Would you like fries (or onion rings, cheese sticks or buffalo drum-ettes) with that?

If you hand me a palmful of M&Ms, you may not initially notice anything out of the ordinary about the way I eat them. I don't toss them back the way a lot of people do, but that's not too strange. Watch me long enough, though, and you'll see that I actually choose which colors to eat first.

I guess some people do that too. But they're more likely to do it with candies that have flavors assigned to colors, right? I get that. I do it, too. For instance, Skittles -- I will happily eat all the red and purple ones out of any bag, leaving the citrus ones for my less-finicky husband. Gummi bears -- once again, I'll steal the red ones right out from under your nose so fast, you won't have time to say "Hello, Kitty." Lots of people have particular favorite flavors when it comes to fruit candies. And when it comes to chocolate, some even profess to like the green M&Ms more than the others. I worked with a woman who claimed that she could taste the difference between M&M colors (she was actually surprisingly good at it when we conducted a blind taste test).

Stay with me. My order of operations isn't about what M&M colors I do and don't like. It's not about flavor at all. It's about options.

See, when you hand me a bunch of M&Ms, you're not so much handing me "some candy" as you are offering me a *collection* of candy colors. And what's the hallmark of a collection? Variety, and completeness. So my preferred method of eating M&Ms is to visually assess which color has the most representation in the bunch, then start with that color. After I've eaten a couple candies (say, of the orange persuasion), I'll reassess. Brown dominates? Brown gets eaten next. My aim is to end up toward the conclusion of my snack with a complete set of M&Ms, one in every color. And from there I get even more picky.

In your standard, non-seasonal M&M collection, you've got brown, red, orange, yellow, green and blue. (I miss tan, by the way.) Because brown doesn't add too much (to me) to the color spectrum, I'll eat the last remaining brown one first. That leaves me with another set of options. Do I eat the remaining colors in "ROY G BIV" rainbow-spectrum order? Do I eat the cool colors first (green and blue), leaving the warmer colors for last, or vice versa? Do I get down to the basics by trying to end up with the three primary colors at the end (yellow, red and blue)? For that matter, do I consider "primary" colors to mean "primary" as in art (the above three), or "primary" as in the components of light (in which case it would be red, blue and green)? Do I eat the non-traffic light colors first, so that I end up with red, yellow and green? You see my dilemma.

The thing is, this weirdness isn't just limited to M&Ms (though M&Ms do seem to offer me the most choices in terms of how weird to get, don't they? I just re-read the paragraph above. Wow. That's a lot of crazy). I do this when I choose a cookie out of a variety pack, a Hershey's Miniature out of a selection, an appetizer off of a plate of assorted savories. My primary aim? To preserve as much choice for as long as possible. It's probably why I love buffets -- to me, a buffet represents not so much an opportunity to get as much food as possible for the money, but a chance to sample a nearly infinitely-supplied range of food for as long as I have the appetite. Growing up, my extended family members were always chiding me for eating just one plateful of food when we'd go to our favorite Indian restaurant for the Sunday buffet lunch. "You're wasting money!" they'd exclaim. But I was satisfied on so many levels with just one plate -- because I'd filled it with exactly what I liked, which on some days would be all veggies, or an assortment of potato curry dishes, and on other days might be just spinach and basmati rice.

Yeah, it's weird. I'm cool with it. Because chances are, most of us have some tiny, harmless insanity that we can't satisfactorily explain, and others can't begin to imagine. You do your thing, I'll do mine, and we'll all be ok. Pass the M&Ms, please.

Natalie Imbruglia's (very) hidden agenda, according to my college education

There's this thing I do when I get in the shower. I always try to get the shower curtain liner to lay flat against the shower walls. This inevitably involves dampening the walls with a palmful of water, then carefully sealing myself into the shower by making sure that liner sucks tightly to the wall. I realized that I used to do the same thing with blankets, at night in bed -- I like to sleep with the ceiling fan at a good clip, so I seal myself into the blankets by tucking myself in around my ears really snugly. I hate being able to feel a cool breeze leaking into the pocket of warmth under the blankets, but at the same time, I've got to feel it over my nose and mouth.

Why do I do these things? What's this obsession with sealing the cracks? In one way, it's about containing or preventing a potential mess. There's nothing I hate more than drying off after a shower, then stepping out onto a soppy shower rug. It's also about comfort -- a tightly sealed shower or a snug bed keeps in warmth, locks out cold. But maybe ultimately it's about control. Maybe I have to have things in absolutes -- all the water on this side where I want it. All the warmth from the neck down, all the coolness above the chin. Maybe these things I think of as my endearing quirks are really early signs of neurosis. Seem like a big leap? Not to me. I majored in English in college.

As an English major, you quickly learn that symbolism is king. If you can take two seemingly unrelated phenomenon and find a way to link them convincingly, you're golden. It's even more powerful if one of the two things you're connecting is a crippling psychological disorder of some kind, or at least has a strong religious subtext. I once listened to a song on the radio about a woman whose boyfriend had left her, and became convinced that the song was actually about her experience of losing her Christian faith. My family was pretty hard to convince, though.

"Mom, I'm telling you -- she says it right in the song. 'I'm all out of faith ... lying broken on the floor ... Illusion never changed into something real ... I guess the fortune teller's right ... should have seen just what was there, and not some holy light.' She's obviously singing about how she felt duped by organized religion."

"Sure, honey. Just finish your peas so I can wash your plate."

Anyway, sealing the cracks may be my way of creating a safe, isolated environment. And who couldn't use one of those? (Like how I morphed it from "control" to "security"? That's another English major trick. You're welcome.)

It's a jungle out there

A quick survey around my son's seemingly innocuous nursery reveals the following census of animals, present either in stuffed or toy form, or depicted in illustrations:

Lions: 5

Giraffes: 7

Elephants: 7

Monkeys: 9

Zebras: 2

Toucans: 1

Bears: 5

Frogs: 2

Turtles: 5

Ducks: 3

Bees: 6

Spiders: 2

Octopi: 1

Fish: 1

Crabs: 1

Alligators (I know!): 1

Animals among these that I'd actually wish for my son to encounter in real life at his age: 0

No wonder the poor kid cries if left to fend for himself in there for too long. I would, too.

The 5 a.m. bath

If you have a baby, and said baby sleeps with you in your bed, do yourself a favor and get a waterproof mattress pad. Just ... do it.

Last night started out like any other. The baby fell asleep and went through his normal cycles of sleeping 2-3 hours at a stretch, then waking up to feed sleepily, then drowsing right back off again. Toward morning he'd started to be a little fitful while feeding -- a sure sign to THIS now-experienced mother that he had what my husband calls a "project in the works." As a precautionary measure, I got up after the 4:15 a.m. feeding and got a small towel to place under our precious son, congratulating myself all the while on this brilliant prophylactic measure.

So it was about 4:35 when the boy started to really fidget in bed. I smiled in the near-dark, proud of myself that I'd done such a GREAT job of avoiding trouble. (I didn't know, of course, that this diaper would be a blow-out -- it had just been a while, and the boy owed us a good one.) I even reached past the angel-baby to tweak the towel up under him for good measure.

Well, the execution of this project was so noisy that it woke up my husband. "Was that *him*?" he exclaimed. "Of course," I replied, silently wondering if my husband was actually implying that it would be anyone else (namely, ME) making such god-awful bathroom noises while in bed. My husband then mumbled something like, "That's my boy," and rolled over to doze off again. I chuckled and waited the necessary 3-5 minutes to ensure that the boy was actually done, then gathered up my son to change that diaper. That's when I felt the wet patch.

Hearing my "uh-oh" for what it was (a dire commentary on the state of our sleeping arrangements), my husband catapulted from deep sleep into an impressively awake state. His first words were NOT "are you ok?" or "is the baby fine?" but "Is it ON THE BED?" (This should give you a sense of how much he loves our mattress.) After switching on the light, we discovered that the baby had managed to contrive a diaper blow-out *exactly* in the spot where the towel hadn't covered the bed. Of course. To paraphrase a somewhat forgettable movie from the 1980s ... the little insect was just waiting for that to happen.

So I plopped the munchkin onto his changing table to deal with the mess, and my husband sprang into "save-the-mattress" mode. While he wrangled wet washcloths, fabric brushes, carpet stain removers and detergent pens, I wrestled with our now-wide-awake and delighted three-month-old, whose toothless grin had all of us laughing within minutes. As Hyper-Diaper chuckled and chortled at me, no doubt enormously proud of his accomplishment, I tried in vain to get his jammies off over his head without smearing his work over the rest of him (though I narrowly avoided getting it in his hair, thank God). I looked at my husband, who surveyed the damage, sighed deeply, and said, "I'll go get his bath ready."

It's yet another sign (as if I needed it) that I married the right guy in that my husband then cheerfully accepted the inevitable and we had a fun (though somewhat shortened) bathtime session with Little Bit -- less than half an hour before my husband's alarm was scheduled to go off to get up for work. Cleaned up, dried off and re-dressed, the boy went peacefully back to sleep, as my husband hopped into the shower for his own ablutions, and I laid in bed, blessed with the knowledge that I'm the luckiest girl I know, despite the vile pile of linens that awaited me in the daylight.

More of life's mysteries

* When a dog digs a hole in your backyard, where does the dirt go? There's never anything to fill up the hole with.

* Why do hair elastics disappear? If it's not on my wrist, it's gone. Am I eating them in the night? Where do they go?

* How does Tupperware evaporate? I swear I had a complete set of plastic storage containers just a year ago. Now I have three lids and one container that fits none of them.

* Do rebellious teenagers in Japan and China get tatoos of English words?

* How does a fussy baby know just when you've had enough, and just at that moment, flash you a perfect, toothless smile?

* Why haven't they invented a candy that is nothing but the tip of an ice cream drumstick? Just cone, and creamy chocolate coating on the inside. Perfection.

But wait!

I love infomercials. Whenever I see a blue screen with the words, "The following is a paid advertisement for ..." I get excited. I don't know why it is. I'm especially susceptible to kitchen gadget infomercials, with home cleaning gadgets being a close second. Now that I have a new baby and we're up at all hours to feed, I'm definitely seeing my share.

My current favorite is in the latter category. It's the infomercial for the Shark Steam Mop. Or is it a Vac? Either way. I love the spot. Why is it that people in infomercials always call each other by name more than is necessary or natural?

Woman: "Mike, how can this Mop [or Vac] do what you say it will?"
Man: "Well, Rachel, I'll tell you. It's as easy as counting to eight. Or nine! You just plug it in, turn it on, fill the tank, wait for steam, push to activate, clean the mess, empty the trap, wash the mop head, sign this form, smile brightly, and presto! That's a floor you can be proud of. When was the last time your kitchen looked this good, Rachel?"
Woman: "Mike, I don't even know! Wow, I'm amazed, Mike! Can you show me that again, Mike?"
Man: "Sure can, Rachel. You just plug it in ..."

And so on. Usually the paid spokesperson (or "con", as I think of him or her) speaks way too loudly, and is dressed either way too well or way too casually (such as the woman in the GT Express 101 cooking device commercial -- could Wardrobe find nothing but her hooded velour track suit?). And just as often, the straight-man (or "stooge," to me) is way too naive. They have to be told how to operate something as simple as a light switch about six or seven times. And while I get that this repetition is supposed to hook the viewer, I just end up feeling insulted.

My favorite feature of any "paid programming" spot is the "but wait!" segment. It's always there. You've just been told how stupid it would be to pass up a deal this good on a food processor/juicer/fitness barre/vacuum/brother-in-law when all of a sudden, you get "two for the price of one!" or "also comes with these special tools/attachments/videos/gold necklaces/fanny packs, just for ordering today!" And then you listen for the magic words ... "Just pay for the shipping." Which is inevitably more than your mortgage.

But the kicker comes when the action cuts away from the studio to a pre-recorded segment of someone using an outdated or inferior product. The actor is always a total klutz. If the product is a compact blender, then he or she is shown going to the trouble of washing a conventional blender in a sink full of suds that regular dishwashing liquid could never generate, and dropping big kitchen items into the watery mess for good, splashy measure. If the product is a new kind of storage container for leftovers, the actor is shown opening a cabinet from which pour dozens of mismatched containers and their battered, scratched lids. If the product is a new food chopper, the actor is shown cutting his or her finger handling a "regular" knife and trying in vain to slice a tomato without squishing it. If these are the people who need the products being advertised, then the target market is idiots. Or at least people of average intelligence who have not yet mastered the art of deciding when you've put just enough stuff in an overhead cabinet.

Here are my current favorite infomercials, in no particular order. And admit it -- you can envision probably most of them because you've watched at least a few minutes of each yourself.

1. The Magic Bullet. Special bonus points go not only for having TWO paid spokespeople who are product "experts", but for one of them having a foreign accent for that extra twist of sophistication. AND for having a "stooge" who shows up in a housecoat, matted hair, too much makeup, horned rim glasses and dangling a cigarette from her lips. AND a fake New York accent. Priceless.
2. The aforementioned GT Express 101. What I want to know is, how many wraps do they think we eat? And once you've made two small cakes in the product's cooking wells, what do you do with the rest of the batter?
3. The Fluidity Fitness Barre. Wow. I'm actually serious here. If just buying the thing could make me look like those women, I would indeed shell out the cash.
4. The Shark Steam Mop/Vac. I scoff. But I also yearn for clean floors without chemical residue! (After a point, you start to go native.)
5. Hip-Hop Abs. I know better. And yet I can almost believe that working out could be fun. These guys are GOOD.
6. The Pedi-Egg. Do we really need to see what someone's foot shavings look like being dumped into the trash?
7. Chef Tony's SmartLidz. I don't know that I need them, but it looks like it would be fun to push my fist into the advanced polymer material just to seal up a container.
8. The RonCo Countertop Cooker. I don't even know what it's called. I just know that "Set it and forget it!" is the "Where's the beef?" of this day and age.
9. The sweeper thing with "quad-brush technology." This infomercial also sports an "international" spokesperson/expert. It scores special bonus points for the digital representation of being able to push a sweeper vac in four different directions AND swivel the head around.
10. The ShamWOW! I don't even know what I would use this product for. Think about it. If you'd used it to wash and dry your car, would you want to use it on your kitchen countertops after that? I have two words: love bugs. So if I actually bought it, I'd probably just pour soda on the kitchen table, wipe it up, and wring it all into a pie plate like "Vince" does in the demonstration. It looks totally fun.

Gotta dash. I think the Jack LaLane Juicer infomercial is due to start in 10 minutes.

D-Day, part 3: A welcome arrival

[This is a continuation of two earlier posts, "D-Day" parts 1 and 2.]


I will always be thankful for the amazing nurses and nurse-anesthetists who were present during the birth of my son. At each step, someone was telling me what was going on and what I would (or wouldn't) be feeling. My arms were extended out next to me and secured so they wouldn't stray into the surgical area. My epidural was kicked-up so that I wouldn't feel anything at all (at one point, I remember asking, "there's something *more* numb than the dead walrus I already feel like?!"). The surgical team stopped all activity for a few minutes for what the hospital calls a "time-out" -- I was asked to state my name and the reason for my presence in the OR -- so that everyone in the room could be assured that I and they understood a C-section was about to take place. My doctor walked in, and I heard the nurse-anesthetist at my head say, "It's 2:01 p.m. -- first incision just took place." My husband was led in shortly thereafter. He sat at my head and talked to me to distract me from my anxiety (and his own, I think), from my nausea (which didn't work) and from the thought of what was going on, on the other side of the screen across my body. And in an incredibly short amount of time, I heard my doctor saying, "This baby's got a lot of hair -- almost out!" And then someone was saying, "2:09 p.m. -- it's a boy!" And it's at that point that my memories are watery and blurry, because both of us were crying, overwhelmed at the knowledge of our son.

My husband was allowed to walk over to the side of the OR and watch our newborn son as he was cleaned, measured, weighed and checked. I was still in surgery, so I couldn't see him at that point. I remember using all of my remaining energy to keep from crying out in discomfort -- being flat on my back and jacked up on medication made me tremble painfully, and I was absolutely out of energy by then. I just tried to keep my body from shaking as much as I could, answering the doctor's questions with one-syllable answers. Eventually a nurse brought the baby over to me and laid him across my chest so that I could see him. I remember a tiny, pink face peeking out at me from a bundle of blankets, and my husband's gleaming smile, and then I asked them to take the baby off me, since I was worried my trembling would shake him right onto the floor. My husband held him for a few minutes so we could both admire him, and then the baby was taken away to the nursery for more observation. We'd previously agreed that we wanted the baby to have one of us with him all the time, so my husband went with him to the nursery while I was stitched up and wheeled to recovery, where my epidural was removed. (I remember thinking, "Damn, I was liking that. I don't get to keep that for a while?")

We had a lot of family members at the hospital, waiting for the baby to arrive. While my husband went to tell them the good news, I rested in recovery -- I had to stay there for two hours. I asked for an hour to rest, and then my family members came in two by two to say hello and congratulate me. Seeing them was so special, and yet I was still so tired that I couldn't visit as much as I wanted to. When I was finally wheeled up to my actual room in the maternity ward, I was beat. A nurse brought the baby in and we took a shot at breastfeeding for the first time. It was hard to do, between my trembling, tired arms, the baby's sleepiness and both of our inexperience, but hey -- you've got to start somewhere. By the end of the ordeal, though, I was in tears of exhaustion again. I had planned to feed the baby for the first time right after delivery -- and I'd planned on keeping the baby in the room with me for the duration of our hospital stay, an arrangement called "rooming-in." But my fatigue was too much for me, and I had to ask the nurses to take the baby back to the nursery for a while so that I could get some sleep.

That was Saturday night. Sunday and Monday passed in a flurry of visitors, activity, and smiles. Though still behind the ball in terms of getting enough sleep, my husband and I were so happy that we kept the baby with us as much as we could so that he could be there when people came by. Within 12 hours of the delivery, I was up and walking around, since the nurses told me that my recovery would be speedier if I kept moving. In truth, the incision was hardly painful at all -- just sore and tender. I was amazed that after abdominal surgery, I could feel so little pain. Within another day, I quit taking the pain medication, since it irritated my stomach, and just relied on good old ibuprofen to manage the discomfort.

And through it all, there was the baby. Tinier (oh, so much tinier) than I ever thought he'd be at 6 pounds 12 ounces, he was blinky and pink and lovely. He had peach-fuzzy little ears and shoulders that I noticed immediately, and the weight of him in my arms tugged somehow on my heart. To say that I fell in love with him is to say that the Grand Canyon is a crack in the ground. Just being able to touch his perfect skin and kiss his cheek or head sent me into silent paroxysms of delight. (Still does.)

Yet love doesn't make everything easy. :) The first night home from the hospital was, shall we say, *rough*. The baby decided at this point to transition from the sleepy little bundle we knew in the hospital to a hungry and quite vocal participant in the family decibel level. I don't even remember much about that first night except for the fact that it seemed I was feeding him all the time, and therefore not sleeping at all. At one point my husband was able to hold and soothe the baby for about two hours and blessedly, thankfully, I slept.

That's pretty much how the first three or four weeks went -- sleepless, bleary-eyed, delighted, exhausted, desperate joy. We sleep more now, but the delight is still there, though there are some mornings when I could definitely use some concealer and be better-looking for it. I have never missed sleep less -- or, as we've told some friends, we have never been so happy to be so tired.

D-Day, part 2: Weathering the worst

[This is a continuation of "D-Day, part 1: An inauspicious beginning."]

Pitocin is the name of the drug that's commonly used to strengthen uterine contractions. I called it many things the night I experienced it. As soon as the Pitocin drip started, I knew right away that I was in for a whole new world of sensation. Within half an hour, the contractions had increased in both frequency and duration. They were lasting about a minute, and were coming every three minutes. Since you measure contractions from start to start, that meant I was only getting two minutes in between to catch my breath and prepare for the next one. With my husband holding my hand and our doula rubbing my back and abdomen, I breathed through so ... very ... many of them between midnight and 6 a.m.

You learn about yourself through six hours of augmented labor. You learn that though you had envisioned yourself entering an altered mental state to deal with the pain (kind of like self-hypnosis), you are in reality so closely attuned to it that escape isn't really possible. You learn that though you'd prefer to simply breathe through the waves, you are one of those women who really sound like they're in labor, "ooooooh"ing and "haaaaaah"ing with the best of them. You learn that you can't predict what a contraction will feel like -- even though you imagine sort of an abdominal Charley horse, what you get is an intense involvement of all your abdominal organs, too. You learn that you need the touch of someone you love to anchor you -- the very few times my husband wasn't holding my hand when I had a contraction, it was much harder to remain relaxed throughout it. You learn that pain can make you physically sick to your stomach. You learn that fatigue can both dull pain and sharpen it, somehow -- the more tired you are, the less you care about the hurting, but the less able you are to meet it with the relaxed muscles you wanted to employ to speed labor along. Those six hours will remain in my memory forever as a time of razor-sharp sensations. That dimly lit hospital room was my entire world for those hours -- I had no spare energy to give any thought to what was happening beyond the boundaries of my belly.

Around 5 in the morning, the nurses checked me again. I was certain, just CERTAIN that I'd dilated to an appreciable 5 or 6 centimeters at least. So I was heartbroken to learn that all that we'd borne had only resulted in one more tiny centimeter's worth of dilation. At that point, I looked at my husband and said, "If I have to keep doing this, I will have *nothing* left when it's time to push. Bring in the epidural."

Once you decide you want an epidural, you want it RIGHT THIS SECOND. Unfortunately (and why don't they tell anyone this?!), once you make that call, you have to have an entire bag of IV fluids administered first before you can get the procedure done. That was the longest hour of them all. I knew the end was in sight, but knowing it would soon be over made every contraction feel even more powerful and overwhelming. Finally the anesthesiologist came in at 6 a.m. and administered the epidural. I wouldn't even have cared if he'd placed me against a wall and shot a needle at my spine from across the room -- I was so glad to get some relief from the relentless contractions. I don't even remember if it hurt at all. I just know that within two contractions, they felt less powerful, and within five, I was lying down and on the verge of exhausted, strung-out sleep.

From 6 a.m., then, until 1 p.m., I was allowed to labor in my sleep as the epidural numbed me from the ribs down -- the doctors wanted me to keep dilating so I could still attempt a non-surgical delivery. Every half hour, nurses came in to turn me from my left side to my right, so that the medication wouldn't settle into my body unevenly and result in unbalanced pain-relief. I was so numb I couldn't even help them roll me over. Under normal circumstances, it probably would have felt embarassing to have two nurses roll my eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant body from one side to another with a minimum of clothing covering me. But by then I SO didn't care anymore. I slept -- gratefully, happily, blissfully. My poor husband, though, bore the worst of it then. He sat in front of the monitors that showed my contractions lined up with the baby's heartbeat, and watched how each contraction made the baby's heart beat slow down perceptibly. He must have stared at the monitor for the entire seven hours I was sleeping -- every time I opened my eyes, he was there, looking with anxious eyes at the monitors next to me. "It doesn't feel right to me," he kept saying.

The nurses were also monitoring my temperature. As it rose slowly, it got closer and closer to the magic threshhold that would dictate medical intervention. When it finally hit 100.5 degrees a little after 1 p.m., my wonderful OB/GYN came into the room and said, "You know what? Let's have a baby." He explained that a C-section would need to be performed to keep the baby safe from the temperature I was running. Within a minute, my formerly quiet, darkened room was lit up and abuzz with nurses and surgical staff prepping me for the surgery. My husband was whisked away to change into scrubs to be at my side. There were no fewer than seven or eight doctors and nurses in the room with me from that point on. I remember asking a few questions, but feeling not disappointed so much as relieved that I'd soon be able to see the baby -- I knew that I would have had a very difficult time finding the energy to push anyway. In the only quiet moment that we had before the surgery, my husband took my hands in his and told me he loved me, and admitted he was worried. I, in my medically buffered numb state, told him it would all be fine, and we said a short prayer together. I was wheeled to the operating room down the hall and transferred from my bed to the operating table.

A letter to Thumper, part 2

My sweet son (a.k.a. "Thumper"),

Here you are. You've been a part of our family and home life for over three months now. And everyone was right -- nothing will ever be the same again. Before you arrived, I thought that when people said that, they meant that our sleep schedules, weekend agendas, evenings out and TV programming would all be forever changed by your addition to the family. And they have. But the deepest way I understand that phrase is entirely different. Let me try to explain.

I always knew that having a baby would be a full-time job. No surprise there. But while I imagined the diaper changes, night feedings and marathon soothing sessions, I didn't fully "get" how completely loving you would consume me. Now I understand that each day is made up of a million tiny tasks, all of them equally important to me. Yes -- you are fed, changed, cleaned up and held. You're walked, rocked and bathed. You're swung, bounced, mobiled and toy-ed. But you're also "re-binked" when the pacifier falls out of your rosebud mouth, countless times. You're re-covered when your blanket slips. Your clothes are smoothed out so you don't lay on wrinkles and get little creases in your satiny skin. Your laundry is done EVERY day (!!) with special detergent so your skin isn't irritated. Your burp cloths and onesies and bibs and socks are folded neatly and sorted out to be within arm's reach when they're necessary. Your diaper stacks are refilled, your powder and lotion levels checked, your medicine prepped, your swing batteries replaced, your mobiles wound, your toys recovered from around the house, and your blankets are folded, ready to swaddle you before naptime. Each day is nothing more than a collection of a million tiny acts of love, and that's not even counting the kisses, hugs, snuggles, cuddles, hair-smooths, head-sniffs and hand-holds that you get every day. You will never know how much love went into every touch, every little thing around you. And that's ok -- because nothing could make me happier than knowing that everything about your life, every fiber of your existence, was created with joy and in delightful anticipation of you.

You're still a little guy, and you sleep with me every night. I lay you in the bend of my arm, and then I lay down to face you, so that we're almost nose to nose, and I can open my eyes to see that you're safe and sleeping. Not only do you sleep in a hug, I curl my legs up so that your toes touch my legs. I literally curl myself around you all night. And that's what you've done to my life -- given it a new center around which to mold my tasks, thoughts, decisions, hopes and fears, each and every day. You'll soon grow big enough to handle sleeping on your own, in your own room and bed -- and yet somehow I know that though I won't be wrapped around you at night, my heart will still be entwined around you, my love for you doing its best to protect you from illness, injury, pain or discomfort.

So sleep, sweet baby, and know that you're loved. Know that whatever you are doing -- playing, eating, napping, fussing, laughing, learning, growing -- your mom is with you, doing what she can to help and hold you, keep you safe. There'll come a day when I have to start letting you make your own mistakes, when I can't stand in the way of something that may cause you pain from which you'll grow and learn even more. Know, too, then, that I'll be feeling those barbs and stings right along with you. For now, though, all that I am is poured into being a good mommy to you, and I have never been more fulfilled, happier, more enriched, more full of life than I am in loving and knowing you.

Love,

Mommy

D-Day, part 1: An inauspicious beginning ...

If you read "37 weeks and always", you know that our little Thumper has made his appearance. I realized the other day that I've written about him several times, but never documented the day he arrived. Thought I'd put it here.

** ** ** ** **


When you learn you're pregnant, you envision a lot -- not just about your baby, but about how your pregnancy will progress -- and end. For some reason, I was sure that I'd go into labor at night, when my husband was with me. In my mind, we'd wait out the early hours at home in relative comfort, then proceed to the hospital for a smooth and hiccup-less delivery. Our carefully-researched birth preference sheet listed all kinds of requests for that kind of delivery -- we wanted no pain medication to be administered if not necessary, a surgical birth to be avoided if possible, my husband to cut the cord -- all kinds of things. We geared our childbirth class toward natural delivery methods, and it was only at the instructor's insistence that we did more than a cursory run-through of pain-relief options.


It's funny how things tend to do what they're going to do, despite your best-laid plans.


The day after my 37-week doctor's appointment (at which we were told "it'll be a while yet"), I woke up feeling funny. To be specific, I felt ... leaky. Now, as any woman in advanced pregnancy knows, there is a point at which you're told to EXPECT that your bladder is just going to throw in the towel for a while due to the increasingly cramped conditions. So you're prepared for some of that, and you deal accordingly. For most of the morning, then, I was resigned to this sieve-like state, and didn't think too much about it.


But something didn't feel quite right about it. I had a sneaking suspicion that my water had broken. Finally around 11 a.m., I called my husband at work.


"Hey, it's me. Any chance you can come home early?"
"Why?"
"Um -- I feel -- leaky."
([Beat.] Then he whispers.) "You think your water broke?"
"I don't know. But I think you'd better come home."


So he did. And we went to the doctor, and he confirmed it. "Yep. That's amniotic fluid. And that means you're having a baby within the next 24 hours!"


Luckily, we'd packed up the car before heading to the doctor, and we just had to drive across the street to the hospital. On the way, we called family members to tell them what was transpiring. My favorite conversation was with my husband's brother.


My husband: "Hey. What are you guys doing for dinner?:
My brother-in-law: "I dunno. I think my father-in-law's coming in to meet us for Mexican food. Why?"
My husband: "Just thought you might want to meet us at St. Luke's Hospital for dinner instead."
My brother-in-law: "What? Why?"
My husband: "To see the baby."
My brother-in-law (shouting as he catches on): "WHAT BABY?!"
My husband, laughing: "OUR baby."
[General yelling of excitement ensues.]


So we got to the hospital amidst phone calls with parents, brothers, friends, and our doula. We checked in, I changed into my oh-so-stylish gown, was told I was barely dilated, and was then hooked up to a number of monitors to check my blood pressure, contractions, heart rate, and a few other things I can't recall. As I lay in bed with an IV started in one hand (after two or three unsuccessful attempts to find a vein), it hit me that this baby was *coming.* And that this was a scenario (ruptured membranes with no dilation, no contractions and no cervical effacement) that I had NEVER envisioned.


The nurse checking us in finally left the room, and I looked at my husband and dissolved into tears. Bless him, he put his arms around me (a feat in and of itself, not to mention how difficult all the wires, monitors and tubes made it) and coaxed me to talk about what was going through my head. "This isn't what I wanted," I sobbed. "I feel tied down to this bed and out of control. I feel like these people are making a delivery happen to me, and I can't do anything about it and don't have any say in it. I wanted to walk around during early labor. I wanted to be comfortable. I wanted to be able to eat if I was hungry. I wanted to feel calm and peaceful and happy and I don't feel any of those things."


With my husband's help, that sense of helplessness passed -- I had just gotten overwhelmed by the rapidity of events at that point. After a while, I was able to walk around and try to get labor progressing more quickly (because lo and behold, the monitor showed I was having mild contractions already and wasn't even aware of it). My doula arrived and started massage to help speed things up. She rubbed my back and abdomen, led me through some breathing exercises and generally got me focused on my body, which was extremely helpful. So from 2 p.m. through midnight, I sat in that room with my husband and our doula, and breathed, and focused, and waited. The contractions grew a little stronger and I could tell that things were moving along.


Disappointingly, though, at about 10 p.m., we learned that I was only 1 centimeter dilated (you have to be 10 centimeters dilated to even start pushing). Worse, my cervix hadn't really thinned appreciably (which it must, to dilate), probably because the baby was still floating within the uterus and hadn't yet descended to press on the cervix. So after my eight hours of natural labor, nothing had really happened except that I'd gotten tired. My doctor wanted to speed things along, since my water was broken and that made the risk of infection higher. So the nurse on duty came in at midnight with what I came to call the hell-box and hooked it up to my IV. That's when we *really* got underway -- and when my natural childbirth preparation and resolve was truly tested.

Years ago and 1,500 miles away

My mom's mom died when I was 15. I have a wealth of childhood memories with her in them, and then suddenly, my high school memories lack her presence. Hers was the first funeral I attended that affected me deeply. My grampa passed away just a couple of years ago. He lived a lot of years without her, and though many men wither away when their spouses pass on, he lived almost all of those years with vitality and exuberance.

There's so much I miss about them that most days I can't fully acknowledge it all. It hurts too much. Most of all, I wish they could have met my husband and my son. I think, though, that I'm lucky to have known them so well. My husband never met his grandfathers at all. So I'm blessed. This entry is a small tribute to them both.

** ** **

I got my love of baking from gramma. Every summer when we visited, we'd have a baking day (at LEAST one day, if not more). Everything in the kitchen would be dusted in flour. And we rarely made boring old drop cookies -- we made the real deal, rolling out tables full of dough and using old tin cookie cutters in magical shapes to create masterpieces of baked art. Once the cookies cooled, we frosted and sprinkled to our hearts' content. She never once chided me for sampling raw dough or eating frosting or using too much colored sugar on a cookie -- whatever I did was beautiful in her eyes. She gave me a sense of fearlessness in baking and I love her for that.

I got my love of reading from gramma, too. She read anything she could get her hands on -- newspapers, books, magazines, prayer pamphlets, church bulletins. And she was always good for a story when I climbed into her lap. She praised me when I read out loud, and bought me books for holiday gifts. She helped me discover the art of imagination through the printed word. Thank you, gramma.

Gramma loved to sing. She sang enthusiastically every Sunday in church. The thing is, she had an awful voice. It wasn't musical in any way -- it was just hers. It was the instrument she had to give praise with, and she used it unabashedly. Even as a little girl, I recognized the purity of that. The hymns I heard her sing are still powerfully poignant for me, and my memories of her singing Christmas carols and hymns with all her heart are why I weep at mass with my family each December.

** ** **

Grampa was one of those men who sailors might call "a good man in a storm." He was the quintessential neighbor. He was always ready to lend a tool, help with a stubborn piece of automotive equipment, pitch in with a tough job. He did it graciously and with good humor, never expecting anything in return. As a result, he was a very busy man -- he was always out helping others. And yet every year when we visited during the summer, he made sure we had whatever special play privileges we wanted that we couldn't have at home -- a sandbox in the backyard, bunnies in a specially made hutch on the back patio, borrowed bikes to ride around the neighborhood. How he orchestrated this every year, I'll never know. The bikes were always the right size for us to handle, the bunnies were always sweet and fun to play with, and the sandbox was always big enough for us to play in and have our own corners, without crowding each other.

We also had free rein in his workshop in the basement. Grampa's workshop was a special place, specifically because it was all his -- you could tell gramma never set foot there, since there was sawdust all over the floor and a general feeling of bachelor-y mess that only a man's space has. So we knew it was special to him, and yet he invited us in as a matter of course, turned the space over to us, and gave us carte blanche to play with anything safe, non-toxic and blunted. We cracked countless hickory nuts in his huge vice, spinning the heavy handle and chortling with glee when the nuts split open between the vice's massive teeth. We sorted through thousands of nuts, bolts, screws and nails and placed things in tiny jars according to size and type. We played with water-based paints, creating "art" on scraps of paper, and conducting "experiments" as we mixed color after color (all to achieve a uniform grey time after time). And through it all he let us play, sometimes laughing silently at our antics from across the room, delighting in our budding creativity and enthusiasm.

** ** **

What I remember most about gramma and grampa is how they loved and adored me and my brothers. I don't remember a single gift they gave me, though they showered us with special toys. What I remember instead is the way that they delighted in what I did, said, wrote, drew, baked or sang. I remember gramma's hugs and kisses, the way she smelled, the special gramma-way she had of enfolding me when her arms went around me. I remember grampa's quiet pride, his silent chuckling when we amused him, the gentle way he had of teaching us how to behave without ever raising his voice or scolding us.

They were, and are, amazing to me.

I've always wondered ...

... when you set your washing machine to "large load," does it add MORE water because there are more clothes, or LESS water because there's less room? Does anyone know the answer to this? I'm seriously stumped.

... how the FedEx and UPS people always know to ring the doorbell right when you start peeing.

... why your car never makes "that noise" when you start it up for your mechanic.

Things I hate

My last entry, entitled "Things I love" was all sweetness and light. I figured I'd turn the tables and make a rant-list for a change.

1. Getting a shard of a tortilla chip stuck between my teeth. OUCH.

2. Throwing up first thing every morning without fail for the first four months of my pregnancy. Thank God THAT'S over. There's nothing to make you hate mornings like knowing you'll greet the new day bent over a toilet.

3. Walking barefoot on ANYTHING except for clean carpet. I hate having dirty feet. And I also hate that feeling you get when you've stepped on a small, thin piece of plastic and it's hugging your skin like a best friend.

4. Motion sickness. I'm jealous of people who can read in the car with no trouble. I can't even sit in those backward-facing seats on Southwest Airlines planes.

5. The new trend in prime time television to split seasons into chunks throughout the year. When you have to wait like five months for the next installment of your favorite show, you resent the very thing you love. "What? It's only Valentine's Day ... and I have to wait till May to see the next episode of 'Lost'?! Goo."

6. Racism, prejudice and hatred. I think you can just lump all those together into "close-mindedness". If we could all open our minds to acceptance of others' differences, the world would be a better place.

7. Poodles. Creepy.

8. Onions. Stinky.

9. Touching wet food on dishes that need to be washed. Thank God my husband is willing to load the dishwasher. Equally lucky: He hates unloading it, and I love it. Bonus.

10. Missing a daily shower. I'm not a human being until I've showered each day. This is why I've never tried camping. Between a dearth of showers and the possibility of dirty feet (see number 3), camping seems like something I'm just not cut out for.

11. Bugs. Yet another reason I haven't gone camping. I'll deal with them if I'm alone in the house and I have to do it. But if my husband or anyone else is around to kill the roach, I'll pretty much be a tremendous coward about it. Can't help it.

12. Smelling like food. Pay attention here, this one's specific. I like smelling food, and the way food smells. I just don't like to smell like it myself. For instance, you know when you go to a Benihana's or to Subway, and you leave and you can smell your meal on you? Hate that.

13. Dusting. So boring.

14. Waiting for people ahead of me in the airplane aisle to load their stuff in the overhead bin so I can go past them and sit down. I don't know why I have such a problem with it. I'm normally a fairly patient person. But pretty much everything about flying is icky now.

15. Scouring the house for 'darks' to do a load of laundry, getting it started, then stumbling across one more thing you should have thrown in with it. Goo.

Things I love

A good friend of mine (www.stillhavesandinmyshoes.blogspot.com) recently posted an entry about things she loved. I thought it was so fun that I'd take inspiration from her and do the same.

1. Watching my infant son awaken. Most mornings I can count on him stretching his little arms above his head and waking up in a good mood. The sun doesn't come up for me until I get his first smile of the day.

2. Kissing my son's velvety little head. What IS it about babies that makes their hair smell so good? I've used Johnson's Baby Shampoo myself and I never smelled as good as my baby boy does. It's a mystery, but also one of life's blessings -- smelling a baby.

3. Hanging out with my brothers. I have two younger brothers and they can make me laugh like no one else except my husband can. When the three of us get together, we're all kids again. We usually just crack each other up quoting random movie punchlines at each other, until my youngest brother makes a ridiculous observation that kills us all.

4. Talking to my mom. It's the easiest and most natural thing in the world to do -- connect with her every day. I think it's because she's been my best friend since I was born. I'm a lucky woman to have such an amazing example of giving and openness in my life.

5. Making my husband laugh. For those of you who know us, you know that he's definitely "the funny one." He makes me laugh constantly. So when I can turn the tables on him and make him really lose it, I feel like I'm flying. It's extremely satisfying.

6. Reading a great book. This is a love that I've abandoned for a while to focus on being a new mom -- my reading has consisted of lots of books about childbirth and parenting. But I'm hopeful about getting back to this love soon. I miss getting lost in words and paragraphs. I can get to the point with a great book that I'm scanning words but what appears in my brain are people, places and smells, voices and other sounds, scenes and feelings. I LOVE that.

7. My iPhone. My husband wanted to buy me one when they first came out, and I resisted. "I don't NEED an iPhone," I protested for months. And I held my ground. This past Valentine's Day, though, he brought one home for me. And I fell in love with it. Apple is amazing. When I got an iPod, it changed how I listened to, bought, thought about, accessed music. Now my iPhone has changed how I live online. Incredible. Plus, it's just really freakin' cool.

8. This otherworldly confection called "Avalanche Bark" from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Think Rice Krispies meets peanut butter meets marshmallows meets chocolate chips and some other random and unknown goodness, all in one hunk of heartbreakingly-good delicious-ness.

9. Folding laundry. Weird, right? But I get a kick out of a warm mountain of clean, fresh-smelling clothes that I can fold before they get wrinkled. I think it means to me that I'm taking care of the people I love -- my husband and my son. I do laundry RIGHT -- I sort, I treat stains, I adjust dryer settings, I do reds by themselves. I'm GOOD at laundry. And I LOVE a warm towel on a cold morning when you step out of the shower.

10. Connecting with my sister- and brother-in-law. My sister-in-law and I were pregnant at the same time, and she's expecting their daughter to arrive in a few more weeks. Going through the process of being pregnant together has brought us so much closer and I love who she is and how she lives her life. She's amazingly connected to people and reading how they're feeling. She's a healer by nature and she's going to be a stellar mom. And my brother-in-law is adorable. He's strong and masculine, and his newborn daughter is going to rule him, I can just tell. They'll make the perfect parenting team because they complement each other so well.

11. "Lost." I don't watch much TV anymore, but this one's got me hooked again. So does "America's Best Dance Crew" (can't wait for the new season this summer!) and "Dancing with the Stars".

12. Caffeine-Free Coke. Now that I'm a nursing mom, caffeine is taboo. So are artificial sweeteners. Thank God for Caffeine-Free Coke. I love having a soda I can enjoy again. All during my pregnancy, it was water, water, water. I got so sick of just water. Yay for teeth-rotting soda!! :)

13. The dipping sauce you get with Papa John's pizza. WOW. Butter, garlic ... you might as well put a cork in your arteries, but it's SO good.

14. Helping my husband give our son his nightly bath. The boy LOVES his bath, though he didn't in the past. Now it's a joy to watch him light up when we lower him into his little tub. He grins up at us, even if he was just wailing for some reason. And there's something pure about a squeaky clean baby. Plus, his bathtub is the coolest thing. It has a built-in thermometer that tells you what temperature the water is, and shows you a safe and comfortable range for bathing a little one. So the guesswork's out of water temp. It even beeps loudly if the water's getting too warm. Amazing. Plus it works with running water, which runs into its own reservoir separate from the part where baby's sitting, so you always have a fresh water supply for rinsing. So cool.

15. Reading what smart, funny and kind people are doing and creating. I love my girlfriend's blog (see above) and trolling through Facebook to see what's up with the amazing people in my life. One friend's in the advertising business and is one of the most brilliant people I know. He doesn't post often, but when he does, I know it'll be good. Even his status updates are good. I have another friend who lives in Arkansas, and the shortest e-mails he sends me can make me smile, because his spirit shines through them. And text messages from my youngest brother at college always crack me up. A while ago, his favorite exclamation was "goo." If someone on TV suddenly got sick on camera, he'd yell "Goo!" Or if you told him you got a flat tire, he'd say, "Goo!" Once he dropped something sticky on the floor, and rather than cuss, he simply looked down and said very quietly, "Goo." And it cracks me up. Even just remembering how he sounded when he said it still makes me laugh. So he created a new way for me to swear without actually swearing. Now that I have a baby, that's really useful. So -- thank you, J.

Life's good. Reading back over this list has helped me realize that I have access to these "things I love" on a regular basis. I'm blessed, and I know it.

37 weeks and always

(For my newborn son, with all my love.)

I knew you were.
And suddenly
My eyes and mind turned in
To better see
The person you would be.
And all my looking
Only showed me
Glimpses of your tiny self,
Still forming, growing,
Unknown and unknowing.
And though I could not know you yet,
You were both with me and within,
A constant partner in the journey
We’d begun together,
Part of me, yet completely new.

I felt you move.
And magically
You came to life once more,
To stake your claim upon my life
And put yours in my hands, my heart.
At first your trippings scared me,
Made me feel I couldn’t help you, keep you safe.
But as you grew and as I got to know you,
I began to see that every flutter
(Feather-light or bumping-heavy)
Helped you strengthen hands and heart –
Helped you lengthen little legs,
Preparing you to come to me
And walk the path God’s laid for you.
I’ve never seen you –
Not yet kissed your tiny head or
Felt your little fingers curl around my own …
And yet I pray so fiercely for your safety and your joy,
I must have known you all my life.
For how can love so deep and true
Spring from a bond so new?

I breathed and waited,
Waited, breathed again
For hours and for hours,
Eager now to see you, hold you,
Feeling every surge for what it was …
A force to carry you to me.
You chose your manner of arrival
And in the end you needed help
But soon enough I felt your little body on my heart
Just as I’d felt you in it for so long.
Before you came to me
I knew not whether you would be a boy-child or a girl …
But now that you are here, I see
That never had I understood the depth of
One small word … “son.”
Three little letters carrying a world of strength,
Of images and scenes …
From being brave for shots with quivering chin
To soldiering off alone when school begins.
I see you riding bikes and scraping knees,
Wanting comfort from me, yet fiercely independent.
And now I see that I had learned
To be a mother as I carried you for months within,
But to have a son …
The riches of it make me weep
To know how you have already changed me.
And as I gaze at you in wonder and in pride
I see that, yes, indeed, I’ve known you all my life
Your face to me is my heart’s map
Already I have traced its paths
A hundred and a hundred times again
Never tiring of the chance
To learn more, see more of you
Than I already know and hold so dear.
Each day your tiny self unfolds
To show me more of who you are
And I am touched and honored
To witness every treasure you reveal.
For even though I know that
I am yours and you are mine,
I know as well that you’ve come not just to me, but through me
Into a world that you will make your own
And as I celebrate your learning, growing, changing,
I must prepare to let you walk a path
That’s only yours, not mine –
Rejoicing in your strength and courage.

My son, my child, my pride, my breath …
You’ve brought my world a range of color,
A depth of truth and love that awes me
And in your tiny hand you hold my heart.

With friends like these, who needs enemies?

Things they tell you about pregnancy BEFORE you get pregnant:

• "It's magical."
• "It's the best experience you'll ever have."
• "It will change your life forever."
• "Everyone loves a pregnant woman."
• "Yeah, you'll get bigger, but you won't mind when you realize what's happening within you."

Things they admit about pregnancy AFTER you get pregnant:

• "Yeah, there are parts of it that actually suck."
• "Truthfully, your body's never the same again."
• "Someone was hurt or jealous when you told them you were pregnant? There's usually one person like that, for every pregnant woman."
• "Oh, your feet have gone up a shoe size? Yeah. That's permanent. Hope you didn't like your shoe collection, 'cause you'll need all new ones."

Things they never tell you at all:

• That the moment you become pregnant, you develop an immediate and nearly fathomless capacity for fear. Basically, take the "floor" of your fear capacity and drop it into darkness. The idea of what can happen to your child, your spouse, your little family -- it can paralyze you if you let it. So you can't. You just have to think it, experience the terror or paranoia for a minute, and then put it away. It's the only way to stay sane.


• That sleeplessness starts long before the baby arrives. I haven't had a good night's sleep since about week 9. It was the peeing-every-hour thing at first. Then it was the can't-seem-to-stay-asleep thing. Now it's both. Oh, AND the there's-absolutely-no-comfortable-way-to-lie thing, not to mention the severely-messed-up-natural-sleep-cycle thing. Fun.


• That waddling is not a result of weight gain. It's the result of intense pain. Look up "pubic symphysis dysfunction." Then have the nerve to joke about it to a pregnant woman.


• That, towards the end, it actually hurts when the baby moves around. It's still fun and reassuring, but the kid gets strong, and large. And somehow very pointy.


• That, even if you haven't been moody before, the end of pregnancy brings all sorts of delightful hormonal shifts. Last night I cried because the kitchen trash bag had fallen into the container and collapsed on itself. I really cried. Hard.


• That morning sickness comes back at the end. (Welcome back, old friend. I'd forgotten how delightful you were the first four and a half months. You didn't wear out your welcome *then*, or anything.)


• That despite all of this misery, you can look forward and imagine that after the baby arrives, you might actually miss the sensation of carrying your child within you.


• That an understanding, loving and patient husband is to be cherished and nurtured, and as much as possible, protected from your mindless blow-ups. He's now seen me truly at my worst to date. And amazingly, he still not only loves me, but takes care of me every time I fall apart, no matter what time of night or day. Plus, even though I don't believe him when he tells me I'm beautiful, I can see he actually means it. And that's phenomenal to me. So even when I'm irrational or half-crazed with hormones, I try very hard not to take it out on him. He's my lifeline.

A letter to "Thumper"

Dear baby,

Your mommy and daddy are delighted that you are growing strong and getting ready to join us in a few more weeks. As you get stronger and more active, we've got a few things we wanted to take up with you.

• Mommy's ribs are not a jungle gym. Feeling you move is so much fun! But when you stick your toes between mommy's ribs, and kick really hard, it hurts. Seriously. Mommy's not kidding.
• Likewise, mommy's bladder is not a trampoline. No doubt it's fun to jump on it and bounce to your little heart's content! But sometimes that causes mommy to make embarrassingly frequent and pained dashes for the ladies' room. Please -- no more jumping.
• We're not sure how you know it, but you've become very good at STOPPING your wiggles when daddy puts his hand on mommy's belly to feel you. While your devilishness is clever and impressive, it would be really nice if you let daddy feel you wiggle sometimes. You're making mommy look like a very chubby liar.
• Your head is very, very hard. Impressively so, as a matter of fact. We've had doctors tell us that your skull bones are softer right now so that you can be born easier, but we think they're wrong. When you press that head really firmly against mommy's muscle wall, she can definitely feel your hard head! We love knowing where you are, but a gentle push would be fine with us, too.
• Speaking of mommy's muscle wall, she's definitely getting a bulge on her right side, where you seem to like to curl up. Again, we love knowing where you're lying, but it's ok to hang out on mommy's left side, too. You're going to make her look like she's got a lopsided basketball under her shirts.
• Mommy has always loved chocolate, and it seems you may, too, since she wants to eat so much of it lately. We just thought we'd let you know that it gives her ferocious and relentless heartburn now, in a way that she finds a personal betrayal. If you have anything to do with how often she wants to eat it, maybe you could let up a little.
• Where did you find the razors you're currently employing as elbows and knees, you resourceful imp? Please take it easy on mommy's tummy. We're not sure if you're incising graffiti in there for your future brothers or sisters, or if you just like to feel mommy jump. But you might want to lay off a bit.

It's amazing to think you'll be here in just seven or eight more weeks! Somehow, we're pretty sure that you're easier to take care of NOW than you will be then. Keep cooking, and we'll see you soon.

Love,
Mommy and daddy

Get out of my head, Amy Tan

I've been re-reading Amy Tan's "The Joy Luck Club." I haven't read it since high school when it was required reading. It's struck a new chord with me now that I'm expecting a child myself. All these Chinese mothers in the book have so many hopes and dreams for their American-born daughters, and while they love them, they end up disappointed so often. As I sit here in my comfortable cultural moment, and pat myself on the back for having bridged a cultural gap "so well" over my life, I have to wonder -- did I do as good a job as I could have? I speak conversational Vietnamese with my family, fairly fluently. And I "get" enough of the cultural beliefs and traditions to be able to identify them and understand the purpose of their existence. But in a very real way, my dad's world is an alien one to me. I'll never really understand why you have to keep a radio on in an empty room in your house to ward off evil spirits who might try to settle there. I'll never get how a woman can be cherished and held down or back, all at the same time. I'll never grasp why it matters so much to save face over being reasonable (like paying WAY too much for your wedding, just so your family and friends see you as successful, even if you go heavily into debt to do it). Sure -- some of these things aren't ones that are intrinsic to what I believe anyway. But they're very real to him and to his family. And it saddens me a bit that even though I lived in that world for a long time (through most of high school), I'm so far away from it now. How will my own children ever understand it? They'll, by necessity, be even more distanced from it themselves, as they will know it primarily through me and my at-least arm's length relationship with it. That can never disappoint me, since it's not something my children can control. But I'll admit it makes me a little sad.

I think of these things, and then I think of my husband's relationship to his Persian heritage. Though he's proud of it and loves it dearly (especially the cuisine), he's himself declared that he speaks Farsi "on a third grade level with a Texas accent." And his parents, who fled Iran to escape the Revolution in the 70s, speak wonderful English, but I know they'll see our children and maybe feel a twinge of sadness at what they're missing in being able to tease or soothe them in Farsi, naturally and easily, instead of it also being a linguistics lesson. And so from the richly diverse heritage my children will inherit (1/4 German, 1/4 Vietnamese, 1/2 Persian with some Turkish and Russian mixed in) -- maybe all they'll really consider themselves are 100% American. And maybe that's what it means to be an American after all -- to acknowledge where you come from, but make of yourself what you will. That's a really beautiful thing, to be honest. I just wonder if it comes with a bit of a sacrifice of history.

Journal, March 2005

This is what was in my journal from March of 2005.

** ** ** ** **

I remember -- we were small. We played together every day, laughing, talking, sitting, always side by side. We used to chase butterflies and moths, catching them gently, cupping our hands into one big sphere -- tiny wings against our tiny palms -- a heartbeat in my hand. When the tickling had passed, we pulled our palms apart, releasing the sweet butterfly to flit away, unsteady in its freedom. I had never held anything so soft, so fragile as those tiny beings -- their touch so gentle that at times I wasn't even certain they were there. Each beat was precious for its lightness.

And now we're grown -- and summer evenings we spend inside, cleaning, sitting, eating late, and gentle nights slip quietly past. I have not held a heartbeat in my hand since you passed the last one to me so many years ago.

And now, it seems, I know what empty means.

** ** ** ** **

"First Response," indeed

It had been the weirdest week or two, right before we found out. I had been feeling … different. Fuller. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling by any means – kind of like a soft bloat. But it was so very different from how I’d ever felt before that I think maybe I knew before I knew. My husband certainly did, or at least he was hopeful. “I bet you’re pregnant,” he’d say, only half-teasingly. I scoffed at him. “No way.”

It soon became apparent that something was up. And when I took a home pregnancy test one evening upstairs, I called my husband into the bathroom, where I’d been watching the test during the three-minute waiting period with increasing agitation. “Honey …” I said, “… that’s not a second line, is it? I mean, it’s really kind of faint, and maybe it’s just there because of the way the litmus paper works.” His eyes like saucers, he said, “Nope – that’s a second line. You’re pregnant.” And then he wouldn’t stop saying it, in tones ranging from whispered delight to stunned disbelief. I still wasn’t buying it, so we turned to the instruction page. It stated clearly, “A second line means you’re pregnant.” And it added for good measure, “(Second line may be faint.)”

I think I started to laugh and cry at the same time, and remember feeling about 756 different emotions in rapid succession. Delight, awe, terror, amazement, sadness, anticipation, excitement, disbelief … I felt like a walking encyclopedia of emotions. We sat down in the office upstairs, and proceeded to talk about what we’d just discovered. We must have talked for an hour or more, during which time one or both of us was usually crying – with joy, fear, amazement, grief. We talked about how we felt (*that* took a while), when we wanted to share the news, what we’d do next (in terms of scheduling doctor’s appointments), how we felt again and more. And when he suggested finally going downstairs to get ready for bed, I shook my head. “If I leave the room, it will be real,” I said. “I never want to leave this room.”

But eventually, of course, I did. You have to -- life goes on and the evening must end and sooner or later you have to take the trash out or do the dishes or *something.* And after taking another test the next morning, it was undeniable. I marveled at the fact that I felt pretty good, aside from the aforementioned “soft bloat.” (What a pretty phrase.) The early weeks passed in quiet excitement as we tried to keep a lid on the news until I’d been to the doctor and we had digested it a bit ourselves. After a trip to my family doctor (who confirmed the news), I scheduled an appointment with my OB-GYN. And then we decided to tell family members. Their reactions ranged from the euphorically delighted (complete with tears and jumping up and down and simultaneous laughter), to the stunned, to the calmly accepting. And since we’d felt all of those things and more, we had decided ahead of time that everyone’s reactions would be fine, whatever they were, even if they weren’t what we thought they’d be.

Oh, and that “feeling good” phase of mine? I spoke WAY too soon.

Stay tuned.

The idea of children, part 2

Back in February, I posted a blog entitled “revisiting the idea of children.” In that posting, I wrote of my fears of having a child – of what it would mean to my career, my sense of self, my peace of mind, and especially my cherished relationship with my husband. I wrote that I was terrified of what the entire process would bring, and that the idea seemed one that I’d need to push into the distant future to have time to prepare properly for the life-changing event it would surely be.

What a difference a few months makes.

It must have been late March or April when I was driving to work, and I started listening really closely to a song that was on the radio. Called “100 Years,” by Five for Fighting, it’s not a new song, not one that’s making waves now, or enjoying any special comeback. But it had been long enough since I’d heard it that I really listened to the lyrics. In the second or third verse, the singer intones, “I’m 33 for a moment – still the man, but you see I’m a ‘they’ – kid on the way, and a family on my mind / I’m 45 for a moment – the sea is high, and I’m heading into a crisis, chasing the years of my life.”

Innocuous, right? The meaningless fluff of pop drivel, no doubt. Those lines had never struck me as anything special before. But that day in the car, they brought tears to my eyes. The idea of preparing to start a family, immediately punctuated with expressions of fleeting time, and heading into a midlife crisis, aware of how much of your life is already behind you … it suddenly became perfectly clear to me that life IS short, that the days and moments of a life do indeed fly by with ever-increasing speed, and that I was somehow ready to embrace the idea of having a child. I was still scared of what it would mean – that hadn’t changed. But the fear was different – it was closer to the excitement you feel before doing something really daring, like heading off for a travel destination you’ve never been to, or getting ready to ski down your first “blue” slope, or eating sushi at a strip mall.

The best thing, though, was the sure knowledge that no matter how afraid I was, I wasn’t in this alone. My husband and I – well, let’s say we’ve been through a lot together over the eight years we’ve been together. My confidence and faith in him is as integral a part of my life as air, food, water. It finally clicked in my mind and heart that when he kept telling me we’d go through this together, that’s exactly what he meant – and that no matter what I’d seen in the families and couples whose lives touched mine, we would do it our way, side by side and hand in hand.

So after months and years of the idea being terrifying and me pushing it away, it had suddenly become terrifying with me embracing it. And just in time, too. Because it was early June when we found out we were going to have a baby.

Stay tuned. There's more coming on this topic.

From "Jane Eyre" to "Fight Club" ...

Here's something I found in my journal from four years ago. It's still true today.

** ** ** ** **

People often ask me why I enjoy reading so much. "What's so great about it?" they ask. "I'd much rather be surfing, or watching TV, or dancing than sitting and reading a book," they tell me, disgusted with my literary addiction.

My reasons always crowd together -- there are so many that I can't articulate them all at once. I read to relax -- the silence that usually accompanies reading is very soothing to me. I read to be alone -- I find that when I'm engrossed in a novel, others tend to drift away from me to carry on their more active, mobile lifestyles in another room. I read to escape -- the most well-written novels can pluck me from my couch or chair and plunk me down in the midst of a formal dinner party, a crowded Italian piazza, a lonely Scottish moor, or a rugged, pre-revolutionary American wildnerness (it's the cheapest form of travel I've discovered).

But most of all, I read to understand, to see, to get the reading right. Here's what I mean: when I open a book, my mind is clear. I stand poised on the brink of nothing. I don't mean a blank canvas -- that's too flat, too bounded by borders and edges. In my mind, there is quite truly nothing there -- a great, gaping emptiness waiting to be filled.

With the first words, that nothingness begins to fill rapidly. From the emptiness emerges a skeleton of what the author wants me to see. The word "forest" evokes tall trees, grassy clearings, and the occasional bit of moss. A few lines in, the word "frost" appears, and I quickly regroup -- now the trees are bare, their branches silvery-white, and the crisp dead leaves beneath my feet crunch as I break the ice crystals that lace them together. In another line, I read "breezy" -- and now the scene is alive with movement, the trees reaching and swaying in a coordinated dance, the tinkle of ice clear on the whisper of the wind.

With every line, paragraph, chapter and page, I keep updating my scene, trying to get it just the way I'm meant to get it. Seasons are replaced, props interchanged, people re-dressed in my head as I fly through the descriptions. And if I've done it right, I begin to know the book, feel its live heartbeat pulse in my hands, understand the characters, hear their voices. I start to really smell the furniture polish in the drawing room, feel the sweat trickle down my back from the humid August air, taste the smooth-oily flavor of the buttered eels on the dinner plate, grow tired with fatigue at the end of an emotionally-charged argument. At that point, I'm no longer a reader -- I am instead a ghost, haunting the story and its inhabitants, walking beside them, hearing their thoughts, sharing their meals and their beds and their heartaches. (And the beautiful thing about it is that I can get it perfectly right, and so can you -- and yet if we were to be able to show one another the book's faces in our heads, they would probably still look completely different.)

In the end, then, that's why I read -- not to hear a good story, but to live it alongside the people who make it happen. I read to taste another's life and dreams and fears, and make them mine. And when I close a book, I am never the same person who opened it. I am always enriched and challenged and haunted in return for what it has given me.

whole

I wrote this poem for my husband, more than six years before we got married. It's as true today as it was the day I wrote it. This is for him.

** ** ** ** **
whole
** ** ** ** **
I breathe
you are peace and calm
and in your sweet scent
there is warmth

(in all my life
I never knew
that love is something
you can breathe)

with my cheek
against your heart
the pulse of my life
slows to match
the steady beat of yours
and as our blood
ebbs and flows together
I ease into
the rhythm
I have always
sought but
never found
till now

a matching heart
your warm embrace
the sweetest scent

I pull you in
and in that breath
you fill me up
with quiet stillness
and with hope

and I am whole again.

Sitting in a coffeehouse, not drinking coffee

It's the second day of the annual Nineteen-Day Baha'i Fast. During this time period, Baha'is (like myself) abstain from food or drink between sunrise and sunset. While it shares similar "rules" to the Islamic observance of Ramadan, and while I get questions all the time about whether it's the same thing, it is not -- it's not only a separate observance, but a separate faith entirely. And yet I think, from the little I know about Ramadan, the intent is quite similar. In fact, the more I reflect on this period of spiritual cleansing and detachment from the physical world, the more I realize that the Baha'i Fast is also a great deal like what I understand to be true (and what I remember) of the Christian observance of Lent.

I grew up observing Lent in various ways. Some years it was a challenge in and of itself to simply remember not to eat meat on Fridays, and observe the Catholic fasting on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday -- one skipped meal, one half meal and one regular meal on those days. Other years I attempted a greater degree of sacrifice and self-denial -- the year I gave up chocolate was one in which my entire family suffered along with me, I think. (I don't remember repeating that vow in subsequent years.) But all along, the small, inconsequential pain of self-denial was a constant reminder of the sacrifices made centuries before by One greater than myself, and also a reminder of the spirituality I wished to strengthen within myself.

The Fast is much the same for me. Now I keep at the forefront of my mind (as I bypass morning coffee, Shipley's donuts at breakfast meetings, lunch with friends, the quenching of my thirst as soon as I feel it with any variety of refreshing drinks like the blended Mocha Drift at my favorite coffeehouse [where I'm sitting], afternoon snacks of Girl Scout Cookies or crunchy apple slices with creamy peanut butter, and early dinners) the thought that with this small observance of detachment from the physical needs of my body, I turn instead to the spiritual needs of my soul. My dry throat reminds me to pray -- in the morning, when I begin my Fast each day, at noon in observance of the Daily Obligatory Prayer, at night when I break the Fast, before bed as I think back on the events of the day and wonder whether my actions have been pleasing to my Creator. My hunger, growing steadily all day, informs me that while my body will someday crumble ("From dust I created you, and to dust you shall return ..."), my spirit has been promised everlasting life, and that I should remember its needs well beyond the Fast each year. And when I gather with the members of my Baha'i community to worship together, to study the Writings we cherish, to lend support to one another in times of need, I am reminded too that we are blessed beyond measure in being able to gather openly, with no fear of retribution, no threat to our safety. Our fellow believers in Iran, in Egypt, in many other parts of the world enjoy no such guarantee. I am in awe of their simple bravery, their everyday courage, their devout faith. And suddenly, my hunger seems a trifling discomfort compared to the danger that is just a part of life for them.

My Fast this year is dedicated to my fellow believers in Iran and Egypt, where basic human and civil rights (such as hospital treatment, education, the ability to work and the right to travel freely) are denied Baha'is. May the strength of our shared community and the fervence of our prayers lift the oppression under which they live -- may our letters and our voices reach the ears of our national leaders to take measures to address these inequities -- may the hearts of the leaders of those oppressive governments be softened and changed through the power and steadfastness of the believers. Baha'u'llah, the founder of the Baha'i Faith, tells us that a gentle drop of water, applied with regularity to the hardest of substances, may over time erode away the most powerful barriers.

My Fast, then, is in celebration of those gentle drops of water.

*MY* taxicab confessions

I recently took a trip to California for work. One night I was there, I met friends for dinner in LA, and after our delightful evening together, I got into a cab to go back to Newport Beach, a suburb of LA about an hour south of downtown, where I was staying and working. What ensued was by turns infuriating, terrifying, frustrating and hilarious. I'm sure I'm not doing it justice -- to fully appreciate the events, you have to imagine that you're exhausted in the back of a cab in a strange city, with a cab driver who, with each passing moment, is rapidly descending from competent-sounding to stupendously dumb.

It was a little after 10 p.m. when the craziness began. I figured it would take about an hour to get from the restaurant to my hotel. The first unorthodox thing that happened was that we stopped for gas -- disconcerting in the neighborhood where we were, but understandable. I asked the driver to pause the meter, which he did (and looking back, I don't know whether he would have done so if I hadn't asked him to). We then got stuck in traffic, at which point the driver swivels his head around to look at me and asks, "Aw, man -- is there a Laker game tonight or something?" I thought, "I'm in a taxicab with YOU because I'm from out of town -- how should *I* know if there's a flippin' Laker game tonight?!" It's only because my friends had mentioned it that I knew there was one, and I told him that. He said the traffic was a result of the Laker game and "it will clear up here in a minute or two." Twenty minutes later, he was exiting the still-in-full-swing traffic jam to get onto another highway to keep heading south -- by then I'd lost track of which highway we were on. We proceeded to drive south for over an hour -- I was starting to get sleepy, but I was determined not to fall asleep with this guy at the wheel. Around 11 p.m., I asked him if we were getting close, and he said we had about 10 miles left, and wanted the address for my hotel, which I gave to him. (John Wayne Airport had come and gone on my right, so I figured we were on the 405.) He finally exited and said, "I missed my exit -- I'll give you a break on the fare when we get there." I looked at the meter, which read "$155.10" at that point and thought, "You BET you are." (And to make it all crazier -- the entire time I was in the cab, he was listening to some talk radio conspiracy theory program about how Timothy McVeigh of the Oklahoma City bombing fame was working with the FBI and was brainwashed. The segment after that one was asserting that the reason Americans haven't been back to visit the moon through the space program was because aliens told us not to come back. I'm not kidding.)

We then got on the 55, took that until it ended, and drove around Newport Beach for 40 minutes. He tried getting directions from at least two other cab drivers, and then spent 10 minutes on my cell phone talking to the concierge at my hotel, whom I'd called. No matter what anyone told him, he couldn't seem to figure out how to get there. At one point (and this sounds like melodrama, but I swear it's true), I actually started to wonder if this guy would drive me out to some remote place and murder me. Nothing looked familiar outside the window of the accursed cab -- I had no idea how we'd gotten lost, or what to try next, besides calling 911, which I might have done, given 10 more minutes with the guy. We finally *stumbled* upon a Marriott that wasn't mine, but the second time we passed it, I just told him I was getting out. This was after we'd driven on the Fashion Island Loop Road for 10 minutes as he looked for some highway or street he was obviously never going to cross -- and he had a map in his hand. When he handed it to me, I took one look at it and demanded to be let out at the Marriott we could see (it finally dawned on me at this point that he wasn't a murderer -- he was just a moron. I'm still not convinced he was literate).

By then it was 12:15 and the fare had climbed to $240 and change -- I told him I would pay him what I'd expected to pay to get to Newport Beach (which was about $120) and no more. He didn't raise a fuss, because at that point I was thunderously pissed (in fact, he turned to me and said in a wonderous voice, "That's funny -- that's exactly what I was going to charge you!" Yeah, right.). Caught another cab to my hotel which was NO MORE than 3.5 miles away from where we were. Took 3 minutes. The only thing that could have made the ride more of a challenge would be if I'd gotten motion-sick or something that whole time.

What did I learn? As Mad-Eye Moody would say, speaking to Harry Potter, "Constant vigilance!" Thank God I hadn't just fallen asleep as I might have done, easily -- I might still be in that taxi. And if I hadn't insisted on getting out of the cab at the other hotel, who knows how much longer we would have just driven around the city. I've never known a cab driver for whom a street address was not enough information to get someone to their destination. Even if a driver's not familiar with an address, doesn't he have the wherewithall to call headquarters for directions, use his GPS system, or unfold a flippin' map? It was nuts.

Revisiting the idea of children

My husband and I were at a friend's house last night. One of their other guests brought along her three-year-old son. A charming little boy at first glance, he quickly reminded me why I'm still not ready to be a mother. Although he tried hard to stay quiet (with admirably self-controlled whispers to his mother as he played, albeit loud ones) while the grown-ups watched a short feature film (about 45 minutes in length), his efforts at self-amusement soon grew too loud to ignore and his mother prepared to gather him up to leave. That's when the fireworks began.

Within seconds, the little guy's protests had ratcheted up from loud stage whispers to outright shouts. "I don't want to go!" he cried, over and over, as one by one, we gave up all pretense of ignoring him and turned to watch the unfolding drama. His mother levered him toward the door with a great amount of difficulty, owing as much to her own advanced pregnancy with angel #2 as to the little boy's amazingly sure-handed grabs for whatever furniture he could reach to hold on to as she tried to get him outside.

Most of the guests were amused. I was disheartened greatly, myself. Was this the joy of motherhood -- to be the center of attention while your offspring create disruptive scenes in other people's homes? More importantly, could this poor woman's life ever be the same again as it had been? I'd never met her before, but in my mind, her life before becoming a mother was busy and satisfying, one in which she shared evenings with her husband and their friends and families in laughter and joy, one in which her days were spent working or running errands, to rest at the end of a productive day -- a life much like my own. What did she have now? My brief glimpse into her life told me that getting herself and her son up and dressed to face each day might be in and of itself a challenge.

I have other friends with children. Many of the women I know have either taken breaks from or set aside permanently their careers to be stay-at-home mothers. I cannot think of a more noble and self-sacrificing and necessary job -- and yet for myself, I do not know that I am capable. If we have children, I would want no one else to have the daily care of them but me and/or my husband. All the same, that choice represents a change in lifestyle I shudder to contemplate.

I like my life. I work from home most days. The work is computer-based, and when I'm not on the phone with clients or colleagues, it's quiet work. The only noise I might hear aside from the tapping of keys is the delicious hum of the clothes dryer, warming clean towels and blue jeans and sweaters. While I work, I sit in a living room decorated in shades of rust and gold and chocolate, grown-up colors that soothe me. My husband and I have been known to take midnights walks on foggy nights, just to enjoy the strange sensation of losing one another within 6 feet, even though we can still hear our shared laughter. We've gone to IHOP or Whataburger at 11 at night, just for fun. We sleep in on Sundays. We run errands together, and if they keep us out three hours longer than we thought they would, it's no big deal. We throw parties that get loud with the laughter of the friends we love, and we never worry about waking up the kids.

And so, because I have no concept of what life will be like after children for us, I'm forced (in my lack of imagination) to pit that life against the one I have. I see clutter -- primary colors everywhere, plastic things obscuring my view of the wood furniture I love, fingerprints on glass, crayon marks on the crisp ivory colored walls of our home. I see long nights of sitting up with the baby, piles of laundry that don't ever seem to diminish, dishes in the sink. I hear thumping from upstairs as children run and fall, shouting and crying. I sense that the only places we'll be going at 11 p.m. in this new world is to the store for more diapers or, heaven forbid, the emergency room to treat a fever that won't respond to Tylenol. And what pains me the most is that I see myself looking always at a child, and my husband doing the same, and we so very rarely look at one another anymore.

I'm afraid. I guess any woman might be, or any man. I'm afraid to lose the life I love. While it's natural, it's also powerful. And I know my husband doesn't share my fear -- his view of a life with children is one of joy and laughter and pride and play, while mine is filled with effort and loss. In four years I'll be at an age at which pregnancy becomes riskier. I feel like I'm running out of time to enjoy the life I have, to develop a happier imagination about being a mother, to reconcile how I feel with the fact that I've always felt motherhood was in my future, to weigh how much my husband wants to be a dad with how afraid I am of being a mom.

Pain, truth and good writing

When I was in college, there was always something lodged painfully in my heart. Whether it was a guy thing, a family thing, a "what the hell do I want to be when I grow up" thing, a job thing or something else, the point is ... it was there. I recently ran across some old journal entries of mine from those years. While they're a trifle melodramatic, they're real. They're honest and true and very, very real.

And now I'm well beyond college and grad school. All those "guy" things resolved themselves into learnings I brought with me to my marriage to my best friend. The family things have either mellowed, or I've learned how to deal with them more productively, or they've melted away entirely. The "what to do when I grow up" and "job" things -- well, I just do what I do. I may not yet be grown up and this may not be it, but the doing of it takes time, brings me some satisfaction -- and earns a living. The stuff that was stuck in my heart has turned into light and joy, or has shored up its walls at least.

And I wonder if, in the gaining of great happiness and deep peace, I've lost a part of myself. What do you do when the pain and frustration that identifies you and defines you melts away, like sugar in coffee? Life's not bitter anymore -- it's sweet, though there are still moments of darkness. And to write about joy seems boastful, whereas to write about suffering seems to be a way out of it.

I asked a very special friend this question about a year ago. I woke up one day panicked, realizing I hadn't written anything real, or of emotional substance, in a long time. So I did what I'd always done in college -- I wrote a long, jumbled letter to my friend. He's known me forever, and he's been there as my writing changed from junior high scribblings to moments of coherence in high school, to honest and clear-voiced thoughts in college and grad school. And this is what he said.

"What makes good writing 'good' isn't pain, though sometimes good writing can break your heart with its suffering. What makes it good is truth. If what you write is real and honest, you can write well, beautifully, profoundly."

And he's right, of course. I can't help but reflect, though, on writing that's changed me -- fiction, non-fiction, poetry, prose, letters from friends, someone's dream journal entries -- and they're overwhelmingly powerful because of something hard, something difficult that the author was growing or pushing through. I possess a handful of memories and impressions of powerful writing that was about great joy, but much more frequently the passages that haunt me, the ones I can quote by heart, are about loss and grief and ache and suffering.

I have always called myself a writer. But what kind of writer am I now, with only the memory of deep sadness to call upon as inspiration for my craft? Even those distant memories of pain have had their edges dulled by the passage of time and the healing of hearts. I live now in days that are buoyed by the laughter I share with a man I am too lucky, really, in marrying -- days in which I am loved and I can love freely, days in which I have found comfort and peace.

I'm deeply thankful for the abundance of blessings I've been given. And so in tribute both to God, who has given me the amazing gifts that grace my life, and to the past I remember living through to get to now, I make a commitment: I will remember. The ease I've found now (which may be fleeting in any case) will not keep me from understanding pain around me, because I've walked those paths myself.

So I'll remember.

Watching someone I loved being hurt by someone who never deserved to be with him.
Loving someone who was completely wrong for me.
Forgetting how to be myself, and how miserable I felt as a result.
Making the same mistakes over and over, because I was unwilling to quit a bad habit ... or a bad person.
Being lonely, even when I was surrounded.
Being outside, aching to get in.
Fighting inside, desperate to get out.
Hating myself deeply and viciously, even when I couldn't articulate why.

For to forget these things is to dishonor what I've learned and been given now -- faith, knowledge, understanding, companionship, trust, honesty, belonging, and peace. Whether or not any of that makes good writing, it is truth.