it became clear to him that his mother couldn't open the door, and the panic set in. He began sobbing. So my friend ran around like crazy trying everything possible... And there he was in the dark, this terrified little child. Finally she did the only thing she could, which was to slide her fingers underneath the door where there was a one-inch space. She kept telling him over and over to bend down and find her fingers. Finally somehow he did. So they stayed like that for a really long time., on the floor, him holding onto her fingers in the dark. He stopped crying. She kept wanting to go call the fire department or something, but she felt that contact was the most important thing... So she kept saying, "Open the door now,"and every so often he would jiggle the knob, and eventually, after maybe half an hour, it popped open.

I keep thinking of that story, how much it feels like I'm the two-year-old in the dark and God is the mother and I don't speak the language. She could break down the door if that struck her as being the best way, and ride off with me on her charger. But instead, via my friends and my church and my shabby faith, I can just hold onto her fingers underneath the door. It isn't enough, and it is.

Completely Extracted

So, I had a tooth extracted on Monday. For those of you who have had this procedure done, you know that it isn't a pleasant experience. That being said, it could have been much worse. (Have Rich tell you the story about Dr. Death extracting some extra teeth..)

What occurred to me as I sat in the chair with several metal "instruments" sticking out of my mouth was not that my cheek skin was being stretched to its maximum uh.. stretch-itude, nor was I curious about what exactly was making that high pitched "sawing" sound. It was actually that, for some odd reason, I needed to be able to "handle" the extraction with some sort of ease and dignity if I am expected to, in 3 months, give birth to a baby. I felt like I was having some sort of dress rehearsal for a big event, a notion that is COMPLETELY mad seeing as one does not relate to the other - wrong doctor type, wrong body parts, wrong everything. The only thing the two situations might have in common is that there were needles involved, and a great deal of stress on my part. Oh, and both cases involve matter being "extracted" from my body.

The point is that having the tooth extracted was more of a mental battle to me. If I'm not brave for something this minor, then how in the hell am I going to perform in the majors? If proven unsuccessful, the baby will have to apply for college via my womb.

In the end, I think I did OK. I did ask for more of the numbing stuff so that I wouldn't actually feel anything but pressure. Things got a little "iffy" half-way through. I did leave the office with a swollen, stunned and betrayed, "How could you do this to me?" look on my face, especially after the special connection we made. And I sort of meant it, seeing as I felt totally vindicated when I "stole" a complimentary toothbrush from the lavatory. That'll show 'em.

But the doctor told me that I was a good patient. And I told him that he performed the best extraction I've ever had. So there you go. That means.. Well, it means nothing really. But I feel like I've had some sort of victory.

Just when you thought I couldn't gripe anymore, ours goes to eleven

People lie. They do. And, as a veteran teacher, I'm pretty good at reading the bullshit meter. So that's why I was dumbstruck that I actually believed all of those "mommy and me" types who talk about the wonder of being pregnant. And yes, though Jenny McCarthy has already said it under the guise of comedy, and though "the girlfriends" act like they've been brutally honest, mostly by crossing out the word "nine" and putting the word "ten" in parenthesis, I'm here to tell you, straight up, that pregnancy is not at all about "feeling the baby's butterfly kicks" and "nesting" in some "serene" and "beautifully glowing" moment in your life.

It effing sucks.

It's about your hips separating from your torso; waking jolting up in the middle of the night, not just to pee (for the fiftieth time), but because you've just realized that you've vurped in your mouth and now you are choking on it; it's about your stomach being in your throat and your spleen filling out a residence card in Canada. There are aches in parts of your body that you didn't know could ache. And it's tiring. So, so tiring. And before you accuse me of being overly hormonal and whiny (oh yes, another endearing side effect), please don't be the person who would just like to remind me that, "it's worth it in the end because you'll be bringing home that beautiful baby, after having pushed him, screaming, out of your vagina. All the pain will melt away, except that you'll have to sit on ice for the next three months, and you will be consumed by the little life that is now and forever a part of yours. And aww! Look at how teeny his hands are.."

Ew. I just vurped again.

I think they forgot to mention all of the nights we'll be up taking care of a colicky baby and making deals with God to just please "make it stop". And there will be lots of poop. Lots of poop. And worry - about the baby, about the finances, about fading into nothingness because I'll have surrendered wholly to the idea that I will never be a full person again.. And then after a grace period of learning wonder and Disneyland (i.e. ages 3-9, when parents tend to conceive again), the pre-teen and teenage years sneak-in with the sole purpose of kicking our 40 somethings' asses.

I keep having to remind myself that I chose this. And maybe if I try to anchor myself in some sarcasm reality, I might actually find the experience pleasant. But one thing is FOR CERTAIN: next time Rich is carrying the baby.

Democracy is an act.

"Democracy is not a state. It is not some high plateau that we struggle to reach so we can finally settle down to rest. Democracy is an act. It is an act that requires participation, organization, and dedication to the highest principles. It is an act, a series of actions that require us to continuously verify our commitment to civil rights and social justice at every challenge."

- John Lewis
American Freedom Rider, 1961
United States Representative in Congress (GA) since 1987
"The conscience of the US Congress"

Dear Texans,

For the first time in a really long time we matter in a primary election. We actually get to have an opinion about which presidential candidate's name goes on the ballot. This is an exciting time for us, and it also gives us great responsibility. It is our duty to voice our opinions. PLEASE vote on March 4th. Please act.

Sincerely,
Ginger

I'm a riddle in nine syllables

So, it would be a complete understatement to say that these days I'm scared. A lot. And of course I'm afraid of childbirth (although my ObGyn patted me on the knee yesterday and reminded me that women have been birthing babies since the beginning of time and then proceeded to tell one of those "funny, funny" stories about a woman who, while delivering, let out some sort of Towanda type warrior yawp that stunned her husband into a mute, stationary trance), but it's more than that.

It's more than even being afraid about being responsible for another human being. I'm firmly confident that I can keep him clothed and fed; it's the whole "how do you keep him from climbing a bell tower with a loaded rifle" type thing, though a student reminded me today that that sort of thing might have more to do with misfiring synapses than with actual upbringing. And yeah, I AM being dramatic. But really, how do you direct a person's character? At least I've got the guidance of the ones who guided me, and I suppose you might say that I turned out OK... so far. So that's not the whole of it.

I think what frightens me most is the fact that I am losing myself. I'm walking a very fine line these days, balancing the mandatory changes that come with having a baby (those that are already here and those that are coming quickly) with being who I am, or rather who I want to be. And how will I allow my life to move forward without getting totally consumed, as most wonderful mothers are, with my baby? I am already annoyed at myself for having little conversation/thought beyond baby names and pregnant girl ailments (this blog post is exhibit A).

Also, my relationships are changing: 1. The way in which people communicate with me and 2. The way in which I communicate with others.

1. It's true that when you are pregnant, you have joined an exclusive club of mothers who are eager to swap stories. And how can you blame them for their enthusiasm? The experience of carrying and bringing another human being into the world is a freaking HUGE thing. And (apparently) if you've never done it, then you will never understand it. I'm just now learning the secret handshake, and I think in June there may even be some sort of hooded ceremony complete with a blood signed oath or something. People who don't normally talk to me are eager to know about very personal things, and they want to tell you their very personal things. And I indulge them, mostly out of respect, because what the hell do I know? I have a feeling that the "soccer mom" club is very similar.

2. I'm freaking going insane. I've been thinking about the relationships I have with people and how they are changing, and can see how easy it will be to let some go and hold some closer than ever. I've already semi-subconsciously been making double-columned mental lists that, on one side, detail hurtful past grievances that are not so healthy and that won't be healthy for my kid versus the other side, which lists the wonderful things that that person "adds to" my life. Then I obsess. What happens if I lose a really great friend just because I'll be so busy learning to be a mom? What happens if all I can think about is the color of the baby's bowel movements, and the breast milk that will (inevitably) be soaking through my shirts? What will I add to my friends' lives then? What happens if I'm too tired all of the time and I lose my creativity, which is already fading as I work at being more responsible? I'm already abandoning my rationality (clearly).

I probably have a lot more control over all of these things than I allow myself, and I know that the simple answer is wait and see. And well, just like all things in life, I suppose I'll have to do just that, though the list maker in me is cringing. Things just feel a little out of control and A LOT overwhelming.


Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Sylvia Plath

Sunshine and Sunglasses

Yesterday was a gorgeous day in the Metroplex, so we decided to make a pilgrimage to the local arboretum for some breathing time and some much needed sunshine. Here are a few pics from the day. Go to the Flickr badge to see more (and to catch a glimpse of the pregnant girl's belly!). :)

My attitude is a little un-cute

Being pregnant is so flippin' weird, and in many different ways. I'm not just talking about what's happening to my body which, by the way, is some crazy shit. For example, I have a weird ache where my right leg is attached to my torso and I'm convinced that in the night my leg actually fell off and little fairy-like beings reattached it before I woke up, and I'm still sore from that "procedure" even though the work was exceptionally flawless.

I'm not talking about the baby either, though it is pretty cool that he apparently has great taste in music and performed some sort of Snoopy-like happy dance this morning to a sensational bluesy guitar riff. He also dug the music from the movie, Juno (or maybe he loved the movie itself because it is a GREAT film), and kicked the whole way through. He also responds to the new Alicia Keys song, "No One."

I think what I actually mean is that people respond to me in very odd ways. For example, people want to touch me in places that don't normally get touched in public. Well, not in visible public anyway. They want me to perform odd experiments on myself like: Go in a dark closet and shine a light on your stomach. It'll make the baby squirm and that's funny. People rub my belly like one might rub the Buddha or a baldhead (for luck). They talk to my belly button. They comment about my breast size (mostly in favorable terms which is nice for a change). They tell me I look well, or that I'm cute pregnant (as opposed to all of those un-cute pregnant girls). They comment on my weight, on my clothes, my "glow". One lady made fun of the fact that I was eating a pop tart for breakfast, only it was a witty quip cloaked in a warning about pop tarts being bad for babies. I mean geez. Where was my stalk of breakfast broccoli?

Last night I was out having dinner with the Fougs. We wanted to share a dessert and we picked the ice cream cake. Sure, the cake had the word "Kahlua" in it, but I thought I would ask if it was actual Kahlua or simply Kahlua flavoring. I knew that if it did have any alcohol in it, it probably wouldn't have been much. So I decided I would ask, but before I could even point to the picture, the waitress leaned over me and said, "Oh no. That has alcohol in it and babies don't like alcohol." So I hastily (and somewhat self-consciously) pointed at the next picture and that's the dessert we got. The waitress then checked back to see if "the baby liked the dessert" we picked. I hope so, because it wasn't what we wanted. (Sorry Fougs.)

First of all, what the hell? How is what I consume or don't consume any of her business? At least the Pop-tart lady was someone I know. And secondly, I'm not drinking tequila shots or beer or wine or ANYTHING alcoholic, though my doctor actually told me to have a glass of wine every now and then to relieve some of my anxiety, a condition far worse for the baby than an occasional glass of wine. But people do. They butt-in. They offer advice when none is needed. And the worst part is you can hardly be upset with them because they mean well. They actually believe they are doing the best thing for you, or teaching you some sort of life lesson, or they want to somehow be a part of it for whatever Freudian reason.

This is hardly a new concept, and I do recognize that community child rearing involves many people being in one’s personal space. “It takes a village” and whatnot. But it’s still weird.

We're Famous!

I had been floundering back and forth on whether or not I wanted to attend the Salon this semester seeing as by the end of it I may be too fat to actually fit in the circle-o-conversation. But then I received the Dallas Institue for Humanities brochure of Spring classes in the mail and saw this next to the "Friday Night Salon" entry:

How could we say no?

We brought sharpies to sign autographs and all, but people really didn't seem too interested. Sucks to their asthmars! Whatevs. We know what's what. But actually having our picture in the brochure is hilarious because we actually know nothing and attend the Salon so that we can surround ourselves with smart folks who know better than we do in an attempt to learn a thing or two about the world. You gotta love irony..

February Salon Topics

The salon topics this week are really, REALLY good ones. I would love to hear your thoughts. Also, I realized that though the comments at the salon are usually very well thought out, the delivery of the comments is not usually of any significant length. In other words, if you want to contribute a wordy response - like I usually do - that's fine, but also just a one sentence, initial thought is completely good, too.

Everyone is welcome to contribute! Here are the topics:

1. What are the limits of forgiveness?
2. Is desire for freedom natural and universal?
3. Mass denial of impending catastrophe: any way around it?

Oh Boy!

Rich and I are proud to announce that we are having a baby boy! A tall, skinny, gangly nerd boy, just like all the other men in Rich's family. And we LOVE that idea! All looks healthy and normal for the baby, which is a relief! I lost two more pounds which is BAD BAD BAD, but I'm trying to help it by eating more frequently throughout the day, instead of trying to eat three meals a day. I am supposed to have gained 10-15 pounds by now, and I've gained a total of 4. But the baby is fine! :) He is a little miracle and we are so excited! Now. About names...