Connecting with the Expanse

photos from our afternoon at Morris Arb. We played Hide 'n Seek, Red Light, Light and discovered the soul-renewing qualities of frolicking in open green space.

Holy Field Trips and Getting My Hook On

"Our priest sent us ice skating two days before our wedding, and it was amazing to say we were on a holy field trip of sorts and no amount of relatives were going to argue with that. Having time for just us to do whatever was really good when there was so much other stuff going on. So I hope you guys felt a little bit of that freedom, even if it was at Home Depot!"- -my friend, Genevieve

Friends have afforded us some great dates during these past weeks. We have seen the new Diane Keaton film, the new Drew Barrymore film, discovered an adorable candy store that stocks Scandinavian licorice reminiscent of Geoff's Denmark year, and had a very satisfying return-extravaganza at Home Depot and Ikea. I love Genevieve's idea of a "holy field trip." It does feel like that, being sent out on a kind of mission where the goal is to allow the activity to diffuse some of the thick and tangled stuff inside you. I like picturing her and her husband out on the ice, out from the strictures of family-expectation and just skating together hand in hand. Anne Lamott writes about taking her son bowling after a friend's funeral, out there flinging heavy balls and wearing borrowed shoes.

We have so enjoyed these gifts of freedom. Driving the bends of McCallum St. back into Chestnut hill laughing at the SNL sketch about the Target cashier. Asking Geoff to pick up a melon salad for me thinking (for the hundredth time) I was starting active labor. Scoring two beautiful chairs from AS IS Ikea. On these dates, we get to look at each other and wonder who feels worse for whom--Geoff weathering beautifully the on-callness of all of his classes and meetings trying to provide for the monthly bills while there are so many trips to the food co-op that begin to add up. He is up with the 5am requests for cereal. And then he passes out at 8pm reading stories to Clara. I can see how life is stretching him. When taken out of the context of the home, we can revisit briefly our dating days and our adolescent courtship.

As for my crochet process, I was slowed down by two things. Manny seems to have lost his beautiful new scarf at school-- and in a futility spiral today, I declared, "I will not continue to make things that you boys disregard!" Manny says that the scarf is "somewhere around his cubby." The other thing is that Claresie unwound my yarn ball for Benici's scarf. Not as fun to crochet with a big tangle to contend with. It has been good to get back to the tactility of needlework. I am challenging myself to see if I can finish these scarves before El Numera Quatra decides to make an appearance.

Still More Lessons In Waiting

In case you were wondering if we'd had the babe yet, we haven't. I guess I will be at 42 weeks this Friday. We woke up this morning and Geoff said, "I think it's going to be this week!" I dearly hope so. His hope is strong. I, on the other hand, am done guessing. Done with the false starts. I think I need an epidural so I can stop guessing if active labor is beginning, have it wear off just when I'm starting to really roll, really dilate. Okay, Labor, show me what you got-- you elusive and tricky thing. My sis assures me that my bod has NOT forgotten how to labor and that it will let me know what it needs to do.

Last night, Geoff built this huge fire, such that we were down to our T's before the first commercials. I watched the show careful to watch the reactions of disappointment. I had never been so fixated on this. Watching the divided screen when they were opening the envelope and then the way the non-winners reacted. The blinky, flustered look. The trying to look really dignified and not shocked with disappointment. I thought it was artful-- how to handle this, with so many people watching. My month-long project in disappointment has has so many phases-- can I put my head in the oven now moments, hole up in the house and don't speak to anyone moments, jamming God's inbox with whiny squeaky prayers about patience. I want to learn to have dignity and still be desparate for supernatural healing and transformation. To have a hunger for "the lesson" in all of this even while I go about the day's business of nursery school pickup and standing in line at the food co-op.

Anyway, more lessons for myself in case this I am ever in this situation of over-gestating: Do not wear convalescing clothes-- shower and dress for every day to do the work of waiting and being a mother to this family. ::Throw yourself into the minutiae-- I went to the yarn store and bought three skeins of yarn, got a crash-crochet tutorial from Genevieve and have made 1.5/3 scarves for the kids. Very gratifying to send Manny out into the snow with a new green scarf in this gorgeous plump German wool. :::Enjoy things that I won't be able to do for a while-- I made a beautiful risotto last night, something a little more tedious than I usually have time for.::: Talk to the kids-- yesterday, I pulled the boys aside and wanted to repent to them about how I have really been harsh and full of orders rather than love. How I have been less interested in playing with them and obsessing over wear they stow wet boots. Benici's response was, "But Mom, yes you do play with us! Remember when you drew heat vision for my penguin?" Manny's was, "Mom, I can forgive you." Little Margot and I skipped church and watched Gilmore Girls. She nursed and napped while I crocheted. I'm trying to have my aperture thrown wide to notice these cozy, juicy moments.

seven instead of ten

We found out on Wednesday afternoon that we have a miscalculated due-date. Just by 3 days, though. So, we are still awaiting our baby girl. Numbers bounce around in my head: Manny was 10 days past due, Benici-8, Clara-1. Now we are 41 weeks, in 7 days, we won't be eligible for a homebirth.

We have been trying to stay steady on the roller coaster that these past weeks have been. So much for thinking that after three kids, you are an expert. Each day brings new discovery about how fundamentally we don't control our lives.

a taste for sweets

Left: Manny won the candy topiary at Baby Lucia's First Birthday Bash for his decisive and swift victory at "musical chairs." Right: Clara discovers the distinct taste of blue razz. (And also, you can see how I milk every last day out of the Hannah Anderson pilot caps.) When faced with the opportunity to enjoy sweets or juice, I appeal to their conscience and ask, "What did Dr. Rivette (our dentist) say about this?" Today, Manny, who is usually the strict legalist, replied, "Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

More Lessons in Waiting

::::" Second I thought you should know that now that your little girl has waited until the new lunar new year she will now be born in the year of the golden pig. This is a special pig year that comes only every 600 years!! These children are said to be VERY lucky, healthy and honest. I think you need to write a poem to your little muse and light candles (maybe on for each day past your due date that she waits to arrive) each day and let her light get brighter and brighter here on the outside. I'm thinking of you and calling your little girl out with good thoughts. Let me know if you need company." I want to live in this way of thinking rather than the tense and wonky fear walking I've been doing. This is an excerpt from a friend's email, so good for my soul.

:::: I offered the intention in my yoga class tonight that I would let go of everything. "Who cares? Let go of everything." I was so drawn to the prostrate poses. I am wired that way, if I am to mentally surrender, I need to physically get prostrate. If I am going to allow my involuntary uterus to get down and dirty with its work, well, then I need to release some effort on the part of my voluntary muscles.

::: Not super profound tonight, tired but wistful. Grateful for alot of healing laughter today. Ask me how many people have asked in whispers if Geoff and I were having enough sex. If that's not enough, it's WHO has asked that really makes me laugh. All friends, or acquaintances at least-- just not folks you necessarily want to answer. Oh and ask me about my doula-friend who sent the best article about natural induction and the technique that is supposed to be 10 times more effective than any other prostoglandin treatment.

Thoughts from the Waiting Pool

"Wait and see" has been the phrase that I have to cap all my thoughts off with these days. For example, "Should I RSVP a 'yes' to that party OR will I be nestled in the rocker with my teeny newborn?" OR "Is it too far to go to Conshohocken for errands in case I start active labor?"

AND ALSO NOW "Is an exorbitant tuition to a private Quaker kindergarten a worthy sacrifice for our family?" We have been "wait-listed" for GFS. I have been in the closet about our process since the letter arrived but it went something like--shock, anger, embarassment, achey dull denial, devastated rage then around again to shock, you get the idea. A few moms in the school community were helpful, this is KINDERGARTEN for Pete's sake, I was reminded. A lot of laughing at the process of applying, a sober look at our finances, and a phonecall with the admissions counselor has helped. The phonecall, I think, helped most.

Caught off-guard, I was reading my daily blogs when she called. Polite and formal, basically she asked me if we'd hang on and remain on the wait-list through the end of the month. I basically said yes but I got the chance to do a brave thing: I explained how I felt disconnected from the process and admitted how I have really tried to cushion myself, having Geoff bring Manny to his interview and his play date. I said, "If you didn't see something in our son, it's because I didn't show you because Manny is a fantastic boy." Of course, she agreed, whatever. The conversation went on but I can't honestly remember it because I got to say what I needed to say. I got to stand by my son. I got to talk about him without fears of "trying to sell him." I got to say the truth without fear. This alone was worth the app fee, the invterviews, the ups and downs. I'm not sure I am capturing well the way it felt to cut through the process, the pressure to BE SOMETHING or to SEEM a certain way and just stick by our kid. I want to live more like this daily, trusting in my relationship with my child MORE THAN I trust a regarded-expert, trusting in this child I live with OVER trusting some development philosophy.

Expectant Mama: Lessons in Waiting

Number 1. Every day past her due date is another day this baby needs me. This is the what our friends mom (who's had 7 herself, several were 13, 14, even 16 days past due!) told me. I can't know what it is she needs, more lung surfactant, more brown fat stores, a little more warmth from these icy days. Another friend just said, "Why would you give up the best seat in the house?"
Number 2. Notice things. Last night, thinking I was in labor at 4a.m. I noticed that the front porch roof is covered with this sheet of perfect ice-covered snow that looks like royal icing. It reminds me of the black and white cookies that I used to get in Brookline for me and Manny when we'd be out on errands. Oh, those early mothering days. Manny in the stroller, me trying to navigate is pram through Booksmith or Paper Source in Coolidge Corner.
Number 3. Show up. Attending little Esther's four-year old birthday party was so good for my soul. Staying in the game for the other kids without resenting this unborn one has not been easy.

Sonnet XLI by Neruda

January rough times when the indifferent
noon makes its equation in the sky.
Like wine in a glass, a hard gold
fills the earth to its blue limits.

Rough times of the season, like little grapes
distiling green bitterness,
the hidden confused tears of the days, swelling
in clusters, till bad weather lays them bare.

Yes: seed-germs, and grief and everything that throbs
frightened in the crackling January light
will ripen, will burn, as the fruit burned ripe.

And our problems will crumble apart, the soul
blow through like the wind, and here where we live
will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.

Storing Up Sleep and Treasures

Above: The boys at their second "Hiking Party" of the winter-- making birds out of pinecones. Clara in her tutu after the winter concert. Ask her to show you her dance moves. She dances with her shoulders in this perfect coy way.

The past few days have been a steady rhythm of napping with kids and stories, furious walking on the treadmill at the gym, reeling from our wait-list letter from GFS, visiting the thrift store and cooking. The end-result of these things is gratifying. I have had some really promising contraction-series. I have found the best "new sib" story, "Welcome With Love" illustrated by Julie Vivas and written by something Overend. I found these great retro 1950's drinking glasses that remind me of our den ceiling back at 1610. I plan to make a Clark Kent little display in the boys room with a wire hat armiture I thrifted, the wool fedora, and the funky 1960's typewriter that Santa brought them. A Mulligatawny soup that received a 5/5-star rating (5 out of 5 of us finished our serving). A homerun roast chicken that caused Geoff to thank me numerous times.

I have searched myself, "What needs to happen before I allow myself to give birth?" "Is there an obstacle?" "Something I am awaiting?" Geoff and I had this very lucid and healing conversation at 2a.m. last night. It was another in a series of confrontations where I have had to face the fact that God does not just remove idols in my life but that he actually has to shatter them completely. This is the case with my idol of academic success. That somehow a person IS his degree from an ivy school, that he/she is superior to someone who went to a humble state school or someone who never graduated. It is the totem by which I measure so many people. And now, when our son is measured against the yardstick of an exclusive private kindergarten, I am racked with disappointment and shock that he might not get into Harvard. I know, it's not logical. The whole thing comes crashing down around me: I can't WILL my child into success. I can't strong-arm others into seeing my child the way I see him. I can't translate him so that the world understands him perfectly. How this pains me!

I wish I could say that once you have a 5 yr old, you can kind of coast and not sweat it. That at this finite point you can just turn and focus on the younger one, and so on. I realize that you can't. I am feeling stretched, the child only complexifies with time, his needs, the ways he expresses himself. His dependence on you is dicier, less concrete. Anyway, I find my instinct is to just keep him close, give face time, read books, feed warm snacks.

I realize I have to share these burdens, I have to be transparent, I have to accept help, I have to accept rejection. I cannot tidy things so that I am neat and clean and ready for this new baby. I think birth is like death and I just can't be ready. The process of birth will ready me. God will equip me moment by anxious, fraught moment.

Baby Names and What Would Bring on Labor

Okay, here they are. The name choices from the Big Brothers themselves: From Manny-- BRENDA and from Benicio-- PUNKY BOONE. There you have it. Actually, at dinner tonight they had the serious request that we name her Violet, which actually gave us pause. Violet Honey Bee was what they composed together. I actually think that's kind of nice.

Things That Could Be Attributed to Helping Bring On Labor if I Go In the Next 48 Hours: that I snapped into Everest Rescue Emergency Mode today when I was trying to leave with three kids and the wind slammed the front door closed, so that the keys were locked inside. I had the kids huddled under the front porch and was considering nursing all three of them if I couldn't get a hold of anyone. Tara and her toasty wagon showed up 5 minutes later and Geoff followed shortly after with his keys. The phenomenal super tres grande La Colombe Cafe au Lait I got today at La Petit Mitron. As I drove home, the baby was demonstrating her flip-turn prowess. Also, doing the stairs sideways in my house with bounteous laundry loads. Also, the prolactin I have released by keeping my kids home with me and giving them these spa treatments--extended shower baths followed by a hydration massage and then reading poems from a book about the Harlem Boys Choir.

Strange how this waiting brings out my superstitions. Putting our kids to bed, I wonder if the next time I see them, I'll have a new sister for them? Saying goodbye to Manny's music teacher and her saying, "Happy Birthing!" and me walking away wondering if she has any kind of psychic power. I will miss this anticipation, oddly. This whole pregnancy has had that feeling, that Christmas Ev-ie kind of anticipation, evening after brisk evening by the fire, wondering if this contraction is the one that will set things in motion.

Pause for Priority-Check

"Francis sought occasion to love God in everything. In everything beautiful, he saw him who is beauty itself."--St. Bonaventure

"Jesus said not: thou shalt not be troubled, thou shalt not be tempted, thou shalt not be distressed. But he said: thou shalt not be overcome."--Julian of Norwich

Trying to live Godwardly these days. Trying to walk in the midst of the mystery around when this baby will be born. It is my tendency to flail and fuss about the way things AREN'T rather than trying to find a little quiet drumbeat of contentment and peace.

I saw the midwife today and she told me that my BP is up a little for my norm. She says this is good, this is normal for women about to give birth. In some ways, I chalk it up to negative-family-of-origin-juju. But when will I realize that our crazy families are who they are and just do as my friend says, "shrug your shoulders and just say 'That's just how they are' with a tricky balance of humor, detachment and love? Thinking about matters like this get me all twitchy and I want to do as Manny does, go up to the invention desk and make a "car-drill" or a "scaring-poker," one of his revenge-inventions. Anger expressing itself through tinker toys.

A wise and balanced friend emailed me the other day and encouraged me, "Let me be patient for you now. You don't have to force yourself to be patient because you are doing the work of getting ready." And she spent the afternoon feeding us soup and allowing my kids to trash her play room. I love when Jesus wears my friends' clothes like this. It is just the kind of thing that helps the day pass when I am full of self-pity because my tummy touches the steering wheel and my clever-layering techniques are being all used up and I leave the house looking like a bag-lady: dress over turtleneck, jeans over tights, tights over jeans. Benici asked, "Mom, do you need a snowsuit?"

P.S. I'm still only 39 weeks, not at all late yet. Also, in case you were on the edge of your seat, I am 2cms dilated and 30% effaced. But my old roomie in the Burgh has been walking around 4cms for weeks now.

P.P.S. These photos are from the summer: Lowell Folk Festival and Clara and Geoff during his SIGGRAPH Convention in Emma's Pizza, which was NOT air-conditioned.

Maximum Effort and The Strong Show

These days, Clara can best be described by Maria Montessori's "maximum effort" stage of development. In other words, she is finding her gross motor skills and turning them up a notch. Her favorite combination is carrying her cotton parasol WHILE pushing her grocery cart. If you try to relieve her of one or if her brothers tries to streamline her setup, she promptly screams and forcefully body checks you. With fixed concentration, she re-arranges the chairs at the art table or insists on carrying a basket full of board books up the stairs. She makes these physical challenges for herself and then applies her maximum effort to them. Ask her to show you the sign for "Self do it." The photos above show us getting our winter manicures, a gift from my sis and Lucia. Clara's color choice was OPI pale pink. The color was called "Holy Pink Pagoda!"

Our flim choice for yesterday was "Swiss Family Robinson." We chose it because Geoff is reading "Treasure Island" with them. They are reading the abridged paperback that was part of the library back at 1610. Anyway, we thought, "Shipwreck, family working as a team, cool tree houses, fighting pirates-- a total score on many levels!" When I heard the brown-skinned pirates speaking Tagalog, I was kind of alarmed. And the reprecussions have been a day full of discussions of making bombs from mangoes and coconuts, sling shots and traps for tigers. Geoff and I were fully expecting this. After all, we chose the film. I offered my prepared comment, "Well, if you fight with guns and swords, you will be hurt by guns and swords." To which Benici promptly replied, "But if you hide in a safe place and just throw bombs, you won't, Mom." Wow, he DOES have a point. Anyway, it's that awkward dance-- "Yes you are a boy. We know senseless violence is fascinating to you. How can I NOT emasculate you but have you value human life?"

With the stage that Geoff made for my party, we have enjoyed numerous after-dinner dance parties. One variation has been the boys set chairs up for an audience then go behind the curtain. Then they open the curtain to reveal certain heavy objects like chairs and toy strollers. Then they proceed to lift or hoist these objects onto their arms or into their grasp-- all the while making this very deliberate and penetrating eye-contact. The audience gasps and oohs over the number of objects that can be lifted at the time and they applaud loudly with every added chair or stool. Then they take their bow and go through the audience, inviting them to touch their biceps. This is called "The Strong Show." It is unbelievable how serious and truly mighty they believe they are. Four and five, their assault on the life has begun and will not be stopped.