Thank You

Almost two weeks ago, Cedar and I were rear-ended while heading over to my parents' house. I was stopped at a light behind two other cars on Lake City Way (a busy four-lane street), and I never saw it coming. Thankfully, neither of us were hurt, with the exception of some neck and back strain that I am getting treatment for now. But the impact was a shock to the system. Cedar started crying right away, and the scariest part of this whole experience for me was hearing him and not knowing initially if he was okay. Thankfully, he stopped crying soon after I got him into my arms. Dazed and disoriented, I exchanged information with the lady who hit me, and quickly joined my family who helped me to process the experience and the next steps to take. Cedar was smiling and back to his usual self within minutes, but my hands didn’t stop shaking for over an hour.

Thank God it wasn’t more serious. Thank God for seat belts and car seats. Thank God that I don’t have to deal with any more hassle than the visits with insurance agents, auto body shops, and chiropractors, and the lingering tightness in my back and neck. These things will pass and soon enough we will be back to our normal routine.

I want to take this opportunity to reflect on what else I am thankful for right now. I want to praise all that is positive, growing, improving, and illuminating in my life, for I know that I often write more in this blog on what is difficult or frustrating. It’s important for me to process what is challenging, of course, and parenting provides no end of material in this department, but if I had more time I would take care to regularly honor all that is encouraging and beautiful too. For despite the ongoing struggles, I am happy and thankful for my daily existence and for all the growth and wonderment that motherhood has gifted me.

So as we keep leaning into the coming of lighter days, here are a few other things I am grateful for:

1. New friendships. Although I often bemoan a lack of time for so many things, one pursuit that I have actually had more time for since becoming a mom is the pursuit of friendship. Most of the new friends I have made in the last year or two are also new moms. Some I’ve met through my PEPS group, and others are old friends and acquaintances I’ve connected with through Facebook. As new moms, there is so much we share in common, so much we have to learn from each other, and so much we can offer each other simply by understanding the depth, strain and joy of experiencing motherhood. Even if I see these moms less often now than I did during those first few months when more of them were on maternity leave, I still feel and value their presence in my life enormously.

2. Old friends and sisters. You know who you are, you ladies who have been with me since high school and college, or even earlier. You women who listen to me like no others, who hear me on deep levels, who inspire me with your creativity and passion, and who are the most remarkable aunties that Cedar could ever hope for. I am so very grateful you are in my life.

3. The overall improvement in Cedar’s gas and rash. The slow, but continuous expansion of my diet. Figuring out exactly what Cedar is allergic or sensitive to, even if it’s taken a lot of effort, self-sacrifice, repeated mistakes, frustration, doctor’s visits, guesswork, nights of watching my baby suffer, and general overall struggle. But all this effort has been worth it, and now, my baby is happier and I have learned to be more aware than ever before of what I put into my body.

4. Having my family close by. Watching my mom and dad’s growing delight in Cedar. Knowing that he will feel comfortable, safe, and loved with his grandparents and aunts and uncles. Knowing that I have someone to leave him with in a pinch, if need be. Knowing that me and Cedar are supported by my family’s love.

5. Me and Cedar’s daily routine. Having a nap schedule I can count on, for now, which allows me to better plan and flow with my day. The mellowness of our rhythm, the small pleasures. Waking slowly and playing with Cedar’s bear in bed. Drinking my coffee and checking email while he plays on the floor. Cedar’s naps in my arms while I sit in the recliner, drink more coffee, journal, and read. Our walks to the Meadowbrook pond where we look at the ducks in the water, the crows in the sky, and the trees overhead. Our slow strolls through the yard around the house, with Cedar in the Ergo or Bjorn, examining bushes and leaves. Our winding down times, nursing and reading books on the bed, reading “Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?”, playing his favorite throw the blanket over his head game.

6. And while I’m at it, all the small, ever-changing things about Cedar that I love. The way he claps his hands in delight. The way he growls, or smacks his lips. The way his hands and arms quiver in excitement when he sees Miles, our cat, or when you’re holding something he wants. His emerging personality: a mix of quiet watchfulness with silly playfulness and curiosity. Watching him learn every day and grow aware of everything.

7. The fact that my husband was able to find a job that he loves in less than two months in the midst of this recession, and that he is now able to be home with us every night instead of on the road. Watching my husband play with and watch his son. The cozy feeling of being a family, creating new rituals like going to a pumpkin patch or decorating a Christmas tree. Lying in bed together, the three of us, cuddling. Our rare date nights (or rather, date afternoons). Too rare, but that much more delectably pleasurable for that reason. The way we understand each other, always have, wordlessly. The new challenges we face, that are hard, no doubt, but that I know we will keep learning from.

8. And finally (I could go on, but I’ll stop here so I can actually finish this post), I am grateful for this blog. For this outlet, for this ritual, and for the constant sense that I have something I need to explore and say about motherhood, about writing, about life. I am grateful for this life that is intense and new and hard enough that it keeps my compulsion to process it through words burning and immediate, but not so hard that I am left with no energy or time at all.

And I am grateful for you, my readers, whoever you are, because this knowledge that I am writing for both myself and for others motivates me to sit down each week and write, even when my mind initially protests that it’s too spacey or tired. For years I labored away on personal essays and a collection of memoirs, getting my MFA, attending classes, submitting work to my writing group, and revising pieces over and over and over again as I refined my voice and craft. This process was important to me and my growth as a writer, but after submitting my work to literary journals for years, waiting months for replies, and getting so close to being accepted to this journal or that one, but again and again rejected, it is such a blessed liberation to take a break from one narrow mode of publication, and instead to be able to put my thoughts out there, raw, immediate and less refined. Instantly accessible to family and friends, less digested and “perfect.” But out there, nevertheless, and read, and appreciated. I know, because you’ve told me so. Thank you.

During this time when I often don’t feel like I have much of a life, body, or space that I can call my “own,” this blog has been a lifeline to my creativity, my sanity, and to my overall sense of wholeness and balance. And more than this, it is also a major way that I have maintained a sense of connection to a greater community, whether this community is my father whom I would not be able to share my thoughts in such a nuanced way with in person, or whether this community is a stranger who has randomly stumbled across my words.

Thank you, blog. Thank you, friends. Thank you, husband, family, baby, home, universe. Thank you for everything you have given and continue to give me. I am so blessed, I know this. And as we enter this new year, my wish is that you may all know and cherish your blessings, too.

Making the Most of It

Artifacts of Longing Reading @ NE Library 11/21/10

Right now I am supposed to be at Write-o-Rama, the Hugo House’s all day writing workshop fundraiser, only instead I am sitting at a café, writing, alone.

I was excited for Write-o-Rama, excited to get away for a full day on my own, something I haven’t done in months (or truly, something I’ve never done since giving birth to Cedar—the longest I’ve been away from him is for 4 or 5 hours in July when I went to the spa with my girlfriends). In any case, a day like today where I have a free pass to be away is precious, and as I sat there in the first workshop session at 10 a.m., I realized that this wasn’t how I wanted to spend it. I didn’t want think about craft or try exercises in genres other than my own, as interesting as those activities can be. I wanted to be journaling, free-writing, unleashing a million and one thoughts that I haven’t had time to process. And if not that, then I wanted to be walking around Capitol Hill by myself in the sun, browsing through Elliot Bay bookstore, then buying myself two sweaters from Value Village in different shades of green, before eating my brown bag lunch at Lookout Park, and then driving back to Café Javasti, my favorite writing spot in my own neighborhood, to write for this blog.

So this is what I did, feeling only the slightest bit of guilt for leaving the Hugo House, and most of that guilt directed at the leader of the one workshop I attended yet barely listened to, instead journaling about my own private thoughts and scanning the day’s schedule to see what drew my eye. Sorry, man. As an instructor I know you can tell who is paying attention and who isn’t, and I know how hard it can be to be up there and worry about not doing a good job. So I just want to say, it wasn’t you or your workshop, it was me. It was me, and the fact that I am so seldomly alone these days, that when I do get these rare opportunities, there is absolutely no room for me to not do exactly what I want—or at least what is within my means. So that is why I am here, writing to you instead through this blog, or writing to myself. Because I desperately need to catch up with my heart in words.

It’s been way too long since I’ve posted anything on this blog. Over a month ago, I started a post that chronicles my four-month saga of being on an elimination diet and Cedar’s food allergy and gas issues, but that is turning into something much more involved; hopefully I will finish and post it in the near future. In the meantime, so many other thoughts and feelings worth capturing on the page continue to filter through my mind and heart that never get written down-- and thus processed, honored, and witnessed.

The last thing I posted was about my Els and Frank/inheritance project, mostly to entice you to come to my reading that happened two weeks ago. The reading went great, I thank those of you who attended or wished me well on the project, and I am also relieved it is over. It was a challenge to have a real deadline before me at the same time that I’m a full-time caretaker for Cedar, as opposed to just my own self-imposed deadlines, like writing for this blog. In the weeks leading up to the reading, my mom and sister pitched in and watched Cedar more often, but even then, I had a very limited amount of time to write, edit, advertise, practice, and edit some more. I ended up revising three sections from my manuscript to read, and in order for them to have the most impact as excerpts, I had to essentially craft them anew. Down to the morning of the reading, I was still making edits on the page. I couldn’t practice reading my drafts aloud even once without finding things I wanted to change. I am not used to reading stuff that is so new in public.

In the end the writing still didn’t feel finished to me, but the process was good practice in letting go of perfection. And now, I am thankful to be able to write anything or nothing again, and to ask myself, what’s going on? What do you need to write about?

One recent development is that I seem to have adopted a penchant for insomnia. The first time it hit was a couple months ago, and I can’t deny the apparent connection between the insomnia and the new (now removed) stress of my reading deadline. I am so stretched for personal time these days, that all it took was adding one outside pressure and I felt the added strain acutely.

For several weeks, insomnia struck about once a week. I’d be exhausted (as usual) and try to go to bed at a decent time (10, 11), but then I’d lie there awake an hour or more next to my snoring husband and sleeping baby, before I’d finally get up, frustrated and even more wakeful than before. Since I’m breastfeeding, I couldn’t indulge in several glasses of wine, which would’ve been a nice solo, late night activity. And chamomile tea or other herbal remedies didn’t seem to help. I tried a hot shower (I’d take a bath if we had one), tried yoga, reading, surfing Facebook, journaling, eating, going outside, whatever I could, but most nights I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep until after 3 a.m., and by then my baby would start waking up again throughout the early morning hours and I’d end up with maybe three hours of broken sleep.

Insomnia is hell, yes, some of you know, or have known it far worse than my sporadic bouts. Especially when it happens multiple nights in a row. The night that happened brought me to tears I was so frustrated. Oh, to be that tired and not be able to sleep. And to imagine how tired I’d be the next day with my baby. I’ve had insomnia a handful of times in my life, but I’ve never considered myself a poor sleeper. Now, after it had struck enough times and I realized that it was not a fluke occurrence, I finally figured out that I shouldn’t be online, on the phone, or doing chores or any kind of work or correspondence immediately before crawling into bed. I absolutely need to have true down time, where I’m relaxed and am just sitting there reading or breathing in a chair for an hour or two before I go to sleep. It doesn’t matter how tired I am and how much I’d benefit from going to bed early. I need this time at the end of the day, without my baby, and preferably silent and alone. Going to bed at midnight or one a.m. is better than trying to go to bed at eleven, but then not being able to fall asleep and thus conjuring the frustration that keeps me up even later. There are no shortcuts. I need my own time and space each day to stay sane.

I also have recently recalled how in my “former life” it used to be so important for me to get exercise or at least to walk around outside for a bit each day. If I didn’t, then I’d feel all cooped up and wired at the end of the night, and I’d need to release that energy through drinking wine and dancing, or collaging, or staying up late and tapping into my inner depths in some way. But now, those outlets are no longer so possible. And although I can still stay up late if I please, I don’t have the luxury of sleeping in—not even on weekends-- to make up for it. So it’s always a compromise. The lesson in this is that I need to get out more on walks with Cedar during the day, even when it is rainy, oppressive and grey. This is essential. I must strive to maintain the delicate balance between my physical, mental, emotional and spiritual health. Any imbalance will otherwise reveal itself eventually in some way.

I’m doing better now, although the insomnia has not completely gone away. I’m happy I fulfilled my grant requirements, and I’m awaiting my final payment which I hope to plug back into my writing pursuits in some way. I’m proud of the job I did, and I have a better sense now of what it will take for me to keep working on my bigger projects in the midst of motherhood. I am also even more aware of how sensitive and stretched I am right now, and consequently how little it takes to tip me over. I need to be vigilant in making sure that I stay healthy and balanced. And I need to keep asking for help. Articulating my needs and then figuring out how to meet them.

It is imperative that I stay connected to my writing life. I can’t abandon my vital projects and goals. This is, after all, my life’s work, and I’ve known this for a long time. My writing may not bring in a paycheck, and it may pale in importance when compared to the heart-wrenchingly awesome work of motherhood, but it still absolutely will not and cannot go away. My soul will not allow for it. It must find room to thrive and breathe, even if it must make do with more limited time and space.

This makes me think of dancing. There is nothing I love more than to lose myself on the dance floor or out in an open field at some outdoor concert, to lose myself in the music and eventually ascend to that place of euphoria as I unite with each unfolding turn of the music. I love it the most when there is plenty of room around me, when I can twirl and stomp and jump without worrying about bumping into others. But when this is not possible, when I’m in a tight crowd or space, I must adjust my expectations, make my movements smaller and more contained. I must create a little bubble of intention, good energy, and movement around me, so that at very least those around me will respect my immediate space. And even though this may not be an ideal situation, I can still find a certain freedom within this containment, I can still eventually access that high and holy place inside if the music is moving me right. I might need to close my eyes and shut other people out at first, but eventually, once the music enters me, I can open my eyes again and see everyone and everything around me without having it distract me. My inner and outer world are in alignment, I am not striving to block anything out, nor do I need to push too hard to express myself. I am just dancing, lost in the movement and music.

This is what I am striving for now as I try to find balance between my life as a writer and a mother. I am learning what it takes to work within a vastly constricted bubble of time and space. And I am learning how to access those same transcendent moments where a commitment to a steady practice eventually yields to the gift of a moment where a sentiment or idea comes out perfectly expressed. I am learning how to ask for the space that I need, without pining for the expanses that are currently not available. I am learning how to make the most of all I’ve been given.

Feeding Cedar

Cedar hasn’t been taking the bottle lately. This is troubling if I ever want to get away for more than a few hours at a time. He took it easily at first when he was around six weeks old and he quickly gulped down five ounces of my breast milk. But then we must have waited too long between tries, and the next time my husband offered it to him, he refused. Ever since then, it’s been a struggle. He might be coaxed to take a couple ounces over a couple hours, but mostly he’ll just play with the nipple, then spit it out—and that’s if he’s in a good mood. If he’s tired or hungry, he’ll howl and scream and finally, my mom or Matthew will call me to come home, whereupon I’ll rush to offer him my breast, poor baby, so hungry and upset he won’t even take it at first.

And then, he’s fine. It hasn’t been that long, so he’s not starving, and he’s not a baby to stay upset once his needs have been met. So he’ll go from crying and screaming to smiling and laughing within minutes.

I know it’s hard for my husband when Cedar won’t take the bottle from him, and when he sees how easy it is for me to placate him by offering him my breast. We don’t want him to learn that if he refuses the bottle, he’ll eventually (and in not too long) get the breast, so it’s best that I stay away during our attempts now, because it’s too hard for me to sit there and listen to him wail when we both know that I have what he wants. By that same token, I am not the ideal candidate to offer Cedar the bottle, because I would never last the hours it might take before he finally breaks down and takes it; I don’t know if I could even last for twenty minutes. It’s too hard when I’ve spent the first three months of my life doing everything in my ability to keep him from crying, to suddenly play tough love. Enforcing discipline has always been my weakness.

I don’t blame my baby for preferring and loving my breast. He came out of the womb with a natural instinct to root and suck, it was the very first thing that was offered to him after he was born, and ever since, he’s spent a great amount of each day at its side. Even though I’d taken a class in breastfeeding, I still was not prepared for how glued I’d be to that chair and boppy, how huge and full my breasts would become with milk, and how much a newborn baby needs to nurse. Cedar would often nurse for over an hour, and when he’d finish he’d be back on it within another hour or sooner. At night, I’d lie on my side and nurse Cedar in bed, but his latch was not always great, sometimes I’d finally get up and go sit in the living room after half an hour of him slipping and sliding off my breast, with me propped on my side, squeezing my breast with my hand to make a “nipple sandwich,” teasing his mouth open wide, and guiding his face in the right direction, all while trying to aim a flashlight at his mouth to aid the process, yet not shine it in his face so he’d wake up too much.

In the beginning, you had to feed your baby every two or three hours to ensure that they were gaining enough weight. Now, most nights I put him down around eight p.m., and he doesn’t wake until three a.m. for a quick snack in the dark. We no longer need the aid of a flashlight. Instead, all I do is wave my nipple in the area around his mouth and he will open wide and clamp on like a champ. Then he’ll wake again around seven for a longer feeding. During the day, though, Cedar still feeds every two hours, and sometimes more. I think I have an oversupply of milk, so he fills up fast on the “foremilk” which is less nutritious and sustaining, and doesn’t get as much of the “hindmilk” which would keep him going longer. But I also suspect that this boy just loves to nurse. It’s comforting to him, it’s how he feels safe and secure, and it’s what my breasts were made for. And after surviving the first month when it seemed I was nursing more often than I wasn’t, when his latch would sometimes hurt, I was getting clogged ducts, and when I was, frankly, sick of sitting in that chair, unable to do much else but surf Facebook—after surviving that first stage where nursing was more of a duty than a pleasure, I can now say that I enjoy nursing, that I love this special bond that I have with my baby, and that I already know it will be hard for me, and for him, the day we need to start giving this up.

What do I love about nursing? I love the fact that every nutrient Cedar needs to grow healthy and strong is stored inside my body; I love this symbiotic relationship, I love that we can go anywhere and I have what I need to provide for him. I love how easy it’s now become to rest his head in the crook of my arm, pull out my breast and nurse him, how we are no longer dependent on special nursing props, how his latch is now perfect no matter what, how we are old pros at this routine. And I love it when he stares in my eyes as he sucks, and sometimes pauses to break into a smile. I love the soft tickle of his mouth on my nipple. And how his mouth still moves in rhythmic sucking motions as he sleeps.

I also love how no one else but me can fill this role for him. I admit I felt a slight tinge of sadness the first time he took the bottle so quickly, sad to know that I could be so easily replaced. But mostly I was grateful, knowing that my future sanity would rest on his ability to take a bottle. Matthew was happy too, of course, that he could finally take part in this feeding routine, and be able to offer his son such an essential part of his life. I want Cedar to also associate my husband with nurturing and an ability to be fed. And I certainly don’t want it to be a struggle each time, and for Matthew to feel demoralized and rejected. So we need to keep working on the bottle, giving it to Cedar more frequently and deliberately, choosing a time of day when he is least tired and thus likely to refuse. Yet still I admit I am happy that Cedar will always prefer the breast, and that he will always associate mama with her unsurpassed ability to soothe and provide.

This might sound naïve, but I didn’t realize what a huge part of our life nursing would become. Matthew agrees, saying how breastfeeding is about so much more than just food, but more like medicine, for Cedar-- and for me. “You should write about how the umbilical cord never goes away,” he said when I told him I was writing this post. “Yes, it’s true. The phantom umbilical cord,” I nodded.

Nursing is the most intimate way of expressing the bond that exists between Cedar and I. At times, it can still feel like a tiring duty, yet now that we’re out of the exhausting, all night feedings, sore nipples, raw and ravaged stage, breastfeeding has become so much more of a welcome pleasure. A gentle, comforting ritual where the two bodies of mother and child, can, once again, join together as one.

Trust

I am eleven days away from my due date. Babies come early, babies come late; for first-time mothers, babies are often late-- and yet-- it is also true that I could go into labor any day now, any place. I feel my body growing heavier, I’ve been more achy and tired with increasing menstrual cramp-like sensations. There’s less room for my baby to move in there, so when he does move, whole sides of my belly stretch and protrude. He moves, and I immediately feel pressure on my bladder. He moves, and I cannot help but notice-- and wonder, and imagine-- at what point will this movement translate into my first contraction? My water breaking? Sudden cramping or pain? At what point will the realization sink through: this is it. Sweep the floors, make the bed: our baby is to come.

Corresponding to his impending arrival, I’ve been thrust into the “nesting” phase of obsessive-compulsive task- completing and list-making. I’ve gathered all the home birth supplies, including a huge stack of old towels, and tied them in plastic bags now stored under our changing table. Baby diaper service has delivered our first week’s worth of 70 cloth diapers. My husband and I have gone to Costco and stocked up on toilet paper, laundry soap, soy milk, tomato sauce, black beans, pasta, fluids for labor, and much more, to avoid as much shopping as possible in the months to come. We’ve cleaned out the attic and basement, and dropped stuff off at Value Village and the dump to make room for all the baby gear slowly populating odd corners of our house. We decided last weekend to sell our two old station wagons in order to buy a newer car for me to drive the baby in. We’ve chosen our baby’s doctor, written a birth plan, ordered a birthing tub, held two baby showers, written thank you cards, attended classes on labor, newborn care, post-partum planning, and breastfeeding, reorganized our dresser drawers… and the list goes on.

Thankfully, most of the important stuff has been taken care of, and now I’ve moved on to tackling other projects on my list. I am currently scanning and transferring hundreds of old slides of my old friends, Els and Frank, onto my computer; I also have a stack of Els and Frank’s letters I still hope to transcribe; I am making a digital scrapbook of the last two years of me and Matthew’s lives; I am about to start collaging a belly cast my friend Amy helped me to make—and I’d still like to make some other birth art with the watercolors and pencils I bought for this purpose.

I’m trying to strike a balance between staying busy, and slowing down. People say it can be good to stay busy around this time or else you might go crazy with anticipation, especially once you reach your due date. I enjoy these projects, and it would feel great to finish some of them or else who knows when I will return to them. But conversely, and more importantly perhaps, I want to slow down and spend time moving through my days aware of these last quiet moments alone, breathing, anticipating the changes to come.


***


My home is my temple, and may never feel like this more so than when we welcome into it our baby, this new life. I want everything to be clean, to feel open, uncluttered, and relaxing. To be perfect. And yet this is where the paradox comes in: I know that true perfection can only be realized when I let go of caring about all the imperfections. I know that when I go into labor not every last inch of the house will be scoured, all my signs of every day living may still be strewn about, my husband may very well be on the road for his work and hours away from me yet, or that something will be “out of place” or not quite as I imagined, and I’ll just have to breathe and say “holy shit it’s happening,” and go with it. Know that I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Trust that my body will know what to do. Trust in the awareness training I’ve cultivated for years. Breathe and greet each contraction anew. Be curious about the pain as it evolves and grows stronger. Groan, grunt and dissolve into the wild creature I’ve learned I can be. Let go of my fears and inhibitions. Accept that I am not in control.

I believe that I can do this, that I can give birth without drugs at home, and that I can labor for hours or days if that is what it takes. Yet I also know that I am not a failure if I need to transfer to the hospital. If the pain or fatigue becomes too much for my body to take, or if there are any complications. I trust that they will take care of me there too, and that nothing about this labor is a fight or a show. That it is an experience handed to me from God, a dance, an interplay of what is given and how each moment is received. And while I am not in control of what happens, I know that the connection between my mind and body can play a huge role in how it unfolds.

I’ve carried so much anticipation in these past months, learning and thinking about this day when my baby will be born, what my labor will be like, and who my son will be. Now, it is so strange and overwhelming to know that this day is soon to arrive.

I’ve been in training for what feels like the most important day of my life. I’ve checked things off lists, read scores of books, attended classes, talked to friends, written blog posts, and yet, ultimately, I sense that it is the slow, steady, internal transformation that has been preparing me most of all. It is the sudden brimming of tears, the “holy shit” moments of reckoning, and the deep deep surrender to a trust that I must now embrace.

Choosing a Name

We have a name in mind for our baby. Nothing is set in stone, but this name is the one that seemed to rise to the surface out of a handful of other possibilities, the one I kept repeating to myself to feel if it was right. At first, I could only think of girl names that I liked. But somewhere along the way, this boy name started to call out to me, and the girl names no longer interested me. This was around when I started to concede to my husband’s early intuition that we were going to have a boy. The ultrasound confirmed it.

People often want to know if you’ve chosen a name. I am hesitant to tell them, even my close friends, hesitant to say this name aloud. Why? It is too easy to gauge their approval or skepticism, and I don’t want to search for another’s approval. To name one’s child feels too intimate, too much a private ritual. Although approval may feel good (“I love that name!” – pat yourself on the back, good choice), another person’s hesitation or lack of enthusiasm can feel…disheartening. You wish you hadn’t told them, wish you hadn’t said the name aloud, taken away from its sacredness.

Even though I am pretty sure that we will go with this name, it still feels too early for my husband and I to call our baby by it. In his present form, floating in fluid, otherworldly, he doesn’t feel like he should have a name yet. Somehow, the formal bestowing of a name seems like it should happen later, after this creature has taken his first breath, after this being has joined our world of light and air, not while he is still in this in-between place. Somehow, calling him by his name too casually places him too soon into our world of category and definition, personality. I don’t wish to place my baby in this world quite yet, in this world where we and then he will write down his identity—first name, middle name, hyphenated last—onto a form. Babies in utero feel too mysterious for this. Like gifts from God we mustn’t be too eager to place our mark on.

When we first found out he was a boy, it even felt a bit strange to suddenly call him “he.” I’ve since grown used to the shift, however, and “he” feels better than “it,” but to make this transition into a distinct pronoun was also to withdraw him one layer away from the mystery. That was a choice we made and not one I regret, for there is something grounding in knowing the sex; somehow it makes this child feel more real. I can understand though why others might not want to find out. And either way, of course, it’s still a huge mystery.

I realize I’m being a bit contradictory. On one hand, I don’t want to assign too many projections on this being, I don’t want to draw him too firmly yet into this world; but on the other hand, the more I can imagine him and practice whispering his name, the closer I feel. I imagine how this baby will quickly turn into a boy, and then a teen, and eventually into a full-grown man. I imagine calling out his name across a playground or out the back door, calling him inside from the yard where he is climbing trees and aiming slingshots. I indulge in these mini daydreams—even as I know to remind myself that not all boys are the same.

How our child will go on to embody the name he is given, no one can say. Perhaps it will fit him perfectly, or perhaps it will hang off him awkwardly someday and he might even choose a new name. All I know is, you choose the name that speaks to you for whatever reason, the one that rises to the top of the list of infinite possibilities. Then you practice holding that name in your heart, whispering it in your dreams. You listen closely, trying to sense whether your child accepts this name, because you want to believe that it was not you who did the choosing.

Anticipation: Second Trimester

My baby has been moving a lot lately. I’ve been aware of his movements for about a month now; he is especially active at night when I am still. His movements don’t feel sharp or jarring, but rather like gentle bubbles or rolls. I wish I could visualize how he is moving in there—is he turning full somersaults, or just stretching his arms and legs? And how much are his movements related to my own? Does he kick when I am putting too much pressure on the side where he is curled? Is he rocked and thus soothed when I am active? Does he grow hungry when I am hungry, or is the transference of nutrients not so direct? There is so much that is a mystery to me, so many questions I could ask of my midwife, and yet only so much time to find out the answers before another few months—and new stages of development-- have flown by.

It’s hard to believe I’m nearing the end of my second trimester, soon to enter the final stretch of preparation for birth and for HUGE LIFE CHANGES-- not to mention entering that physical stage where things start to get more uncomfortable.

I am so grateful for the time I have had during this pregnancy to read, to write, and to ponder this great unfolding mystery. I know that most pregnant women don’t have this luxury, and instead must carry the usual stresses of work and home at the same time that their bodies go through so many cycling surges of joy, fear, worry, awe, and excitement. I wish that all pregnant women could take the time to go into personal retreat, or to at least take as much time to pay attention and listen to their emotions as they do to thinking about practicalities like procuring baby supplies, maternity leave, and childcare.

For what other event do we go through that is as momentous and life-altering as giving birth? Death—of a loved one, or our own—is the only equivalent I can think of. Yet with death, so often we are less prepared for its arrival; even if we rationally know it will come, only in the most opportune situations do we have the emotional and spiritual presence to openly honor and welcome it.

In childbirth, a part of us also dies as we give birth. Pam England and Rob Horowitz write in Birthing from Within: “The mounting intensity of labor forces complete surrender of our body and will, dissolving our egos, ideas, and familiar sense of self. We’re not afraid of dying because there is no “self” left to resist and fear. At that transcendent moment we have become birth itself. This is the spiritual birth of woman into mother.”

I am soon to become a mother. In some ways, this feels like the most natural role I could possibly prepare for, and I trust that so much will come intuitively. In other respects, my husband and I have so much to learn and get ready for. We need to go to childbirth classes, as well as classes in breastfeeding and newborn care. We need to decide where our baby will sleep, what kind of diapers we will use, and where we will fit all the baby gear into our tiny one-bedroom cabin. We need to figure out how much unpaid time off my husband can afford to take (after his one paid week of paternity leave is over), and who we can count on to help us with meals and care in the weeks that follow the birth. We need to write a birth plan that outlines our wishes (although this seems less pressing now that we’ve made the choice to give birth at home), and I need to practice my squats and Kegels (squeezing the pelvic muscles to help prepare for birth), get plenty of exercise, eat enough protein and ingest all the necessary nutrients-- do all I can to prepare for a healthy baby and smooth labor.

I also need (want) to secure a book deal for my old completed manuscript, and make as much progress as possible on my new writing project, because I know that whatever I don’t complete before the baby is born will have to be put on hold for some time. I want to honor my writing projects and life as much as possible in this sweet spacious time I have right now, for I know that it will be a long time before I ever have this kind of stretched out time to myself again.

In short, I have plenty to think about and do, even without formal employment. And this list doesn’t even touch the emotional preparation that my husband and I are going through, that is slowly building in intensity. In January, we will go to our birthing class, a class that will not only teach us about coping with labor pain, but will also encourage us to journal and make birth art, to prepare for our new lives with a focus and intention that is more rooted in the spiritual, and less in the planning/worrying brain. And soon we will also go on a “babymoon,” or at least take a couple long weekends to be alone together in nature, away from our normal routines, acknowledging what is ahead of us, and saying goodbye to what we will be leaving behind.

I want to make sure that we take the time to make ritual. I’ve heard that the period following a birth is one of the most common times for marital issues to arise, and I want to make sure that we do everything we can right now to honor our partnership-- as a couple, the two of us—- as well as what it means that we are already becoming more than just the two of us, as we begin to welcome this new being.

My husband likes to joke that “our lives are over” and anticipate the birth of our child with an “Oh, shit!” tone, especially when talking to others. When I question why he must always give more weight to expressing the fearful side of things as opposed to expressing the excitement and awe that I know he also feels, he corrects himself “our lives as we know it,” thus softening the drama of his claim. Though I know it is healthy to openly express our fears, I want to encourage him to also practice affirming the trust that we will be capable and passionate parents, fueled in new ways we can only imagine even as we will surely be worn by exhaustion. And although my husband has not spent as much time contemplating birth as I have, I can see in his eyes his shifting awareness when I say things about "our baby" who becomes more real each day; and I can hear it in his voice each time he puts his hand on my belly and exclaims how “trippy” it is. The other night when I was spooning my husband, my belly against his back, he finally had to turn around because the baby was moving so much he couldn’t fall asleep.

All in all, my second trimester has been gentle and sweet. I stopped feeling nauseous long ago, I’ve had plenty of energy, and I feel so much more grounded in this whole process. Once we decided where to give birth and I chose a midwife whom I trusted, I could finally relax into the pregnancy, knowing that there was plenty of time to soak in everything else I’d need to know. “That’s why they give you nine months,” a friend said. Indeed.

This is my time-- to be present, to dream, to write, to stay open. To dwell as much as possible in a place of awe and awareness, good health and good energy. To prepare for the birth of my child, and the birth of myself, as a mother. To prepare for the passing of one phase, and to welcome the coming of another.

Into the great fathomless unknown, we plunge. Let us plunge with steady breath and open eyes, my dear, for once we arrive on the other side, we may quickly forget that there was ever another.

Belly

I remember when I was nine, my cousin Katie advised me, “You should suck in your belly.” We were swimming in a pool in Florida where she lived. That was the first time it ever occurred to me that having a belly was not desirable. I’m not sure how much I took her comment to heart in the coming years, but obviously it made an impression.

My belly is growing bigger. It started growing at the very beginning of my pregnancy; I put on ten pounds, then fifteen within the first few months. I was eating a lot to stave off my nausea. I looked like I was much further along than I was, especially when compared to my friend whose due date was a week earlier, and who was hardly showing at all. I could barely fit into most of my pants by month three. “Oh, honey, are you worried about that?” another friend cooed. I tried to explain. It wasn’t that I was so vain that I was worried about putting on weight during pregnancy. But in this early stage, when I hadn’t even told most people I was pregnant, and when it would not be obvious to anyone, it was hard to not see my growing belly as what I’d been trained to see it for years: Fat. Unsightly. A sign that I wasn’t getting enough exercise and would never be as sexy as I used to be.

For years, I’ve been trained to suck in my belly. Not all the time, but mostly in key moments like posing for a picture or meeting an attractive guy. It’s hard for me to conjure concrete memories of such moments because the reflex is so ingrained in me that I do it without even thinking. Suck it in. Stand up straight. You look better that way.

One day, not long ago, I was walking around the house when I realized that I was unconsciously tightening my stomach muscles—even when no one was looking. I don’t think I ever would’ve noticed just how ingrained this reaction has become, if I wasn’t pregnant. For suddenly, this instinct felt incredibly unnatural, in complete opposition to what my body wants and needs—to expand without restraint.

Bellies are sensitive regions. Not only are women taught to be self-conscious about their bellies and that thin and toned is beautiful, but bellies are also where our qi is centered, our energy, our life force.

Belly consciousness runs through my thread of memory. I remember the violated feeling I had the few times that men who were virtual strangers dared to casually touch my belly. I remember being in a drugstore in Hong Kong once in my early twenties, dressed in a loose shirt and hippy skirt (my baggy clothes phase), and a store clerk asked me if I was pregnant. “No,” I answered. She looked horrified. “It’s… fat?” she stammered. I remember being eleven years old waiting in line to go on a roller coaster ride and the attendant asking the woman in front of me if she was pregnant, and her indignant outraged response. I remember in Pulp Fiction the scene where John Travolta commented about how he loved his lover’s pot belly, and how strange that seemed—and intriguing. You mean, some men might actually like a big belly? That was news to me and the media.

When I was in my early twenties and going through a period of intense solitude, loneliness, and spiritual searching, I used to lie in bed at night and rest my hands on my belly. I’d breathe in and out, feeling it fully expand and collapse, feeling the energy concentrated in my body, my hands and stomach slowly growing warmer. Soothing and centering, this ritual kept me connected to my sensuality and earthiness during a time when hardly anyone was touching me but myself.

Now, of course, things are different. I am married, and I am pregnant, and when I touch my belly I have an evolving awareness that there is something growing inside—within weeks from the size of a bean, to a peanut, to a lime, to an avocado… and so it continues. It still feels somewhat unreal, but I know it will only grow more real, especially the more I begin to feel the baby move (so far, I’ve felt a few flutters which I think is the baby, but I’m not positive). When we had an ultrasound several weeks ago, the technician showed us how a slight jab at the belly could make the baby flip around. And I know that older they grow, the more they can hear our voices. I’ve read of babies who suddenly grow calm when they hear the voice of their mother or father singing a particular song they’d sing to the baby when it was in utero. I’ve joked to my husband that our baby will be soothed by the sound of our cat’s loud purring since he sometimes snuggles up against my belly under the covers at night when my husband is away.

The first time I invited my husband to lean down and say something to the baby, he grew hesitant and shy, and finally was cajoled into it with a funny grin on his face. It was even less real to him, the growing existence of our child, but I could tell that this hesitant initial greeting was already helping it to seem more real. And last week, when I was in tears and needing his soothing touch, I asked him to rub my belly. Without having to say anything, we both now know that he is now not only touching me, but our child as well.

Now, my belly has become big enough that it can’t pretend it’s not pregnant—and it doesn’t want to. More and more, my belly wants to expand with my breath, and bask in its hardening fullness. I am still drawn to colors and folds that disguise my belly rather than accentuate it—call it years of conditioning-- but secretly I am looking forward to the day when clothing choice won’t make a difference—when I must walk around big, round, and unabashedly pregnant.

Each day it’s sinking in how with every breath I take, every thing I eat, every emotion I feel, and every moment I remember to put a soothing loving hand on my belly, I am already influencing the life of my baby. Lying in my bed with my palms against my rounded flesh, breathing in and breathing out, I am reminded of this old ritual I first learned to embrace when I was alone. Once again, I am learning how to honor my belly, how to embrace this sacred vessel that holds together the tender beauty of our contradictions, this meeting ground between our vulnerability and power.