Butter . . . Duh

Isn't she adorable? AJ loves the Christmas tree. I have to say, though, I was right; we have not gotten another full night's sleep since Abby accomplished that a few nights ago. And lately, her evenings are characterized by fussiness, alternating comatose sleep (with weird, exorcist-baby eyes rolling up in her head) with inconsolable screaming and peaceful, eyes-open near-smiling. Right now I am so tired that I could go to bed immediately. I suspect, however, that my daughter is going to be up again in 40 minutes or so for more eating. (It's 8 p.m. right now.) After that I can go to bed. Dave would spell me while I went upstairs right now, but he is out for his annual steakhouse dinner with the guys. So it's just me and the girl right now. I'll make up some more bottles, then feed her one, and then strap on the Bjorn and take her upstairs. I hope that tonight I avoid the horrible nightmares I've been having lately.

Has anyone noticed that there are now more commercials for video games than for movies? My friend Brett, the video-game developer, probably finds that gratifying at least to the extent that his business is booming. Or, perhaps this is a skewed view I have because I watch Tivo'd reruns of Star Trek that're on in the middle of the night. I also see a lot of promos for "Girls Gone Wild" and such.

I'm reading A Year of Roses, which was a Christmas gift from D. I love it. I've decided I want to try to grow roses, and this book is a classic, that breaks down rose growing into months, explaining what you need to do in each month. I have since found out that it's tough to grow roses in Maryland because of our long, hot, humid summers, and our frequent freeze/thaw cycles with little snow in the winter. I'm sure I'll do great, considering I have exactly 3 houseplants that haven't died and that really has nothing to do with me, as opposed to D. Anyway, the book is well-written and interesting, with old-fashioned hand-drawn botanical illustrations.

Product review: Williams-Sonoma does these wonderful frozen croissants and pains au chocolat . . . you just put them out overnight to rise and bake them in the morning. They are decadent and fabulous. I'm going to put a plain croissant out right now. Then I just microwave some milk (approximating steaming, when I'm too lazy to turn on the espresso machine) and add decaf coffee for a faux cafe au lait. For some reason, Starbuck's (those that still serve them) have started calling plain croissants "butter croissants." Isn't that like calling a Hershey bar a "chocolate Hershey bar"? A bit redundant? Are consumers really this unworldly?

I could be grouchy because I'm so tired. Maybe I'll go have one of the pizzelles D made, to try to wake up.

I miss my blogging buddies. Come home soon!

Richard Curtis

I love Richard Curtis. I don't care that it's the same jokes, the same dialogue, the same actors all the time. Blackadder, Four Weddings, The Vicar of Dibley, Bridget Jones, even The Edge of Reason and Love Actually. I love him. Supposedly his next project is the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, which seems like a bit of a stretch, but then I haven't read the novel -- is it full of impossibly eloquent, though idiomatic British characters? One of my favorite Richard Curtis bits of all time: Hugh Laurie as an idiot George III in Blackadder, trying to pronounce the word "antidisestablishmentarianism," and going through many versions before setttling on "antidistinctlyminty." And possibly my favorite of his jokes: "A woman's doorbell rings. She's just got out of the shower, and is half-naked, so she shouts, 'Who's there?' The person says, 'A blind man' -- so she decides to let him in. 'Nice tits,' he says; 'now where d'you want the blinds hung?" Well done, you.

I Forgot

1. Does anyone have a good Bloody Mary recipe?

2. I read a user-question on some baby site that said, "is it okay that I dress my baby in pajamas all day?" I scoff. (It is okay, right?)

3. Has anyone used www.sittercity.com or any other central repository to find a part-time babysitter? I'm thinking of someone to come over when I go to physical therapy, or when D and I want to go see "Atonement," which I'm sure will happen.

4. I heard a GREAT idea for a babysitting co-op the other day. More on that later; it's not worth wasting sleeping-baby time to tell you about it. Cheers.

A Snapshot

S, our 6 year old, lately is full of conversation. I mean, she always was, but now she has no interest whatsoever in not talking. She also composes stories (or maybe she's recalling them from books) and regales us with them, through all manner of disruptions. I feel pretty sure that if the house were burning down but she was in the middle of a story, she would keep talking over the sounds of crashing timbers and crackling upholstery. She is also absolutely beautiful. Her hair is so long -- she professes an intention to let it grow to her feet, which always makes me think of Crystal Gayle, who probably only washed her hair once a week and with the help of four people. I hope her mother (S's, not Crystal's) doesn't let it get that far. S also loves lengthy and somewhat tedious guessing games. Tedious because they're like this: she says, "I am thinking of a type of leaf. Can you guess what it is?" She also needs a lesson in tact, but I for one am not sure how or whether to give it to her. Examples: "this light show is more boring than last year" or "I don't even like these books [which she forgot that I had given her] anyway." Obviously that's not right -- but what do I do? In the latter case, I said, "Well, I wish you had said that in a different way, because I bought those books for you and it makes me feel bad to know that you don't like them." I probably blew it.

S's new boyfriend is Mitchell. I am surprised by how matter-of-fact she is about having a boyfriend. No blushing or giggling . . . in her mind, obviously everybody knows that each 6 year old girl either does or should have a boyfriend. So in that she's probably right on target with popular opinion among 6 year olds (similar to 36 year olds). This makes me think of the scene in "Love, Actually" where the little boy finally tells Liam Neeson that his big crisis is "the total agony of being in love", and when Liam says, "what does she -- he -- feel about you?" Are there 6 year old girls with girlfriends? Boys with boyfriends? I wonder; I keep reading that modern teenagers, for example, are so much more bi-curious and "bi-active" than we were, although they just kind of don't identify themselves with a sexual preference. It's a free for all, I guess. [How did I get on that topic? No wonder my mother-in-law is distressed by my blog.] I had a "boyfriend" in first grade, come to think of it. That meant we kissed once and that we had an especially good time playing together. So maybe things haven't changed that much. One thing I've noticed: S knows everything about Mitchell's preferences. His favorite food, day of the week, color, probably his favorite type of leaf. I am not sure whether I think that skill of deciphering boys will serve her well in the future, or if I should be teaching her to care less what they think and to spend more time deciding what she thinks. I think I just answered my own question.

Our 4 year old boy, R, is changing even faster. He is so articulate, even when he doesn't know the right words. He knows all the nursery-rhyme songs and will sing them with gusto (and repeatedly) when prompted. He still loves to shake his naked butt before bathtime while singing "Shake Your Booty," and he laughs deep in his belly. He is passionately in love with television. The other day, I also heard him wandering around humming the leitmotif for the Empire from the Star Wars movies (no, we didn't let him watch them, but I guess mom did). His hair is ever-so-slightly darkening. Because he looks exactly like D did at that age, we're pretty sure that eventually -- by high school, say -- he will have his dad's black hair instead of the red/gold/platinum he has had til now. R is also incredibly sweet to Abby. He kisses her head so gently, and he shows real wonder and joy when she does things like grasp his finger in her tiny fist. I think they're going to be real buddies. R is also very much a boy -- a rambunctious child bursting with energy who runs pell-mell around the house and often shows affection with head butts. It doesn't help that he realizes he looks just like Dash from The Incredibles. We need a movie or kids' show about some sedentary boy to come along and enrapture him.

Abby, meanwhile, is 8 1/2 pounds now, and -- hold your breath -- she actually slept through the night last night. I was so shocked when she woke me and I saw that the clock read 4:54 that I woke D up just to tell him. Typically, of course, I was worried there was something horribly wrong, while D was going, "Oh, good girl!!!!" She is gaining plenty of weight and getting plenty of formula, so I know she's fine. More than fine. I'm sure we won't get another night like that for a while, but she does seem to be an expert sleeper (like her mama). She has started sticking out her tongue, possibly because we stick ours out at her, and she is very interested in looking at our faces, although she does look away, too. I've read that when babies look away, you should let them. Never move to reestablish yourself in their field of vision, because they're looking away to avoid overstimulation. I am very sympathetic to the desire to avoid overstimulation. Unfortunately, Abby Jane has also lately waited until her diaper is off to pee, which is kind of not the point. I have washed a LOT of clothes in a LOT of Dreft.

For some reason, the cat has taken periodically to peeing on our shower mat, speaking of peeing. He seems okay with the baby, but maybe this is his way of demonstrating annoyance at the relative drop in attention from me. All I know is that if he pees on our wedding photos again, I won't be able to stop D from killing him. The dog, Bailey, has developed a very protective streak for Abby, having apparently realized that she's a little person. If the baby is crying and I'm not responding, say because I'm in the kitchen trying to heat up her bottle, the dog will come find me, as if to say, "But Anne, you need to help the baby -- she's distressed." Or maybe she's saying, "Can you not hear that?? What's wrong with you? Make it stop!"

Finally, D and I are tired, but I think we're doing okay. (I wonder if he agrees? Maybe I should ask him.) Sometimes his experiences with S and R, and the calm assurance that comes from them, is extremely reassuring, but when I'm less charitable, it can be annoying. Of course, it doesn't come close to the level of annoyance I provide for him. Luckily, neither of us seems to respond to sleep deprivation with overt irritability -- most of the time -- so we're doing pretty well. We are even hosting a little bit on Christmas.

My physical symptoms haven't gone away. I am not using the walker very much, but more because it's inconvenient than because I'm not wobbly. [I must say, it's also inconvenient not to have the walker, though. I had sort of used it as a moving end table; carrying the phone handset, the TV remote, my cup of tea, whatever . . . .] I carry Abigail on the stairs in the Baby Bjorn each morning because that way I can use both hands to steady myself and move slowly. Around the house, between the beds and cradles and couches and Pack N Plays, we do okay. I don't think I could descend the stairs with her in one arm. I can't hold her with only one arm that long. I keep watching for improvements, but I think it's going to be impossible until (a) my c-section stops hurting completely, (b) my back stops hurting and (c) I can get back to physical therapy and get my muscles going again. This is supposed to be allowed after my 6-week appt with the ob-gyn. I am optimistic. Much of what I feel now seems to be related to fatigue, atrophy, and muscle spasms/tightness, rather than neurological deficits. We'll see if the doctors agree in the beginning of February, when I do the rounds at Hopkins again. Happily, right now I only weigh 5 pounds more than I did before I got pregnant, but unhappily, I was already about 15 pounds overweight before I got pregnant and I also have absolutely no muscle tone left (which, of course, weighs more).

The baby is sleeping. What the heck am I doing blogging? I should be taking the opportunity to eat something, or at least wrap some presents. Why don't you do that, too -- go eat something, or wrap a present for someone?

Coming Into Being

This is the first time since I became a Christian in 1994 that I did not notice the beginning (or even the middle) of Advent. Of course, Advent is the season of four weeks before Christmas, and it is an especially big deal in the (my) Episcopal Church. In 1998 or so I wrote a piece for my then church's Advent readings devotional; every year since then I tried to write something, even if only for myself, and I devoted more time and energy to spiritual reading and prayer. The past few years I have been reading "Watch for the Light", a collection of Advent and Christmas Christian readings published by Plough Publishing (as in, formerly swords?). This is not easy stuff; we're not talking Hot Chocolate for the Christian Soul, or anything. These are the likes of Bonhoeffer and Eckhart and Nouwen. I love the book, but this year I forgot all about it (and Advent) until December 18 or so. My advent wreath, which is an artificial (in my case) evergreen wreath with holders for four candles, one to be lit on each Sunday in Advent, sits aside, no candles in it.

In the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the non-Christian meaning given for "advent" is "coming into being or use." How interesting, then, that the advent of Abigail occurred this year, this year when the advent of Christ almost escaped my notice. This has been a cautionary concept for me -- not that I am giving myself a hard time for being distracted, overtired, stressed, and sick -- I feel that it's going to be increasingly important in my life to remember His Advent and to acknowledge it with the bending of knee and the pouring out of all the passionate gratitude I feel.

Both the Christ and Abby Jane were of course babies at their advent, and both were "begotten, not made," as the Creed states (though I'll acknowledge she was begotten in a much more pedestrian way). The other day, as I was listening to Christmas music on our satellite channel, "Silent Night" came on. Bing Crosby, or Andy Williams, or someone like that. Abby Jane happened to be in my arms, drinking a bottle, and I was looking down into her little face, quietly singing along to the song. All at once, the words struck me -- lyrics I've heard and sung a thousand times: "Holy infant so tender and mild, Jesus, Lord at Thy birth, Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth." The enormity of God choosing to become this tiny, helpless, poopy and sleepy and precious little sort of creature -- an infant -- really hit me for the first time. My tears dripped onto Abby's face. (She didn't mind.) Infants are indeed so tender, so mild. I was taught that our estrangement from God is the reason that we grownups are neither so tender nor so mild. I guess my wish for the rest of this Advent and for the rest of my life that I try to be as worthy of that little infant Savior as I try to be of my infant daughter.

One last thing and I'll ease up on the religious stuff. I know that those of you who read this blog are of varying religious or spiritual beliefs and practices. Nevertheless, I'm going to make a blanket request of all of you, and also ask you to pass on the address of this blog and pass on the request to anyone you know whose heart might embrace it. My request is that you pray for my little family, for D and me, for S & R my stepkids, and for little Abby Jane. I request that you pray for my health to be restored, for our troubles and stresses and fears and sorrows to be eased. Please pray that we get the chance in 2008 to live life laughing together, enjoying each other, growing and exploring, instead of trying to learn how to stick together and survive. Although I am so grateful for Abby and my other kids, and so grateful for the strong bonds that developed between me and D this year, I fervently, desperately pray that next year be a better one for all of us. Please pray that we will all be closer to God, and that this is the advent of our new lives full of Christ's peace, which as we know, He freely gives.

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. John 14:27

Peace on Earth

Well, I've done it. I have a baby. More than that, I have a daughter. "Daughter" sounds much more permanent, somehow; I guess because it is. She won't be a baby for long (unfortunately), but she will be my daughter for the rest of my life. She is a fabulous creature. Beautiful, fascinating, demanding periodically with these long periods of peacefulness between. She has huge, dark, blue eyes (for now) and dark hair that starts at her ear line like an old man. She also has perfect ears. And hands, and precious little lips that smile in her sleep.

I've decided that Abigail is the perfect name. Abigail Adams, Abigail Bartlet -- she has a dignified and adult choice to resort to when introducing herself -- but she is also approachable Abby, and lovey and sweet Abby Jane to her mama.

I keep taking extreme close-up pictures of her face, because it is so expressive and miraculous. Every time I look at her, I smile, and every time I watch her face go through its constant contortions of emotion and surprise at new sensations and curiosity and yawning and sneezing, I laugh aloud (with her, not at her, of course). I adore this child, and I fervently pray to God that She will keep Abigail safe, that She will help her to retain that sense of peace, and that She will make me a worthy mother.

Right now, she wants to be fed. Abby, not God.

Here She Is

Abigail Jane Scott

November 16, 8:08 a.m.

6 pounds, 6 ounces

20 inches of absolute joy

No Baby Yet

There was a moment in the middle of last night when Abby was kicking gently, rhythmically, inside of me, and my husband was kicking less gently, restlessly, beside me in the bed. I was sitting upright in the dark, with my wedge pillow on its end, staring out into the darkness. I smiled at the parallels between my two sleepy, busy loves.

Why precisely my night was largely sleepless is rather a mystery, in that I'm not sure why sometimes I sleep well and at other times everything is too uncomfortable. Last night was a conspiracy between absolutely raging heartburn (I am even refluxing when lying on my slanty pillow) and pain in my sides, where the tension between my spasming back muscles and my contracting uterus appears ready to rip my abdominal muscles (or maybe it's the ligaments?) right off the bone. I keep thinking of a weightlifting competition I attended in high school (as a spectator; never fear), where I witnessed a man's pectoral muscle detach from whatever once anchored it in the middle of a bench press. There was suddenly this big bulge where the left side of his chest used to be, and he passed out from the pain and shock. Come to think of it, the whole thing bore certain similarities to uterine contractions.

This day will be over before I know it, and tomorrow is full of doctors' visits and pre-admission blood testing, so I assume it will fly by, too. Before I know what's happened, I'll be headed off to Sibley in the very early morning Friday (I'm to be there at 5:30 am) to have this baby. I don't feel scared right now -- I feel more excitement and anticipation and curiosity than anxiety. All I can think about on the negative side is IVs, which I really loathe, and otherwise I am just full of mental images of a beautiful new baby girl cuddling with her daddy and me -- the most precious thing that anyone could spend so many months working and praying for. God bless her. God bless all of us.

p.s. I can't wait to wear real clothes! I am craving silk charmeuse blouses like I have been known of late to crave chocolate ice cream . . . .

Here She Comes

Sorry to everyone I owe an email -- Aunt Syl, Deb, many others! Quick update: I went into premature labor on Friday, and we went to the hospital on the instructions of Dr. Fraga. They stopped the labor with terbutaline shots, gave me a couple of steroid shots (ow! that ain't fair! givin' a gal a shot down there! interjections . . . ) to boost Abby's lung development just in case, and sent me home on bed rest. On Thursday, we have our regular ob appointment, and we'll go off the terbutaline, and if Abby comes, she comes -- at that point she'll be 36 weeks.

The other news is that because of the neurological complications, they're going to do the C-section under general anesthesia instead of awake with an epidural as is usually the case these days. I am somewhat disappointed that I won't be awake for her arrival, but at least I won't have to lie there anxious.

More later, folks -- I need to lie down. We're all fine here; send your good vibes!

p.s. It's clear to me that Abby tried to please her daddy by coming into the world on a Ravens bye week (so he wouldn't miss a game), but her best intentions were thwarted. Instead she'll probably end up coming during this Monday's night football game -- Steelers versus Ravens!!

Secret Society?

In other, related news, I had a phone conversation that actually sent me into shock last night. The conversation was with Tracy L., a friend of a friend of D's friend Jen. Tracy had a child 3 years ago, her second, and about 3 weeks after she gave birth, she very suddenly couldn't walk, had disorienting diplopia, and experienced weakness and tingling in her extremities. (True, she didn't have neck surgery, but then, she didn't have preexisting spinal stenosis, either.) The docs told her she had MS, but she had no lesions on her brain scans and nothing wrong with her spinal fluid. Her (female) neurologist suspected it wasn't MS at all, but an immune response of some kind to the pregnancy hormones. Unfortunately, the neurologist couldn't find any research at all, even case studies, to back up that hypothesis. She asked Tracy to stop breastfeeding anyway, so that the hormones would more quickly flush out of her system. It's not clear to me how soon after she stopped breastfeeding that her problems went away, but she said that, in all, it was about five months of symptoms and then suddenly, everything just cleared up. Although most of her doctors would still say that Tracy has MS, she hasn't had any recurrence of symptoms in the 2 1/2 years since she got healthy, which is a much longer time period, she said, than one would normally see between MS episodes.

Interesting. As if that weren't enough -- Tracy also has several close friends who are ob-gyns, and they told her that what happened to her "happens all the time." Through them, she spoke to a handful of women from San Francisco to New York, all of whom went through exactly the same thing she did -- but all, like her, after giving birth. I am the only person she's heard of to go through this during pregnancy.

Tracy reassured me, saying she is certain that what I'm experiencing is pregnancy-related and that it will go away soon. Her advice was (a) not to breastfeed -- get rid of the hormones ASAP and (b) never go on the Pill, something else her neurologist told her. We compared Pill stories. I actually never used the Pill, because the first time I tried it, I had horrible, over-the-top responses to the hormones. Just like Tracy did. I didn't tell Tracy about my bipolar disorder, but of course that is very hormone-dependent, too. From my layperson's point of view, this seems to fit into a very coherent picture. Something like, Hormones = Bad.

I guess one reason my discussion with Tracy, revelation and relief that it was, put me into shock is that I had never considered that breastfeeding would have anything to do with it. Another reason, I suppose, is that I hadn't considered the possibility that the fluctuations in hormones after I give birth could potentially act as another trigger -- I'd just been thinking that whatever hormones came into the picture when I conceived Abby didn't agree with me, so when she left, they'd go away and I'd get better. I still think that's the most likely scenario, but I guess Tracy's story scared me a little bit, too. I am certainly hoping it doesn't take nearly 6 months after Abby is born before I get my body back to the way it was meant to be.

I asked Tracy at one point whether she, like I , felt offended that there was no research on this -- even case studies -- but she just laughed. Me? It makes me mad. I guess you can take the girl out of the women's studies program, but you can't take the feminism out of the girl. Or maybe you don't need women's studies to feel annoyed by the lack of information for women -- when my brother heard this whole story, he suggested I call Oprah.

Anyway, D was obviously thrilled to hear about concrete cases of just these sorts of symptoms occurring under just these circumstances and then vanishing like a bad memory. I was, too. In fact, I was very relieved to speak to someone who could make me feel like less of an aberration, something other than a medical freak show. My intuition that this is pregnancy-related was so strong, though, that I don't think I was quite as worried as D that we'd got it all wrong and I'd be like this forever. Instead, the million dollar question for me has been how long will it take to get back to normal -- a question that remains, now alongside another question that shares its space: to breastfeed, or not to breastfeed?

Periodically Hard

Turns out I'm having "Braxton-Hicks contractions." These are like practice contractions, and apparently they are normal. They do not feel normal. They feel like someone (someone grown, not someone Abby's size) has their elbow, or forehead, or basketball shoe shoving my innards outward. My whole belly suddenly, and for a few moments, gets reallly stiff and tight and hard as a rock. Maybe I shouldn't mind, since no part of me has been hard for quite some time, but I do mind. It's hard to sit, harder to lie, impossible to sleep when this is happening. It doesn't quite hurt, but it is rather uncomfortable, and when I try to move during a contraction, all the sore and stretching ligaments around my bump definitely hurt.

I'm going back to watch my Bloomberg TV. In a move which has shocked me and my husband alike, my nesting instinct seems at least in part to have manifested itself in a very uncharacteristic, but voracious, need to be involved in financial planning of some sort. Whatever. Four more weeks and a wake-up. That's all I can say.

Pinch Me, Please

I dreamed that Abby came out with only one eye. A big, square eye, like a windshield in the middle of her forehead. Other than that, she seemed happy. Except that, in my dream, I kept forgetting about her. I'd go almost all day, and then see the stroller in the corner and think, "Oh, no!" and race off to the nursery, reminded that there was this baby in there who needed to be fed and cleaned. She never cried in my dream, which just made me feel worse, because she went for hours and hours with no food, no attention, and wet diapers. I even blamed her in my dream-mind: if she would only cry, I wouldn't forget she exists! Very creepy.

Sleeves and Legs

I washed my first load of baby clothes yesterday. Even someone like me who can't think properly notices the significance of that event. I got out the Dreft, that mysterious pink bottle of laundry detergent that promises not to poison your baby. Two things occur to me about Dreft -- one, I find it an amazing tactic of marketing or cultural zeitgeist or something that as a single girl you can go to age 36 or so without even *thinking* about getting pregnant, and yet you somehow know that Dreft exists, and exactly what it's for, and the moment the baby clothes appear, you dutifully go off to buy some. Two, if we need Dreft not to poison the baby, why do we put up with poisoning *ourselves* with all that other detergent?

Anyway, the Dreft came out (now, can you use Downy or Bounce sheets with Dreft, or does that put the poison right back in? I decided it did, and went without), and the huge load of clothes, towels, and blankets we got at the shower are now clean. As a matter of fact, most of them are still waiting to be folded. It's an amazing thing, folding baby clothes that are actually meant for your baby, when that baby is still inside you just kicking and dancing around. For one thing, they're so many different sizes, and it's shocking to think of how quickly she will grow. For another -- how do you fold those stretchies with legs & feet? I don't think I've ever folded something that had both sleeves & legs! The clothes are all covered with flowers, or duckies, or other pastel renditions of things that make life happy and soft. I'm all for it. I feel no need to buy overly trendy clothes in grown-up colors, at least not yet. I am still enjoying the illusion that I can make her entire world a cushy, pastel safety zone for the rest of her life. Why introduce black into the equation?

I guess I'd better stop stalling and go fold baby clothes, even though my entire torso is on fire with muscle-spasm and loosening-ligament pain. Well, maybe some Tylenol and some apple pie first -- then I'll be fortified to sit on the Dutalier nursing stool for 30 minutes while I fold tiny, legged outfits. By the way, Abby says hi -- that is, either she's waving hello or she's practicing her sun salutations. 5 weeks and two days to go!

Umm . . .

So, I could explain that the reason I've not been blogging is that I'm trying to improve the dexterity and reduce the nerve damage in my left hand by typing two-handed, the right way, and that it is so hard that it makes me crazy. Or, I could blame it on the periodic problems I've been having each day with severe spasming in my back muscles, which makes it nearly impossible to sit upright in one place long enough to complete a blog posting.

Both of those things are true, but I also have to admit they're not the real reasons Scott House has been silent on Blogspot. Unfortunately, I seem to have succumbed to yet another symptom of pregnancy (it is one, you can look it up) -- I have lost the capacity for abstract thought. If you've read my blog over time, you know that it doesn't take much to develop enough of a train of thought to give coherence to a simple blog posting. But even that minimal skill has evaded me lately, every time I've sat down to think about blogging. I'm a little surprised I managed to come up with a posting about my inability to post.

Therefore, I'm not really going to try, at least not right now. I'll simply report, for those of you who use the blog to keep up with my health and situation: I've got these crazy powerful back spasms going on, and really no improvement in my left hand (or my left tricep, which oddly is another isolated casualty of my spinal cord injury). My eyes are in pretty good shape, my walking is still a little spastic and a little wobbly, but slowly getting better. My baby girl appears happy and active -- she is shoving and jumping and doing the mambo in there, and she appears to be undergoing a rapid growth spurt. I'm almost afraid to look in the mirror when I walk past one, because I swear the belly grows an inch in circumference every time. In general, I am doing pretty well, looking forward so much to meeting her and to the possible end of most of these crazy symptoms, and grateful for all my friends and family, and especially my hubby, who are helping me get through it all.

OK, my fingers are hurting, my back is starting to scream, and . . . what was I going to say?

Chit-Chat

Sunday afternoon, the time when our neighbors' kids play soccer outside all afternoon, and the Scotts watch football. Today it's the Ravens versus Arizona -- and if I could get the game on TV, I might also be watching the Steelers play. D is at the game in Baltimore, having hosted a big tailgate from breakfast sandwiches through Arizona fajitas for lunch (matter of fact, I wish I could have one of those right now). Right now, I'm sure that he and his Dad are hollering at the top of their lungs, cheering on the offense, which looks much better than it has lately.

Meanwhile, I'm home, keeping Oscar the cat company. He had his claws taken out on Friday, and the poor kitty is still all drugged up, currently spread out on the master bedroom floor in a sunny patch. He seems to be okay, and the vet said everything went all right -- I guess I just feel extra sensitive lately to anyone who is recovering from surgery. It's good he's home, though; he was so ticked off at the vet, just hissing at everyone and looking like some kind of wild creature. Even if I say so myself, as soon as he was back with me, Oscar calmed down and started to relax into healing, licking his poor wounded paws and sticking his hindquarters in the air for a rub. The vet suggested we keep him sequestered somewhere for two days, just to make sure he didn't run around too much and re-open his wounds (they're sealed with surgical glue, just like I had on my neck).

The other day, D's grandma noticed my scar from the cervical surgery for the first time. She said, 'For some reason, I expected it to be in the back.' In fact, the scar fits rather nicely into a normal skin fold on the front of my neck. I told her that the surgeon said it is possible to go in from the back, but that for some reason I no longer recall they prefer the front. All I remember is the nuisance caused by the need to move my esophagus and windpipe out of the way to get to my spine from the front; for weeks I had weird swallowing issues and my mouth and throat made all this extra, gooey mucus to try to smooth over the trauma. Glad that's over! I have another recent scar, too -- on my right big toe, where I had bunion surgery in February -- the bones shaved, realigned, and screwed together with what looked on the X-ray like comically large screws. The toe hurts a little, now and then, usually only because the arches of my feet have completely collapsed with the loosening of pregnancy. Funny to think now about how much I complained during the recovery from the toe surgery.

And soon -- 8 weeks from last Friday, on November 16 -- I'm going to undergo another serious surgery, and incur another scar, when I have a C-section to get Abigail out. I am really not looking forward to the procedure, but I am so excited to meet the baby girl!! I am hoping that the discomfort and pain of recovery will be overshadowed by the challenges and thrill of getting to know our new baby. At the very least, maybe my recent surgery experience will have taught me that this, too, shall pass.

In the meantime I am going to try not to worry about the C-section, and instead focus on getting as strong and healthy as I can before Abby comes. Monday through Wednesday of this last week, I had a very strong few days -- long, involved workouts, walking more easily without the walker, just generally feeling energetic and empowered. It was a great feeling, but I overdid it a bit. By Wednesday night, my rib cage, low back and "upper belly" were just as sore and stiff as could be; that feeling of having an iron corset came back. On Friday, my physical therapist told me to listen to my body, and take a few days off to relax and not exert myself too much. Usually you don't have to tell me twice to relax -- it's one of my best subjects. I was a little disappointed this time, though, to give up that brief feeling of strength and power. Soon enough . . . I am completely convinced that once Abby Jane joins us, my neurological problems are going to evaporate, and I will be able to focus on bringing my strength back.

Tonight D and I are supposed to go to the Genesis concert atthe MCI Center in DC. It's very odd -- if you want handicapped seating (which I'll need in order to be able to get to the seat), you have to just buy whatever ticket you can, and then on the night of the concert you go to a particular office at the arena and see what seats they have available. You could easily buy tickets like ours, row L in some high section, and then end up in the front row of some handicapped section somewhere -- or you could find out after you arrive that there is nowhere to sit, and have to go home. I have learned a lot about what it's like to be disabled in our society -- I'd say the number one lesson is that I couldn't possibly do this without D's help.

The soccer game outside has just ended, and the 2d quarter of my game is already here. Todd Heap just made his first catch -- he's my favorite. It's time for me to find some lunch. Sorry to be rambling a bit today. I have a lot on my mind, but none of it is very organized right now. I just wanted to say hi, and catch up a bit. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

Imagine

On September 18, the U.S. Senate passed the Mental Health Parity Act of 2007 (S 558), legislation requiring health plans to cover treatment for mental illness on the same terms and conditions as all other illnesses. The bill now moves to the House, where efforts are underway to move it forward later this fall.

The website for NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness, will help you send an automatic email (or letter) to your House representatives urging them to pass the bill. For those who are electorally challenged, you don't even have to know who your reps are -- they figure it out for you!! After you send the email or letter, the web site gives you the opportunity to send a notification email to 6 friends if you want.

The link where you can do this wonderful stuff is the NAMI Legislative Action Center, at http://capwiz.com/nami/home/.

It might be easy to think of those who would benefit from this legislation as just crazies, or hopeless types. Maybe some of them are -- but I think many would be "normal' people who suffer from depression or anxiety, or have other issues that could respond well to therapy. Imagine if people could actually afford treatment! Imagine if mental illnesses were thought of in the correct way -- as just illnesses that can be treated, and deserve to be covered by health plans -- the stigma might evaporate, and that would be a really wonderful thing.

Each Part Gets a Present

I'm in full-on nesting mode. I've been baking, cleaning out the pantry, cross-stitching Christmas ornaments, for crying out loud. This always happens to me at the outset of autumn, as I've mentioned, but this year it could be an enhanced effect due to the baby's imminent arrival. Anyway, I like it. :)

This week is a big birthday week. D and R were born on the same day, September 20, exactly 32 years and 10 minutes apart. We've already had one party and will have two more, plus a romantic (I hope) dinner for two. I've just finished wrapping the too-many gifts I bought, and writing in D's card. I know I overdid it, but when it comes to D I am just so bursting-full of love and gratitude that I want to give him everything in the world. And when it comes to R, I have a hard time prioritizing the various facets of him -- the budding fisherman, the instinctive engineer/builder, the boy who loves honeybees, the Batman . . . so I end up making sure each part gets a present. I am very sure that D will like most of his gifts -- there's one I'm a little uncertain about. After the fact, I'll let you know how it went.

Physically I am having a really good day, for some reason. Maybe it started with a night that I almost slept through. It was the least-disrupted sleep I've had in quite a while, and I woke feeling rested. I also felt strong, though. I walked around without the walker all morning -- the bathroom looks really empty when there's no walker in it; for a minute I couldn't figure out what was different about it. I did a long set of my physical therapy exercises, adding a few dumbbell exercises for my triceps (which are oddly weaker than the other arm muscles) and some swinging kicks to strengthen my hip flexors. With luck maybe I'll get a little muscle tone back before I have to start all over again with recovery from a C-section incision. Then, as I've already told Dave, no one is ever coming near me with a scalpel again, I don't care what parts of me start to fall apart. (It's one of my character flaws -- I resort to blustery, posturing stubbornness when I'm nervous. I just can't believe that I will have had 3 operations in the course of 10 months!) Anyway, today is a good day. I wore myself out with all that exercising, and I had to rest a bit, but I'm back digging around for my brother's home-baked bread recipe.

A couple of quick reviews: I like the new BBC sci-fi show called Torchwood, and also the new iteration of Doctor Who. I'll admit, I'm a sucker for the BBC; I love the naivete of mediocre production values and I love a good accent. Torchwood takes place in Cardiff, of all places -- how can I resist? I've only seen one episode of Torchwood so far, and it lacks the intelligence of Doctor Who at its best, but the heroine, Gwen, is irresistible.

Because I know most of you don't give a flip about SF, Welsh or otherwise, I'll add that I'm loving two new books. One is called Full Catastrophe Living, by the well-known western meditation expert, Jon Kabat-Zinn. This is apparently the 15th anniversary edition of the book, which is sort of a substitute for the renowned course in stress reduction that K-Z pioneered at the University of Massachusetts. The course, which is 8 weeks long, includes breath-focused meditation, the "body scan" relaxation exercise, and some simple yoga. The book, like the course, is designed for anyone whose life could use some stress reduction (who couldn't?), whether because of chronic pain or illness, recovery from injury or surgery, addictions, or just that ubiquitous-but-deadly fight-or-flight response that never goes away in the modern world. I've had some personal experience with meditation before, but I had never managed to develop it into a long-lasting, daily practice. Ditto for yoga, although I enjoyed both activities and found them very effective. This time, I truly hope I can develop this discipline for myself (obviously I'm not really doing any yoga right now, with the mermaid objecting in my belly), because fundamentally I believe that I am only going to achieve real health and wholeness when I can tackle the mind-body thang.

The other book is The Nursing Mother's Companion, by Kathleen Huggins. I started reading another book on breastfeeding before I received this one as a gift (thanks, Ellen!) -- this one is much better! Less preachy, less crunchy, more specific, more detailed . . . I really like it. Maybe I can eventually meditate while breastfeeding. :)

There Was Cake!

What a lovely shower (thank you, Deb!)!! It was a presents kind of shower, not an advice kind of shower, so I had no C-section horror stories, either. My husband was even happy to see me after being away doing fantasy football stuff with his pals. All in all, a perfect day!

A Basketball Busting Open the World

Today is my baby shower, thrown by Dave's mom and stepmom, and by my dear friends Deb and Loralee. [I'll bet there's going to be cake! I could really go for some cake.] It is a testament to the power of tradition that anyone would throw a party for a 38-year-old mother to help her and her husband outfit their nest for a new baby. I'm not suggesting that the expense involved in acquiring all the baby stuff isn't significant, even for us, nor that I'm not glad of the help, but my situation feels a long way from what I have to assume was the original intent of baby showers, to help a young mother starting out to be able to afford cloth diapers and a cradle for the little one.

Unless the original plan really wasn't about buying things at all, but about disseminating information (accurate and otherwise) from the experienced mothers to the newly preggo. Before the predecessors to The Girlfriend's Guide and What to Expect (would that be Dr. Spock?), I suppose a gal relied completely on her female family members and friends to give her the kind of advice and information that the all-male obstetricians of the time probably didn't know or didn't think pertinent. I certainly have been to those kinds of showers before -- always as a single girl with no immediate plans for motherhood. Single girls with no immediate plans for motherhood should be exempt from having to attend baby showers (sorry Nichola, Ellen, Cara, et al who will be there today). Maybe I was not a typical case, but I always used to feel vaguely sick after attending those advice-heavy types of showers. I was not ready to hear, or think, about those things yet.

Then I had a transforming experience. I witnessed a live human birth. I was living in Charlotte, and my dear friend Andre, a fellow attorney I'd recruited from Duke (we like him anyway), was going to spend two days away in Raleigh taking the bar exam, while his wife Stacey was very pregnant. Their obstetrician assured them it would be at least two more weeks before Baby Jalen was interested in emerging, so they agreed Andre should go take the test. Being a clueless but well-intentioned friend, I told Andre to give Stacey (whom I'd barely met) my phone number in case she needed anything. (I was thinking a pint of ice cream, or some cocoa butter or something.) He did so, although he pointed out that Stacey's best friend was nearby so it would be fine.

Of course you realize I got the call. At work one day, Stacey called. She was having contractions. They were pretty close together, and she wasn't sure if she needed to go to the doctor (the doctor?? what were we thinking??), but she just wanted to give me a head's up in case she might need a ride later -- much later. Her best friend, you see, was out of town for a one-day work event. Knowing enough to know that I didn't know anything (and Stacey seeming equally clueless), I raced down the hall to Sally Higgins, who'd given birth multiple times without even any drugs. As far as I was concerned, she was Mother Nature. After I explained the situation, Sally said I should go get Stacey and take her straight to the doctor -- or the hospital. I called Stacey and told her I was coming.

After finding their apartment (a minor miracle because my car's gas tank was fortuitously empty), I found Stacey on the phone with her mother -- who I've since learned is not the most reliable woman -- talking herself out of going anywhere. By now the contractions were just over a minute apart, which was enough to give me a heart attack, but Stacey and her mom seemed to think that if she just stayed calm, the contractions would stop on their own and the baby would wait a day or two for Andre to come home.

In the end, I convinced Stacey to let me drive her, on fumes, to her obstetrician. I waited for about 5 seconds after she went back inside the office before she came back out and said the doctor told her to go to the hospital (how stupid we were!!). I prayed all the way there that the car would keep running on magic, and half an hour later, I was sitting with a woman I barely knew watching The Fresh Prince, having witnessed her being given an enema and the changing into the hospital gown. Stacey had spoken to Andre at his lunch break, and they decided that as this was the last day of the exam, he would stay and finish before hightailing it the three hours home to Charlotte. I don't remember if I tried to make small talk, or not. I remember what I was thinking, though -- I was recalling cavalier conversations with friends about having a baby by myself, if Mr. Right didn't come along. The air of fear in that room was palpable, and I suddenly very much doubted I'd ever want to have a baby by myself.

Fairly quickly, Stacey decided to ask for the epidural. That seemed to slow everything down, and we watched a couple more sitcoms before the doctors and nurses started bustling around -- I guess she had dilated, or whatever. This girl was tough, let me tell you. She didn't even whimper through those contractions. Maybe she was like me -- loathe to show weakness in front of a near-stranger. Before I knew what was happening, I was holding one of her legs, the nurse the other, and we were really in for it. The baby waited, though, and Andre suddenly burst into the room, looking like the hounds of hell had been chasing him. I made to leave but Stacey, in her drugged-out stupor, insisted that I stay. Now the only place in the room to sit (which I emphatically needed to do) was at, as they say, the wrong end of the table. I sat, and the Jamaican woman doctor was saying, "Get me some better scissors -- these ones are dull." She had started the episiotomy, only to find the scissors wouldn't cut. I watched her get out a hypodermic the size of a knitting needle and aim it down there, and I had to clamp both hands over my mouth not to yelp aloud. Finally, that part was done, and I stared transfixed at all the glop and blood soaking the floor and the sheets, watching that tiny scissored space like it was the sun, and then he came. The words "all of a sudden" don't measure up in this instance -- it was like being hit by a lightning bolt. From that tiny little space, that sore little focus of all the medical attention, that neither Stacey nor Andre could see, came a GIANT, blue head, looking like a basketball busting open the world, and then the rest of him came, and then there was Jalen. My hands came free, and I shouted, "OH MY GOD!" (I'm not proud.) I wasn't thinking of the miracle of life, or praising the God that let Andre get there in time. All I was thinking of was the impossibility of something that HUGE coming out of a place that small.

As the nurse bustled Andre and Jalen over to the examination center for weighing and cleaning and things, the doctor turned to look at me and laughed. She looked a bit like Dionne Warwick, and sounded a little like Sebastian, the lobster from The Little Mermaid. "Ha! Look at you! We'll have you in here soon for your turn, don't worry, young lady." I felt green. "I," I said, shaking my head slowly for emphasis, "am not doing that." And oh, did I mean it. From the bottom of my soul, I meant it.

Afterward, my hands shook for about two hours, even through the bourbon I had when I got home (for medicinal purposes). And for the next couple of years, at every baby shower I attended, I told the story, usually with the rapt attention of the guest of honor. I remember Tracy Stouse, however, a pal of mine, stopping the story early on at her shower. "Shut up," she said. "Some things, I don't want to know."

Well, it's now my turn, just like Dr. Lobster said, but as it turns out, I am not doing that, at least not if things go as planned, because I'll be having a C-section instead. I'll never forget Jalen's arrival, though, and I'm sure that, like Stacey, I'll be a little out of it for the birth of my own child. Nobody better try to tell me any C-section horror stories today, though. Like Tracy, I don't want to know; I adapt to unexpected situations much better than I handle the anticipation of a known, frightening event. I wouldn't mind some advice -- just give me advice about things I can control, like how to swaddle a kid or what kind of binkie to use (and why I'm supposed to call it a "binkie"). You can give us presents if you want. And hopefully, there'll be cake of some kind. We'll all get through it, just fine.

By the way, Jalen's in third grade this year, and Andre is in his eighth year of practicing law in North Carolina.

Superoptimal

Sorry, I've been a little lax lately with the blogging. I am still having a lot of trouble sleeping, and it is making me grouchy, sad, and very stiff. Thanks to anomalous crowding of their appointment schedule, I also haven't had physical therapy in two weeks, which is probably part of why I'm so sore. The good news is, I've been walking pretty well -- the other evening I was walking around without the walker a bit and other than a slight waddle caused by my sore back and enormous beach-ball belly, you'd really not know I was having problems. I am a little more balanced, and the herky-jerky stuff seems much reduced. Now, I feel like the problems are mostly weakness and stiffness. Of course, weakness seems more and more an issue, the heavier and heavier I get.

Which brings us to yesterday's 28-week ob/gyn visit. I am gaining weight right on track, which is good -- considering how good I am at gaining weight when not pregnant, I thought my body might run totally amok under these circumstances, but luckily it appears not to be. This could be because random foods make me want to hurl, and because there is no room inside me for an actual stomach, so I don't eat very much at any one time. Mind you, I'm still huge, but I feel like it's kind of normal-pregnancy huge and therefore comforting rather than alarming. I am just sort of hoping that the way back to a normal-sized body will make itself apparent to me in a few months.

Anyway, the visit was good. I am healthy, all the things I bitched about are apparently normal (insomnia, heartburn, swelling, etc.), and although we haven't scheduled it officially yet, we planned Abby's arrival for November 16. Very odd, putting your baby's birth into your Family Time calendar, even if it's only in pencil, but I guess that's our reality, hers and mine. After Dr. Fraga (who was wearing my favorite pair of Manolos of hers -- creamy, spike-heeled sandals-- while I sported very snazzy Birkenstock sandals that are creasing my water-balloon feet), we went to Georgetown for my sonogram. Dr. Collea, the maternal-fetal medicine guy Fraga studied under (and therefore referred me to), did the scan himself, because Dr. Fraga had asked him to clarify something on last month's report that had us all a little freaked out -- the baby's heart was listed as "suboptimal" and there was something called an "echogenic somethingorother indicating a possible chordae tendinae." Fraga didn't know what this meant (which offended me a little), and she kept insisting that it was probably nothing even as she set up the consult with Dr. Collea. D and I, meanwhile, had watched the tech do the sonogram with the supposedly suboptimal heart, and we didn't notice any double-takes or bad vibes on her part; on the contrary, she kept commenting on how good everything looked and cooing to the baby as if she were lying in a fluffy bassinet instead of floating in amniotic darkness. Because everything had seemed fine then, D and I weren't too worried about Abby's heart, either, but we were still very pleased when Dr. Collea shooed bad thoughts with a wave of his hand, saying, "Oh, no, no, it just means that it was hard to see all the parts of the heart because of where the baby was lying, and the echogenic thing is completely normal and no big deal." Whew. Then he did a scan which, although it wasn't quite as maternally gooey as Giselle's had been, nor really as skillful (after all, she does this all the time), showed a perfectly healthy and happy little girl bubbling around in there, although she might have her daddy's RLS . . . she kicked up a storm. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the Chick-Fil-A sweet tea I guzzled on the way to the hospital. He also did something cool, which was to explain how she is situated in there, which I find hard to get just by looking at the screen. She is breech right now; her back runs along my left side, her feet are down south (or sometimes up by her head -- she appears to occasionally practice a jackknife diving move, or maybe she's doing a deeply skillful Folded Cobbler's Pose), and her head is probably what's squishing my stomach. She likes to grab her toes, or, if she's sleeping, put her hands curled up by her face, like her mama does.

So, we've got a perfectly fine little girl -- well, I say little, but not really. She is 2 pounds, 11 ounces, about 11 ounces bigger than average for her age, and my uterus measures about 2 weeks bigger than it should (if you know what I mean -- the measurement with a tape measure from your coochie to the top of your uterus is supposed to be the same as the number of weeks pregnant you are, by some amazing DaVinci-esque type of divine symmetry). She's a big baby. I could have told you that, even though I lack objective comparisons. I can just tell.

Abby likes sweet tea. She also likes the Irish lullaby, Toora Loora Loora. She likes the middle of the night, when I am trying in vain to fall back asleep (I can't remember the last night that I didn't see 2 or 3 a.m., wide, wide awake). And I like to think that she likes the way the kids kiss her through my belly, or hug her goodbye at the end of a visit. I know it won't always be smooth sailing once she's out here with the rest of us, but for now, I'm satisfied.

The Beach and Birdy

We had our last beach hurrah of the summer this weekend, at Grandbob's house in Bethany Beach. This summer, beach preparations have been more fun because both kids can remember from one trip to the next what the beach house is like, which fun things we do there, and similar important concepts. Last summer I feel like I spent many hours on several occasions explaining to R what a "beach" actually is. This year, we pulled out the beach bag and R said, "Oooh! I LOVE the beach! I LOVE Grandbob's beach house!" I wanted to hug him with gratitude for his little developing neural pathways. This year, I only needed to spend some time explaining (or choosing not to explain) the difference between the "ocean" and the "sea," the fact that sharks would not bother us on the sandy expanse or in water that covers only our toes, and the distinction between "popsicles" and "lollipops."

S faced off against her most stubbornly bossy new friend (read: kindred spirit) in the form of J, our friends' Jean and Chris' 4 year old daughter. She was a little juggernaut in white miniskirts and S was obviously flabbergasted by her encounter with a littler girl who would not only not kowtow, but who stood up for herself-- loudly and effectively. Watching S try to work it out was, I say with some measure of guilt, rather amusing. First the two of them just raised their voices, trying to out-shout each other. Then, they started insulting: S said to J that she was "just like Veruca Salt, who is the baddest kid ever in all the bad-kid movies," but J won that round when, unperturbed by Wonka references, she told S she simply wasn't her friend. S dissolved into hiccupping tears and told any grownup who would listen. The only incident that actually disturbed me was when they began arguing about the Steelers and the Ravens, with their little fingers pointing at each others' noses: "The Steelers are no good!" "But, the Ravens are just mean!" Jean and I both found this disturbing and annoying, mostly because these xenophobic football impulses originated with the respective fathers, who were schlepping beach stuff and therefore didn't have to endure the consequences of their brainwashing. Unfortunately, after Jean and I bellowed and threatened until the girls backed off, both of the men were actually more disappointed to have missed the catfight than they were contrite.

R loved the waves this time. D took him out into the deeper water and held him up as they swelled up and down. My little blond sea sprite came running up the beach afterward to tell me about it (I did manage to watch, although I cringed a lot because it constantly looked as though D was about to drown), slowly bouncing up and down with his knees bending: "And all the big waves came, and they went UP and DOWN and we went UP and DOWN and I was in all the big waves!!" For the record, D assures me that despite appearances to my panicked eye, he never went beyond where he could easily stand, having learned last year in the Chesapeake Bay that trying to tread water while holding a kid is not his idea of fun.

S likes the water, too, but she still prefers either playing imagination games in the sand (like "finding" buried treasure -- usually after having buried it first) or, even better, finding new kids to talk to. She and J battled over sand buckets and who kicked in whose sand-hole, and each constantly ordered the other to play the game she was playing. It reminded me of trying to be effective at the office while working with someone who just rubs you the wrong way. What a disappointment that kids have that issue, too.

Oh -- a very important book recommendation. Waiting for Birdy, by Catherine Newman, is a really, truly, amazingly wonderful collection of essays about the year during which the author was pregnant with (and newly mother of) her second child, Birdy, while raising her three-year-old son, Ben. This is, I gather, mostly a compilation of Ms. Newman's columns called Bringing Up Ben and Birdy, which she wrote (writes?) for BabyCenter.com. Check out some columns here: http://www.babycenter.com/search/showResultsForContent.htm?cTab=ARTICLE&queryString=birdy

Waiting for Birdy made me cry, laugh out loud enough that I looked around sheepishly as if Oscar the cat might be glaring at my lack of poise (which in fact he often does), and, at one, point, spit out my milk. The best part is, I think it would have made me do all those things even if I weren't pregnant. The writing is full of crazy-perfect metaphor, and the author's experiences are just universal enough to make you love her, just organic-crunchy-no-TV-pacifist-lefty-New-England enough to make you feel a little awestruck. It helps that she's not rich because she's a writer. Even if she makes her own organic baby food and feeds her toddler tofu cubes, it's hard to hate someone whose furniture is from the Salvation Army and whose Christmas ornaments are all gifts from in-laws. Plus, she doesn't send one iota of smugness your way. She is genuine, and her various friends, who appear in cameos, usually saying the things you're thinking, like, "Um, yeah, there are drugs to help you with that," are all people you end up wanting to meet. Ms. Newman is also a total ball of neuroses and anxieties, wrapped up in passionate love for her family. And she's a really good writer. Even if you don't remember being pregnant or never want to have kids, read the book!

Abby

I don't feel like writing today. I feel hot and sore and uncomfortable and far from rested. I should go find that web site with lullaby lyrics and sing to Abby -- that always makes me feel better.

I can't believe (still/yet) in some ways that I am going to be somebody's mommy. She knows my voice already, and she'll depend on me more thoroughly than anyone else in the world. Our relationship, as she grows, will be the most complex, and probably the most impactful, of any relationship in her life, at least until she has her own babies (girls and their mothers, you know). Because she's inside me right now, always with me, it really feels sort of like we're embarking on an adventure together, and I'm not sure I have that much greater an understanding of what we're getting ourselves into than she does. As annoyed as I get when people (who shall remain nameless) insist on pointing out to me that my current 2 kids are periodic visitors in our lives, while Abby Jane will be a permanent resident (do they think I don't realize this? that the fact has escaped me?), there is an element of denial -- no, not really denial, but a recognition that living with my husband and my baby under one roof all of the time, having to be the one to schlep her off to day care or wherever, etc., are experiences that I am not fully prepared for. To this, I say, "Duh!" Who is prepared for such a thing? I have never claimed to be anything other than a new mommy, with a little more experience than I would otherwise have had -- experience with toddlers through kindergarten, which is to say experience of a mutual mad love affair with our two kids and also with their driving me absolutely nuts until I want to hide from them (preferably in bed, under the covers, in the dark).

But now there's this little girl, Abby, a whole new kettle of fish. A whole new genetic soup, unique on the planet. A mix of me (God bless her) and D, with no interaction with D's ex, or the kids' loony nanny. She'll even have relatively little interaction with her half-siblings, compared to the amount of time S and R spend with each other. Abby will be a brand new experiment, both in nature and in nurture. Like my doc said, the hormones are working nicely; I am dead in love with her already. Forget teaching her how to read or tie a shoelace or eat solid food -- I want to sing her across Scotland; I want to take her up in the Space Shuttle; I want to show hold her up to the most beautiful mountaintop view I've ever seen, like baby Simba in The Lion King, Elton John crowing in the background; I want to introduce her to God (but she probably knows Him a lot better than I do). I want to give her a life so loving, warm, soft and safe that she comes to believe the universe thrums with love and goodwill. She already has the best Daddy she could hope for -- I have to believe that good intentions, desperate desire, a tiny bit of experience, and boundless, joyful love can conspire to give her the best mommy I'm capable of being, too.

I feel the anticipation so strongly now -- 11 weeks to go -- it's almost time to meet her! I love her so much that I wonder how, as a new parent, one makes that transition from thinking of her as the most miraculous creature ever devised to recognizing her as just another human being, albeit one beloved to the point of heartache. Maybe you don't really transition -- maybe you just begin to allow for the reality of her, so that you can adore her and also let her drive you nuts sometimes. After all, a surreal, perfect little miracle-creature can't really learn how to talk back to her parents, suffer heartbreak, or play in the mud, can she? As much as I want her life to be perfect, smooth and holy, I want even more for her to be a real, live human being, and I'm pretty sure that's exactly what she will be, no matter whether I will it.

The Good Mother Side

And now I'd like to take a moment and say, "What the f---?!" I know that after the baby comes, D and I are supposed to suffer sleep deprivation severe enough to make us forget each other's names, not to mention why we live together, but before?? I would like to know what kind of a vindictive God would give us the propensity, say, to be stomach or back sleepers, such that nothing else feels right, only to grow our babies on the front of our stomachs and put very important, apparently nonsquishable, major blood vessels down our backs? And if it's not God's fault, then it's definitely the fault of those sadistic, officious authors of pregnancy books, all of whom insist that you sleep on your left side, the "good mother side," the only position that allows all your internal organs to fit comfortably, all your vital fluids to flow smoothly, and your growing baby, apparently, to grow. Do I sound touchy? I'm sorry. After a week or so of having reached the breaking point with my 4-foot-long "boyfriend pillow," when no sleep behavior works for both me and the baby, when even my husband's restless leg syndrome, snoring and cover-hoggery seem like small potatoes compared to the relentless, achy, throbbing pain of trying to lie on my sides (I'm a right-side mother, too, so *&%$! sue me), I am touchy. I suppose the whole situation is worsened by the fact that I've just had NECK SURGERY and my NECK doesn't want to be contorted by all these pillows -- expensive, down-filled pillows which I now loathe and imagine roasting in a giant ducky bonfire -- but I've seen enough women bitching about this problem in enough pregnancy memoirs to know that surgery is not necessary to make sleep in the almost-third trimester a total, miserable, weep-inducing disaster.

When did this national obsession with left-side sleeping hit? I can't imagine that some time between polishing off each Friday night's $.25 pitchers of beer at the officers' club and finishing her pack of Marlboro Lights, my mom settled me and herself carefully down for a comfortable sleep on her left side. Of course, maybe it was the obstructed blood flow in Mom's inferior vena cava that turned me into such a nutcase, who needed neck surgery at age 38 and now can't walk, but DAMN, I want to lie on my back! Forget that, actually -- that's pie in the sky. I just want to sleep for an hour at a time, for 60 whole minutes before I wake up, spasming in pain, and have to wrestle my pillows around so that I can sleep on the other side of my body for another five seconds before I need to move again.

It's not only my neck, and it's not only the solid-rock, total-rib-cage, 24/7 muscle spasm I've endured for the past four months, either (which feels a bit like a corset made out of cast iron and charged with electrical current). The new, fun thing is pregnancy heartburn. If I so much as take a sip of water to moisten my throat, which is undoubtedly dry from all the mouth-breathing I do thanks to pregnancy nasal congestion, and then lie down -- on any side at all -- I will instantly suffer searing, eye-opening heartburn pain that hurts all the way into my ears and gives me a headache. I take my Tums, and also my one remaining prescription medication for the various gastric ailments that have hospitalized me twice with ulcers -- most of those meds are no-nos in pregnancy-- but it still hurts enough to wake me up. So I try not to ingest anything within 3 hours of lying down. Of course, the Pregnancy Books say I should lie down once every few hours to relieve the obscene and disturbing pregnancy edema I have in my ankles, which were never svelte to begin with, and it also says that I should eat six small meals a day (which just about works, since I can only eat about half a chicken breast before I get full) and drink water all day long, so . . . . f**** it. Shoot me now. If I hadn't had a little Jewish leprechaun of a very skilled doctor once tell me that I'd probably die young of esophageal cancer if I couldn't get my gastric distress under control, maybe I'd be able to sleep through the heartburn.

Meanwhile, D's suggestion is that we try having him sleep in another room. We have a queen-sized bed, and it is tight quarters, what with me, him, Abby and the boyfriend, but I will miss him if he's not there. So then I might just be lying there miserable and frustrated and awake, but not even comforted by D's snorty, kicking, quilt-stealing maleness. Still, the only time I can sleep for an uninterrupted hour seems to be after he's got up and gone to work, when I find myself still on my side, but in sort of a more free-flowy kind of side-sleeping, limbs akimbo. I think it still has more to do with the fact that by the time 6:30 arrives I am so completely exhausted that I could sleep through one o' them single-fiber EMGs, but he may have a point. We may have to try separate beds. Another option might be for me to move to the couch, where as I've reported before I have been able on multiple occasions to nap for two hours straight. Lately, the heartburn is a problem there, too, but maybe that can be overcome in some way.

If you mommies out there have any ideas that might keep me from blowing my brains out, please let me know. The first one of you to think, much less say, anything along the lines of, "Just wait until the baby comes, if you don't think you can get any sleep now!' is in BIG TROUBLE.

Byline: C___burg, MD

Most mornings, I write in a journal. I put a heading on each entry which has, since college, included the date, sometimes the time of day, and always the "byline" - which city I'm writing from. What a weird thing, to think as I did this morning that the "C___burg, MD" in the upper-right corner may not change, now, for decades. I mean, sometimes it'll probably say "Bethany Beach." It will most likely say "Washington, DC" sometimes if I write at the office, or maybe "Ligonier," when I visit my brother. Once or twice it might say things like "Charleston," "Asheville," "Santa Fe," "Napa Valley," "New York," "Edinburgh," "Kyoto," or, God willing, "Maui," if we go on good vacations. But it's never again likely to say "Arlington," or "Rockville," or "Bowie," all places I've lived here in the Metro area, because we've found our House. Our Father of the Bride Part II House, about which we intend to become the Schmaltz Family (sorry if you don't get the reference). And that byline is definitely not going to say something like "Denver" or "Pittsburgh" or "Anchorage" because we've moved there. We've all made this agreement -- D and his ex-wife directly, I and the stepdad indirectly -- that we'll stay right here, within 50 miles of the White House (as if that were a healthy place to raise a kid), our little S and R blithely forming the growing center of our universe.

My own wanderlust had shifted significantly before I even met D, or I wouldn't have been able to agree to such a deal. Oh, I say that with such certainty. What do I know? I fell madly in love, with D and also with his kids S and R, and I have no idea that anything would have stopped me from signing on. Let's just say that I feel perfectly good and right about putting down roots for once, even if sometimes I think about 14 years from now, when R heads off to Bucknell or Wake Forest or Yale, as a big, gilded doorway opening wide on the chance to move somewhere else. Sometimes I think about it that way, I said. Not always. Don't panic.

I've always had this wanderlust, since my folks broke up when I was 13. It probably originated in just wanting to get the heck away from them, and the homey but limited place where I grew up, but it evolved I think from some sort of greediness, an enthusiastic snatching at experiences. One of my favorite endeavors has always been spending time in a new place. Even if all it amounted to was hanging out at an almost-deserted Golden Gate Park, or wandering around wharfs and churches in Edinburgh or lighthouses and pottery shops in Maine, I loved travelling, almost always on my own, and I loved talking to friendly strangers, eating different food and noting the different books on the front tables of the bookstores there. I loved the way the trees differed. Have you ever smelled a butterscotch pine in the Rockies? Or seen a prehistoric forest untouched by the scratching of mammals? Sometimes I tried extreme experiences, like paragliding or heli-hiking on a glacier (I don't like standing on glaciers, I discovered), but usually I just browsed in shops, or sat out in a public place with my journal and people-watched.

Travel is different when you go with someone else. Like my husband does now, my girlfriend Sara likes to fall asleep to the TV, and when we were in Sedona together, that was a new experience for me, just like having our "cards" read on some supernatural hot spot and being informed that we are both Queens of Hearts. My friend Carrie in New Zealand was like me in that she'd rather hang out with the locals -- the bus driver, the tourist boat captain -- than with other American tourists; I thought I was like her in that I could actually emigrate Down Under, but I was wrong on that count.

There's always some part of me that wants to stay a fish out of water; I would never be a good expatriate. Whereas Carrie started talking like a Kiwi and took up rugby along with a small cottage on the rugged coastline, even had I moved there I would have remained an outside observer, probably always writing about it in my journal and probably ordering Old Bay and the NHL package over the internet. Even when I've lived someplace for years, like Philly or Ann Arbor, or Charlotte, and even when I've got my favorite haunts and people and seasons -- in the south, my accent even changed -- I never became what you might call an honorary native. DC most certainly would have remained that way for me, since the vast majority of people who live there are also outside observers. As for C___burg, MD, my current byline? Our home with loyalties divided between Baltimore and DC? Well, travelling became something altogether different when I met D. For one thing, there's less of it: I'm a mom now, and also D has a grasp of this thing called 'cash flow' that I never really troubled with before. More of it has been to our beautiful family beach house and amusement parks, and there have been fewer March trips to my usual cold-and-grey spots like London, Scotland, and Massachusetts (sorry, Bit).

But most striking is the different experience of travelling with a man you really, truly love and trust. I have to make that distinction, because I have travelled with another man. Vince, a guy I dated in law school, and I went to Italy together to celebrate passing the bar exam. We fought and argued our way through Rome, Florence and Venice, though we look happy in the photos, mostly struggling over who was the leader of the expedition. As the man, he naturally (I suppose) thought he was; however, I didn't trust him to find our way out of a chocolate cannoli, especially given his complete lack of Italian language (I knew a very little) and his general lack of facility interpreting the nonverbal cues that are so important when the bus driver doesn't speak English. Besides, it was Italy. The locals --the men, anyway -- were much more helpful to me when he wasn't around.

D and I, meanwhile, have made countless short trips and two long ones, to Ireland (where I thought I was going to get engaged) and to Hawai'i (on our honeymoon). Those trips have been hugely different than what they would have been had I been alone (and not for the obvious, bedroom-y reasons). I felt safer, more complete, and happier (I often used to get melancholy on trips, but then I used to get melancholy in the grocery store and at the hair salon, too). There was a richness to the experience that came from layering the blooming intimacy with D over the exploration of a new place. Dare I say it, there was even something peaceful and right about relaxing and allowing him to take charge most of the time. The trips were wonderful, both times. And D really is a great travelling companion. He makes me laugh, he searches high and low for anything I need or want, he is responsible and resourceful and adventurous and an excellent driver on the wrong side of the road. For all these reasons and more, I can't wait to try out a few more bylines with him, like Paris and Barcelona and even Deep Creek Lake.

In the meantime, I am looking forward to finding a permanent church home here in C___burg, becoming active in the schools and learning all the best hiking trails, cheeseburger places, and needlework shops within a 2-hour drive. I am excited to form bonds with our neighbors and understand local politics and find farmer's markets -- or maybe even a co-op! I've considered trying to start a book club (maybe next year) and I will definitely be looking for a mommies' group. The idea of setting down roots feels really good. It's my first try at growing them, though -- so send your prayers and any good cultivation tips you might have.

Date With the Artist Formerly Known as Me

I love bookstores. I mean love. To me, books are reminders of aspects of life that are beautiful and fascinating. Some make my heart leap, sing, smile -- make me want to climb right into the pages. Others just remind me how gorgeous words can be, and how mystical and divine is the ability to conjure pictures, ideas and emotions in people by using just words on the page. Partnership with God, that is.

This morning I escaped the cleaning crew by going to Border's. [The question of why I am so uncomfortable with other people cleaning my house should probably be the topic of another blog entry.] My plan was to get a newspaper and have breakfast (check), and maybe find a book on local hikes to motivate myself further (check -- The Falcon Guide to Hiking in Maryland and Delaware). Then my eye caught a row of back-to-school agendas/planners, in bright colors of leather or pretty plastic prints, and like candy they beckoned me. I found a desk-sized calendar designed for family appointments, which includes little stickers for "Date Nights" and vet visits and recitals. I love this kind of agenda because it makes me feel like a mom even though 2/3 of my kids don't live here. Besides, D is coaching soccer this year, and I can write down gymnastics even though we don't have to drop them off. I might actually find that yoga class, or that hiking group, or that book club, for myself. And I can always put in all the Ravens and Penguins games.

I spent almost two hours looking at two Julia Cameron books, The Right to Write and Finding Water. They're similar, and both are beautiful. In case her name is unfamiliar, Cameron is kind of an artist-of-all trades who has written lots of books about nurturing your creativity and the internal Artist, starting with The Artist's Way. I love her stuff, and it's been a long time since I read Artist's Way. She didn't exactly train me in creativity, but she gave a name to what I did naturally (for example, she calls it an "Artist Date" when you remove yourself from your everyday stuff and go somewhere or do something, by yourself, designed purely to add juice to your art, whether it be buying a set of luscious oil pastels, visiting an art museum, hiking in the woods, or attending a slam poetry event). You might say she lent validity and support to a whole way I have of looking at the world. Consequently, I like her. This morning, I decided I didn't want to pay for the hardbound Finding Water, so I read the first couple of chapters while I sat at the Border's cafe with my peach green tea. This consisted of a review of her basic disciplines from Artist's Way, including Artist Dates, a journaling routine she calls Morning Pages, and Weekly Walks (outdoor walks used for inspiration and time to process). I have gotten away from these practices, but I'm heading back to them. Reading about Weekly Walks made me want to walk so badly that, scared as I am, I am determined to try to increase my walking even as I'm recovering. I also found myself wondering if my snazzy red walker could see me through a couple of the easier off-road hikes in the Falcon Guide.

Finally, the newspaper I chose was the Wall Street Journal. Although I'm not that conservative at heart, especially not in financial matters, I love the writing in the Journal, I love reading about things I don't often read about, they have the best wine column anywhere, and the pin-dot drawings on the front page always draw my lingering attention. I brought the Journal home to read later.

Speaking of later, I am going to the Orioles game with D tonight. Since I got sick, whenever faced with a "big" outing like this, I have been consumed by the fears that are my new, constant companions. Will we be out too late? Will I be in too much pain? Will I literally lack the strength to make it back to the car? Then what?? Underlying all of that is the other question -- can I still be me? Can I actually have fun? And how can D put up with me, if I can't? Guilt and fear -- lovely combo. These thoughts are natural to someone in my position, I think, but they are irrationally ruining my ability to look forward to something that should be a lot of fun, something that D loves, something I have always enjoyed. Accordingly, I am now determined to look at this game tonight as an Artist Date and a Date Night. I'll use the experience to enjoy D, to allow my real self to emerge courageously, and maybe I'll even write about it later. I will forget about me, my pain, my weakness, my fears. I will smile, and laugh, and ask D what he loves most about going to baseball games, and I'll remember what I love, too.