Always Winter, Never Christmas

It is bleak and cold outside, the hours of light short and weak. All this seems a good match for my current state of mind. I'm just a few days past due, and yet I suddenly feel as if the pregnancy has been going on forever.

Funny—I have this faint memory of a few weeks ago, back when I was euphoric, and I was telling people that every day felt like Christmas Eve because of the anticipation. And yet every morning that Natalie didn't come I was still happy because I had a little bit more time to work and relax. That was a great feeling. Now, in my own body, I feel as if I'm lugging the weight of the world around. I've been having contractions for days, but they don't seem to be doing much, except for wearing me out. I guess I've entered the "Always Winter, Never Christmas" phase of the pregnancy.

It amazes me how different pregnancy looks from the outside—I remember seeing very pregnant women and how clear it was that they were soon to deliver. And yet, I could never have imagined the chasm of doubt and fear that they could be experiencing. Or how impossible it could feel.

Last Advent, when our friend Jarrod was dying of cancer, he quoted Paul Westerberg in his online journal, who wrote, "Miracles always happen when they have to." Jarrod wrote about how Advent is full of expectations—and demands. The darkening days only seem to add to the intensity of our jumbled felt and real needs. "As it builds up, we realize that we will not be satisfied in a waiting room of sorts," Jarrod wrote, "So we get up and actively long, yearn and crave, pretending that we we're actually doing something to bring the miracle about."

Like Jarrod, I can't will my miracle into existence. I feel the tug of her, though, as she struggles to find her way out. I try to be patient, because I know she has never done this before and it is dark and cramped in there. And I try to remember, as Jarrod did, that miracles happen when they have to.

Image provided by freefoto.com.

Argument #5764398

From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I felt that our bed situation needed some serious reconsideration. It was my theory that I deserved about 2/3 of the bed, because I was now two in one. John pointed out that the baby was quite small at the time, no larger than a grain of rice, actually, so my calculations might need to be reworked. But, I said, "I'm sleeping for two!"

Well, the bed situation hasn't improved too much, especially because of something I mentioned in my last post--each time I get up during the night, my dear hubby rolls to the center of the bed and falls into a deep sleep. When I return, it takes some serious coaxing to get him back to his proper location.

When we were in Michigan this summer, I managed to get poison Ivy. That first night after my diagnosis I woke in the middle of the night thinking, "Wow, I'm having my best night sleep in ages, poison ivy and all!" I looked over at John and in the moonlight I could see that he was clutching the edge of the bed, trying to stay as far away as possible. Even after I discovered that poison ivy rarely spreads from person to person, I liked to admonish him each night with, "Poison ivy is a HIGHLY contagious disease."

After the rash cleared up, I lost my best weapon. A few weeks ago, I came back to bed and found John in the dead center of the bed. Only this time, as a special bonus, not only was he sleeping in that forbidden region, but he was also talking in his sleep. I couldn't manage to wake him to get him to move over. I kept insisting, he kept hedging. He complained about the cold, I complained about the heat. I asked him, no begged him, to move over. And then he said, "Aw just put it in the archives as argument #5764398."

Freda the Long-Suffering

This photo was taken when Anna was two and sick with a fever. Freda never left her side. Freda also stays with her every night as she settles into sleep. I can't say Freda exactly enjoys this job (I think she especially loathes listening to Leo the Lightening Bug on repeat ad nauseum) but when she looks up at me and groans I reply, "Do you pay rent?"

We found Freda running alonside the highway two years ago. She was wet, cold, and had no collar. I pulled over and opened the back of my car, and she jumped in. None of the neighbors knew her. I posted a sign with my contact info at the local police station, and she is yet to be claimed. I still marvel at the timing of her arrival into our lives, as I had just told a friend, "I'm not ready for a second child just yet, but I could go for a dog."

Last night was rough. I'm due this week, and I am huge and lumbering and loose-jointed and Natalie can't keep her toes or fingers or something off my jelly-bean-sized bladder. I had to get up and go about 328 times. Anna also woke multiple times, first because she was thirsty, then hot, then cold, then scared, then lonely. To complicate matters, each time I returned to bed, I discovered that my husband had rolled into the dead center of the bed. At night he is like a boulder--immovable and impossible.

In the morning, Freda wakes at my first stir. She parks just outside my door. She does not make a sound, but I can see her furry outline beneath the crack. It is as if she is saying, "I know you have a lot on your plate. Whenever you get around to taking me out, that will be just fine."

Belly Grows, Brain Shrinks

A week from Friday I'll be full term--although we don't expect Natalie to come until mid-November, based on the tardiness of her big sister.

I'm getting a little clumsier and a lot more forgetful. I'd like to share of few of my recent bumbles. I'm hoping that after the baby comes at least a portion of my brain function will return, but I find it a little disconcerting to contemplate that my brain function was never all that it could be to begin with. I'm not so sure that the impending sleep deprivation will improve my condition, either.

1) John found a housekey in the freezer. He pulled it out with a bemused expression on his face and said, "This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with you?" Of course I have no memory whatsoever related to keys or freezers.

2) This one is pretty tragic (I cried so hard that my dog was shaking)--two weeks ago I overwrote/deleted an entire chapter of my book. I had to rewrite the entire blasted thing. It is of course, a little easier to write a chapter after you've already processed the material. I just keep telling myself, "At least I didn't delete the whole book."

3) Last weekend (the day after I deleted the chapter) I lost my parking ticket at the farmer's market and was forced to pay the maximum fee to exit the lot. Of course I found the ticket (in my purse) a few days later, long after my need for it had expired.

4) Just yesterday I went shopping and purchased three cartons of milk. When I was unpacking the milk, however, I could only find two cartons. So I asked John (who had carried the groceries in) if he had seen that third missing carton. he got a half-amused, almost guilty expression on his face. "Jenny, you closed the garage door on that carton and the milk is no more." And then he laughed and laughed.

Oh well. That's all I can say these days. Oh well.

Urban Adventures

This photo, by Chicago Photographer Thomas Marlow, was the product of a messy day.

I took Anna downtown hoping to take her to free concerts, which were all supposed to be located in one park, but alas, I couldn't find any of them, and the the said park was GIGANTIC. We had not brought Anna's stroller, either. She had only the stroller for her lucky doll, named, Natalie (respectively).

It was humid. I was waddling and she was whining and when we finally got to the vistors center to ask about the concerts the clerk said, "Oh--those concerts are spread all over the city. And by the way, the summer is almost over. You've basically missed everything."

We truged over to "Silk Road" for a free glass-bead making demonstration. Anna got to hide in a kid-sized mongolian yurt. And I met Thomas Marlow, who is taking portraits of locals to adorn the tiles of a local L station. If you'll sit for him, he'll let you select a portrait and print it for you. So we picked this one, and I love it, although don't I seem a little lumpy? Anna tells me, "You don't look like a lump, you look like a mama!" I'm concerned that the line between the two might be very fine indeed.

The day Thomas took our photo he told me that he has already taken 300. He only has a mere 14,700 left to go. Somehow this made me feel a little bit better about the book I need to complete before Natalie (the breathing one) comes.

Anna and I then ate at a Turkish festival and then spent a lazy hour waiting for the free trolley. I was so tired and, um, lumpy, that I had to sit on the pavement. A kind man even stopped, pulled out his wallet and started to hand us some bills before he realized that I wasn't actually pan handling--just pregnant, and hot, weary from adjusting my expections as they grew and shrank and grew again.

What I'm learning slowly, about the City--and about parenting--is that the only way to enjoy the ride is to let go of preconcieved notions of how things will be (or should be). Only then can I embrace what actually is--which is of course, the only the only thing there is to embrace.

Why Can't You?

So we've entered a new phase of parenthood--I fear this one will last at least through her teenage years. It is the "Why can't you?" "Why didn't you?" and the "Why won't you?" phase. I get asked questions along these lines all day long. As I sit here now, she's just asked me a particularily ticklish duo. The first one was "Why do you always rub yogurt into my arms?" (I have no recollection of EVER doing this and am completely stumped about how to respond). Before I've had a chance to pull together an answer she says, "And why can't you turn me into Wonder Woman?" Again, I'm stumped. So she prods a little. "It's easy," she says. "All I need is a crown."

Hmmm. So that's how it works. Perhaps I should get MYSELF a crown. If I were Wonder Woman I might be able to find myself some answers.

Ice Cream with Sally

John's Beloved Grandparents, Sally and Warren (with Anna) in NY

ICE CREAM WITH SALLY

I asked you, Sally, as ice cream dripped from the spoon,
If it tasted good.
“Are you kidding?” you said. “This stuff is the best.”
I lifted the spoon to your mouth.
A vanilla tear fell on your shirt.
But you didn’t see.

A faint spark
As if you’re straining
To remember
As if, for a moment
You do.

I lift the spoon to your mouth,
one more time.
You pucker around a peach.
Chewing, thinking,
or not thinking.

You are empty
And you are full.
I put the spoon down.

With you I am empty.
digesting this new awareness,
And letting it fill me.

When God is Absent

I can't resist putting up another Bloom quote. This one is nourishing:

"The day when God is absent, when He is silent--that is the beginning of prayer. Not when we have a lot to say, but when we say to God, 'I can't live without you. Why are you so cruel, so silent?' This knowledge that we must find or die--that makes us break through to the place where we are in the Presence. If we listen to what our hearts know of love and longing and are never afraid of despair, we find that victory is is always there on the other side of it."

An Unsaintly Moment

In Beginning to Pray, Met. Anthony Bloom gave this advice to a young person who had been praying for hours and hours at a time but felt that he couldn't bear to keep it up any longer:

"There are moments when you can tell God 'I simply must have a rest. I have no strength to be with you all of the time,' which is perfectly true. You are still not capible of bearing God's company of all the time. Well, say so. God knows that perfectly well, whatever you do about it. Go apart, say for a moment, 'I'll just have a rest. For the moment I accept to be less saintly.'"

Grocery Store Fantasies

So, I'm up at 6 on Sunday morning, and have been up for the past two hours because some kindly neighbor decided to set off fireworks at 4. When I heard the explosions I was in a deep sleep and imagined that somebody was trying to break in with dynamite.

So now I'm on the porch swing, listening to dozens of birds calling to each other, feeling oddly grateful for that neighbor. It was sweet (after the initial shock this morning) to wake with the day. And everytime I think of last night's dream, I chuckle.

So here goes: I was at a store which was something like Stanleys (a top-notch low cost North Side produce store) only this wasn't the Stanley's I know and love. Instead, it was a whole new Stanley's which was small but (get this!) featured every single exoctic pregnancy food I crave at unbeatable prices.

So I was walking through the store, chucking things in my cart. I might have been humming, "Yippidi do-dah, yippidi-eh, my oh my what a wonderful day," but the details are fading fast. I know, however, that the Stanley's of my fantasies had every manner of swiss milk chocolate, Elderflower Press, Salt and Vinegar Chips and Sour Patch Kids.

Although I blush to recount this dream, I must say, to my credit (if there is any credit left to be given) the dream had one odd twist: I came home and my neighbor Penny had left three cartons of broccoli on the back porch, with a note that said, "Just back from the Farmer's Market. First broccoli of the season. Help Yourself." So I nibbled a little of the broccoli and it was the sweetest, tastiest, I'd ever encountered. And then I thought to myself, "I can't believe I missed the broccoli at the Farmer's Market, and I already went this week. Is it okay to go twice?"

The Proofs are In

The proofs for my book have arrived. I've been tiptoeing around them for several days now. I can't seem to muster the courage to look at them closely.

When I signed for the Fed Ex package it was a whole different story. I was giddy. I couldn't stop touching the pages. They looked so much like a book, and I was dangerousy tempted to believe that I'd be publishing one come September. I even invited two neighbors in to see them. But when one of them picked up the pages and started to skim the words I quickly snatched them away, "You don't have to read this now," I said.

And that seems to be the theme these days. I can't seem to bring myself to really look at the words and face their flouderings and flabbiness. I'm dreading this as anyone might dread a trip to the dentist--only in this case, I have to be both the white-knuckled patient gripping the arms of the dental chair and the dentist shining a bright light into the cavern of my own mouth, looking for cavities and expecting the worst.

baby vs. bunkbeds

Back when we were exploring the idea of baby #2, I asked Anna what she would think of having a baby around the house. I told her that it would be pretty fun, that we could get her bunk beds and everything. She nodded her head, "If we had a baby, I would hold it all the time. When it cried at night, I would get up with it so you could sleep."

So when I began to suspect that I was pregnant, I decided to check in with her again. "Anna, how would you feel if we had a baby?" She looked at me with horror. "I don't want a baby." I just stared at her. "I thought you said you wanted a baby," I said. "Actually, I just wanted the bunk beds," she said.

feeling gooder now

Meet Anna Pepper, a Force to be Reckoned With. Although she was only two in this photo and she is now four, she remains fairly undomesticated. This photo captures something of her passion and zeal. Anna has never heard of the word apathy, and life with her has caused us to explore a wide range of emotions that we never before knew existed.

Now that she is four, she has learned to moderate many of her most intense emotions. Unfortunately, she has also managed to hone her combate skills, so when she and I lock heads, things can turn pretty ugly.

On Sunday night, she mentioned that something was "gooder." In an attempt not arouse the tempest, I calmly said, "Actually, the word is 'better.'" She glared at me with contempt. "Actually, Mama, the word is gooder. I know it is," she said.

I attempted to appeal to an outside authority. "Anna, how about tomorrow we ask Mr. Jeff?" Anna shook her head. "No Mama. The word is Gooder and I want you to apologize. One, two. ."

I glared back at her. I was nearly tempted to capitulate. I mean, how long could such an inane debate continue? But as a woman of words I felt that something critical was at stake, and I decided to hold my ground, come Hell or high water.

I opted for the snotty approach. "Okay Anna. Let me explain something. Kids, who don't yet know how to read or write might think the word is gooder, but these kids are sorely mistaken. Adults, like myself, who know how to do both, know that the word is better."

"The word, Mama, is gooder," she said, arms across her chest, cayenne pepper in her eyes.

Just Sit There Right Now

Just
sit there right now.
Don't do a thing. Just rest.

For your
Separation from God
is the hardest work in this world.

Let me bring you trays of food and something
that you like to
drink.

You can use my soft words
as a cushion
for your head.

I can't get this poem out of my mind these days. I think of it in the mornings and evenings when I sit before my icons with coffee or warm milk and wait for the empty spaces in me to fill and the too full spaces in me to empty out. Still waiting for those trays of food and nice drinks . . .

Thank you Daniel Ladinsky, for your luminous book Love Poems from God.