7/30/11
Jenn had a contraction at 2:30 a.m. last night, yet another reminder that, for the time being, her body is not her own. Her belly is so distended that it has surpassed all viable comparisons to produce, and she has now entered one of my favorite realms, that of the sports metaphors. Thus, Jenn's belly is now the size of a volleyball. Indeed, if it were to begin to rain here in Albuquerque--something it blessedly did twice earlier in the week--a small child could no doubt take shelter from the storm beneath Jenn's overhanging pregnant shelf.
The old Jenn might have laughed at the above comparison, and she does still laugh, but with less frequency. It has become difficult for her to walk the tightrope between wanting to go into labor and feeling nervous as to what the ordeal will entail. This partially explains why last night was a bit chippy between us. Jenn spent the evening in our bedroom reading "The Red Tent"--which she started and finished--while I edited an older piece of writing in the living room before falling asleep to a semi-interesting Phillip Seymour Hoffman film. (Brief aside: I highly recommend, "Charlie Wilson's War." Snappy dialogue with Hoffman, Tom Hanks, and Julia Roberts at their best.)
Overall, I admit to enjoying the last few days of non-parenthood; I was able to squeeze in another and unexpected week of work; garnered a few more bike rides; and Tom the Insomniac was able to catch up on a bit more sleep. Additionally, and in seeming (and actual) contradiction to the above. I also found the time to imbibe in my not-so-secret middle of the night pleasure: munching on snacks and watching "30 Rock" reruns on Netflix. When Jenn enters the living room in the morning, she is amused at the telltale carnage--crumpled animal cracker packages, string cheese wrappers, and on the occasions when I'm feeling the need to make healthier choices, an apple core or a crinkly, plastic blueberry container.
This waiting for our lives to be turned on their heads is getting a bit old. Jenn and I have been trying to arrange a few days to be together after the baby is born so we could have some bonding time before the tidal wave of relatives and friends washes against our door. This week, I back-loaded my work schedule on the assumption that Zinnia Rain would be joining us sometime yesterday or today. Jenn's mother, Margaret, was scheduled to arrive tomorrow, but at our request she postponed her arrival until Wednesday. (Update--Now Friday.)
Old joke: How do you make God laugh?
Answer: Tell Him you have plans.
The last few days, Jenn has been struggling emotionally, but has been unable to put things into words. This morning, I emerged from my "meditation room-slash-nursery" only to witness my wife walking across the house like a throbbing, open nerve. I tried to offer her this or that--an ear, a massage, an invitation to try to (wink, wink) induce labor)--but the answer was negatory on all counts. Out of ideas, I decided to imbibe in my usual "Going to Starbucks to Write" ritual. As I stood in the kitchen, I paused to study Jenn through the opening of the shelf overhangs. She was sitting on the couch looking raw and vulnerable and very dear, trying to appear stoic and "not needy," but really, she looked as if she were about to burst into tears. I joined her on the couch and put an arm around her. She curled up into my chest and we sat their in silence.
Jenn gets lonely sometimes, and of late has been missing her friends and family from Oregon. We have received many generous offers from friends here in New Mexico: Offers to babysit, to prepare food, and to spend time and support Jenn and the baby. These offers were made with open and sincere hearts, but I understand people have their own lives, their own kids, their own priorities. I consider any support we receive from family or friends as a bonus--something to accept with gratitude, but not expected. This attitude, no doubt, is a reflection of LBJ--Life Before Jenn. I was alone for years, and aside from semi-frequent bouts of whining about lack of sex and companionship, I had grown to enjoy being attached to nothing and to no one. Even today, on the cusp of parenthood, I have fantasies about becoming a Buddhist monk or joining the Shipibos deep in the Amazon.
Jenn, on the other hand, is used to regular contact with a massive extended family and strong network of friends. She also understands that I will be gone even more as work picks up. We are both about to enter uncharted territory. She will learn to be a new mother and to trust fully in another to provide emotional and financial support; and I will learn what it is to be a father and to have two other beings (plus two cats) depend on me for their sustenance and well-being.
Perhaps this is why Zinnia is hesitating to come into the world. Is she waiting for some sort of signal indicating her papa is ready? Maybe I need to shift into a purer state of love or she senses my anxiety at becoming a new father and interprets it as a lack of unconditional welcome.
Jenn was doing this same pointless head tripping earlier in the week. In the end, of course, it's all egoic projection. Like any strong willed Leo, Z-Rain (our daughter's hip-hop name) will come at the perfect time of her choosing.
But if I learned anything from my mother, it was the tactful art of how to encourage a child to do what you want them to do. So, in the spirit of Zinna's paternal grandmother-to-be, I take a page from the BMB book of parenting: "Young lady, if you don't come out of that womb by tomorrow, you're grounded!"
(Brief update: 8/1/11--One contraction yesterday. Jenn is not in labor as yet, nor has her water broken. Her belly is now the size of an over-inflated volleyball.)
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Ditto
Read previous post (7/26/11) and insert today's date.
No contractions as yet, but not for lack of trying. Jenn is doing her best to speed things along. When I got home from work last nigh, she was huffing and puffing from having crammed a garbage container full with brittle pine needles, pine cones, and dead branches from the tree in front of our house. And what did she get for her effort contractions-wise? Bubkis! Nary a contraction.
It's 5:30 a.m., and the thin light of the rising sun approaches. I've been up since 4:00 wondering if today is the day. Last night, supported by 7-8 pillows in various crevasses around her body, Jenn managed to find a position she could get some sleep. From where I sit a the dining room table, I can hear her ungentle snores and am happy for them.
No contractions as yet, but not for lack of trying. Jenn is doing her best to speed things along. When I got home from work last nigh, she was huffing and puffing from having crammed a garbage container full with brittle pine needles, pine cones, and dead branches from the tree in front of our house. And what did she get for her effort contractions-wise? Bubkis! Nary a contraction.
It's 5:30 a.m., and the thin light of the rising sun approaches. I've been up since 4:00 wondering if today is the day. Last night, supported by 7-8 pillows in various crevasses around her body, Jenn managed to find a position she could get some sleep. From where I sit a the dining room table, I can hear her ungentle snores and am happy for them.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
7/26/11
No contractions, no water breaking, all's quite on the Southwestern front.
The quiet before the storm?
The quiet before the storm?
Monday, July 25, 2011
Poem for Zinnia
Please go to the comments section at the bottom of "The Sacred Yes" to read the breathtaking poem, "How to Light Your Wish," by Jenn's good friend, Carrie Heimer.
Thanks, Carrie. This is the second gem of yours we've been honored to receive. A peerless work of art indeed : )
Thanks, Carrie. This is the second gem of yours we've been honored to receive. A peerless work of art indeed : )
Induction-duction, what's your function?
Saturday, 7/23--Our projected due date: Contractions today thus far--3
All systems go. Baby's arrival could happen any time, and our good friend, Susan, came by and took some pre-labor photos yesterday. Here's a sample:
Susan thinks we might be in pre-labor shock, so relaxed are we about impending parenthood. To me, it likens more to an exam we've been cramming for the past nine months. I believe Jenn and I have both reached the, "Enough Already--Lets Do It" stage.
As I write this entry, thunder booms in the distance, and Summer monsoon clouds are boiling over the top of the Sandias. A westerly wind has kicked up filling the air with dust and the scent of rain. Jenn is in our bedroom napping, but I can't sleep. I find myself wanting to leapfrog the entire birthing process and simply get to the part where our daughter is in hand so I can learn how to diaper and care for and love her.
When I was a kid, I believed a mother's belly simply opened up like the Bat Cave. A doctor would reach in, take the baby out, and hand him/her to the mommy nice and clean and dry. Today, Jenn told me about a modest woman at her "Mother and Baby Group" who stated that before she delivered, she was appalled at the idea of publicly defecating during the birth process. The woman shared that by the time she was in mid-labor, her philosophy about pooping in front of others had altered dramatically, and she summed up her new stance in one word: Whatever.
I imagine when Jenn enters her birth bubble, she will be in such an altered state, that the last thing she will be thinking about is her modesty. I have already started to see some disturbing signs. Jenn's belly has turned every shirt into an undersized lobster bib, and she now walks around with a Rorschach of food-stains spackling her tops. And her cleavage--once a part of Jenn's body fastidiously concealed under an array loose work shirts and dark-colored blouses--is now out there for the entire world to see like some two-bit hussy.
(Jenn has just come out from her nap after being woken up by another contraction or, as she called it, "that tightening thing in my belly. Up to four.)
Sunday, 7/24--Contractions today: One
To my sometimes-chagrin, we have a strict "No Computers in the Bedroom" policy. I have struggled with this decision even while seeing the wisdom in it. As a single man, those middle-of-the-night hours were creative and fruitful. I would grab my laptop and write or edit in bed for an hour or so before falling back to sleep beneath the blue-ish-gray haze of the computer screen. In the four years we have lived together, we have stuck to the no computers policy religiously. Until last night. It started with Jenn sitting on the glider-chair we bought for her to breastfeed and rock our daughter to sleep. We propped Jenn's feet up on the matching ottoman while we talked about this and that, and I painted her toes a gentle shade of burgundy.
Women are such mysterious creatures. Here Jenn is, on the cusp of the most powerful experience she will ever know, and she is feeling an intractable urge to have her nails done. Who am I deny this wish. By my reckoning, I painted three of her piggies with an excellence heretofore unseen by humankind; three others I did in an above average sort of way; and four were works of abstract art. Afterward, we brought Jenn's laptop into the bedroom, and watched the excellent, "Count of Monte Cristo," while eating a large bowl of buttery popcorn.
Bornnnnn to be Wiiild!
Today my wife and I will try to induce labor, and by induce I mean bump uglies/do the nasty/hide the salami/make sweet, sweet love/take the skin boat to tuna town.** This is yet another fact that everyone seemed to know about but me (i.e. one can speed up the birthing process through, ahem, adult activities). The potential for euphemistic fodder is staggering: "Hey, Jenn, the baby's asleep. Feel like inducing a little labor (wink-wink)?"
(Later that day) I am happy to report some success. We were able to create one lone good-sized contraction and one minor one, but it doesn't feel like it's time for Zinnia to join us yet. I am constantly amazed at how many people are invested in the entry of this little girl. Every phone call, every email, every text (to Jenn--I don't text), nearly every person-to-person interaction includes some mention of the baby.
Here's a brief sample of emails received in the last 24 hours:
anything happening? if I don't get a reply, I am assuming that something is happening? Love you, ~E
We are ready to welcome Zinnia. She's à coming soon.
Love you and hope for a smooth arrival. Tom sorry I missed you. Next weekend we'll be in Florence. Probably be able to Skype. If you have à webcam we might be able to see Zinnia. (from brother Jimmy)
From our friend/photographer, Susan: Marc is headed to a birthday party and I am wondering if he should take Sofia just in case? Are you having any serious activity? He won't be back until 12:30 so Sofia would have to come with me if something happens before then. Let me know! suz
What is the news bro? (From friend and marimba teacher, Dan Pauli.)
I know Zinnia Rain is coming, but I am unsure when I will officially believe she is a reality. Probably when she crowns.
07/25/11
Tonight we went for a walk to get things moving, but the baby hasn't stirred, and I am too tired to do anymore inducing. Jenn's belly is a tight basketball, and her naval has a mind of its own. Tomorrow's the day?
Tomorrow's the day.
**Thank you, Burgess Meredith.
All systems go. Baby's arrival could happen any time, and our good friend, Susan, came by and took some pre-labor photos yesterday. Here's a sample:
Susan thinks we might be in pre-labor shock, so relaxed are we about impending parenthood. To me, it likens more to an exam we've been cramming for the past nine months. I believe Jenn and I have both reached the, "Enough Already--Lets Do It" stage.
As I write this entry, thunder booms in the distance, and Summer monsoon clouds are boiling over the top of the Sandias. A westerly wind has kicked up filling the air with dust and the scent of rain. Jenn is in our bedroom napping, but I can't sleep. I find myself wanting to leapfrog the entire birthing process and simply get to the part where our daughter is in hand so I can learn how to diaper and care for and love her.
When I was a kid, I believed a mother's belly simply opened up like the Bat Cave. A doctor would reach in, take the baby out, and hand him/her to the mommy nice and clean and dry. Today, Jenn told me about a modest woman at her "Mother and Baby Group" who stated that before she delivered, she was appalled at the idea of publicly defecating during the birth process. The woman shared that by the time she was in mid-labor, her philosophy about pooping in front of others had altered dramatically, and she summed up her new stance in one word: Whatever.
I imagine when Jenn enters her birth bubble, she will be in such an altered state, that the last thing she will be thinking about is her modesty. I have already started to see some disturbing signs. Jenn's belly has turned every shirt into an undersized lobster bib, and she now walks around with a Rorschach of food-stains spackling her tops. And her cleavage--once a part of Jenn's body fastidiously concealed under an array loose work shirts and dark-colored blouses--is now out there for the entire world to see like some two-bit hussy.
(Jenn has just come out from her nap after being woken up by another contraction or, as she called it, "that tightening thing in my belly. Up to four.)
Sunday, 7/24--Contractions today: One
To my sometimes-chagrin, we have a strict "No Computers in the Bedroom" policy. I have struggled with this decision even while seeing the wisdom in it. As a single man, those middle-of-the-night hours were creative and fruitful. I would grab my laptop and write or edit in bed for an hour or so before falling back to sleep beneath the blue-ish-gray haze of the computer screen. In the four years we have lived together, we have stuck to the no computers policy religiously. Until last night. It started with Jenn sitting on the glider-chair we bought for her to breastfeed and rock our daughter to sleep. We propped Jenn's feet up on the matching ottoman while we talked about this and that, and I painted her toes a gentle shade of burgundy.
Women are such mysterious creatures. Here Jenn is, on the cusp of the most powerful experience she will ever know, and she is feeling an intractable urge to have her nails done. Who am I deny this wish. By my reckoning, I painted three of her piggies with an excellence heretofore unseen by humankind; three others I did in an above average sort of way; and four were works of abstract art. Afterward, we brought Jenn's laptop into the bedroom, and watched the excellent, "Count of Monte Cristo," while eating a large bowl of buttery popcorn.
Bornnnnn to be Wiiild!
Today my wife and I will try to induce labor, and by induce I mean bump uglies/do the nasty/hide the salami/make sweet, sweet love/take the skin boat to tuna town.** This is yet another fact that everyone seemed to know about but me (i.e. one can speed up the birthing process through, ahem, adult activities). The potential for euphemistic fodder is staggering: "Hey, Jenn, the baby's asleep. Feel like inducing a little labor (wink-wink)?"
(Later that day) I am happy to report some success. We were able to create one lone good-sized contraction and one minor one, but it doesn't feel like it's time for Zinnia to join us yet. I am constantly amazed at how many people are invested in the entry of this little girl. Every phone call, every email, every text (to Jenn--I don't text), nearly every person-to-person interaction includes some mention of the baby.
Here's a brief sample of emails received in the last 24 hours:
anything happening? if I don't get a reply, I am assuming that something is happening? Love you, ~E
We are ready to welcome Zinnia. She's à coming soon.
Love you and hope for a smooth arrival. Tom sorry I missed you. Next weekend we'll be in Florence. Probably be able to Skype. If you have à webcam we might be able to see Zinnia. (from brother Jimmy)
From our friend/photographer, Susan: Marc is headed to a birthday party and I am wondering if he should take Sofia just in case? Are you having any serious activity? He won't be back until 12:30 so Sofia would have to come with me if something happens before then. Let me know! suz
What is the news bro? (From friend and marimba teacher, Dan Pauli.)
I know Zinnia Rain is coming, but I am unsure when I will officially believe she is a reality. Probably when she crowns.
07/25/11
Tonight we went for a walk to get things moving, but the baby hasn't stirred, and I am too tired to do anymore inducing. Jenn's belly is a tight basketball, and her naval has a mind of its own. Tomorrow's the day?
Tomorrow's the day.
**Thank you, Burgess Meredith.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The Sacred Yes
Jenn has started to have "muscle strains" in her belly. She is making plans for her jewelry business and wants to expand her exposure in various galleries, but really, she has been busy with nesting around the house, ironing diapers, cleaning the kitchen, organizing the baby supply room (formerly known as Tom's Meditation Space).
Today, Jenn said she's "feeling restless" and doesn't know why, but I suspect she does. Yes, we are heading down the home stretch.
I feel fully prepared and qualified to deliver our baby and am even willing to sever the umbilicus with my teeth (if necessary) once the cord has stopped pulsing. How do I know to wait for the placental pulse to cease? Here is a clip from a hand-out given to us by our midwife--a "To Do" list of pre-birth preparation:
"Stay Calm (Nice lead) and remember that birth is a natural, healthy process. Encourage mother to deliver baby's head slowly, by panting if possible. Catch the baby's body (remember they're slippery!) and dry the baby with a clean, dry towel. Wrap the baby in a new, dry towel and wait for midwife to arrive. Keep the baby warm. Do not clamp/tie or cut cord. Leave the baby attached to the cord and wait for the placenta. If mother has cramping or gush of blood from the vagina, the placenta is probably ready to deliver. Have mother push while you pull GENTLY on the cord. If the placenta does not come at this time, wait. If the placenta delivers, leave baby attached to the cord and placenta until the midwife arrives."
There is something so touching about this paragraph. I feel assured and encouraged that Jenn and I have no reason to panic or worry. Also, what can I say, I like drama. The image of delivering our baby in a driving snow storm is quite appealing, even if we are living in the desert in the middle of Summer.
Before Jenn and I left Oregon, a psychic told her that living in New Mexico would put her jewelry on the map, but being a mother would put her on the map. Jenn believes she can create the kind of birthing experience she desires with a positive attitude and the right mind. I couldn't agree more, but me myself, I tend toward a pessimistic view of life. More often than not I have severe doubts about human nature even while I love and foster undying hope in humanity.
As I rode my bike today along the arroyo trail, I reflected on this cynical, lifelong point of view that seems to have permeated my every fiber since birth. I am the eternal optimess--always waiting for the other shoe to drop even whilst hundred dollar Nikes are raining from the sky. Thus, as I sweat (swat?) and pedaled, I asked myself this question: Why, when I have been so blessed, am I always braced for an energetic shot to the kidneys? To get to the bottom of this mystery, we must delve (insert wavy flashback lines here) and go back, back, back for a stroll down memory lane into -- Bum-bum-buh-bummmm! -- Tom's dark and seedy childhood.
Ha, Ha. Just kidding. The last thing I want to do at this stage is point a ruminating finger at, say, a hypothetical Jewish crone whose natural personality makes Eeyore seem like a party animal. Instead, I choose the high road (sort of, aside from the Eeyore allusion above) and accept my cynical optimism as both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it has taken said-hypothetical crone's son (i.e. me) and made him slightly Eeyore-esque in disposition himself; on the other hand, it has blessed the author with an above average sense of humor and a healthy lack of naivete.
This is not to say I don't aspire toward a sunnier disposition. I once asked Jenn how I could become more positive as a human being, and she said without hesitation, "Change your thoughts." I feel in my gut that she's right, but have yet take the steps to turn her advice into reality. Jenn, however, is living proof of what is possible. She is a master of re-framing her world view to see the positive side of things, sometimes to the point of making a pest of herself. Off-and-on, I have suspected my wife of using the disingenuous technique of playing devils advocate rather than giving me her true and honest opinion. In actuality, it is a probably a rare event, but even if I'm wrong, it doesn't makes her "Maybe You-Can-See-Things-This-Way" advice any less annoying. As you can see, I am a bit attached to my cynicism.
How this will manifest in fatherhood, I have no clue, but we are expecting our home birth to go into high gear any day. Lets see:
Birthing pool inflated? Check.
Midwife's two phone numbers stored in my cell phone? Check.
Chucks, shower curtains, and hose at the ready? Check.
Hundreds of garments of baby clothes folded and stored? Check?
Photographer lined up to record the blessed event? Check.
Stews and soups made and stored in the freezer to provide ready-made meals for the newly crowned mother? Working on it.
Inundation of visits from relatives and friends choreographed to help and support the new parents and, lets face it, because they want to be around a newly-delivered diving being? Double check.
Jenn and I are as ready as ready can be, which is to say, not at all. How does one prepare to have everything one once knew be turned on its head? Answer: Surrender to the process. Jenn and I go forward with profound gratitude and fear, excitement and Oh-My-God-Am-I-Really-Ready-for-This?
It started five years ago with a sacred Yes. While still in Oregon, I was fast approaching the end of my one year sabbatical. It had been a glorious year of writing, spiritual pursuits, and isolation, and I was preparing to return to New Mexico. But something inside, some intuitive hit told me it wasn't time yet. I closed my eyes and prayed. I said, "Spirit," I said, "whatever you send my way, the answer is Yes.
There have been four times in my life I have put this invitation out to the Universe with sincere intention, and each time it has lead to a major revolution in my life. This was not the exception.
I made the decision, as a symbolic gesture of my re-joining the planet (and with the mild hope of getting laid), to place an ad on the Portland Craigslist Personals. Around that same time, and more out of curiosity than anything, I visited some of the Oregon tribal websites. The last job I'd held in New Mexico was as a therapist at an urban clinic for Native Americans, and I was curious to see what the Northwest had going on. One tribe, The Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde, happened to be advertising for a mental health counselor. I called them to see if I could have a tour of the facility. In the mistaken belief I wanted to actually apply for the position, the HR guy suggested I send my resume first and then he would show me around. My thinking was, Okay, if that's what I need to do to see the place...
At the same time, a cute and very authentic young redhead responded to my personal ad. On our first date, we went out to the airport and watched planes landing and taking-off and talked. Let me tell you, the sparks did not fly. Jenn thought I was handsome but uber serious; and I found her sweet (normally the kiss of death), real, and importantly enough, she had big hooters. On our second date we got to know each other a bit more, and my appreciation grew. At the same time, Grand Ronde called me for a an interview and shortly thereafter offered me the job.
Grapple, grapple.
I mulled things over for a couple-three days and came to the conclusion that there was no fucking way I was going to stay in the Northwest to be with a woman I barely knew to work at a job I didn't really want. I called the tribe, turned down the position, and told Jenn I would be returning to New Mexico in six weeks. I asked her if we could date a bit in the meantime, to which she smiled and said she yes.
The more we hung out, the more I began to question my decision. Was it time to take a leap?
"No way," said my ego, "I'm going home."
That was when I heard the whisper. You know the one. It sounds like one's own thoughts, but isn't. It said, "Ah-ah-ah, remember, you said the answer was 'Yes' to whatever I sent your way."
Fuck, shit, cunt!
I stomped and kicked around a bit, and then I called Jenn and told her I was considering staying. I let her know that there was no pressure to, you know, fall in love or anything, and that we could just check things out. Then I called the grand Ronde HR guy back and told him that when they offered me the job, things had been moving a bit fast; that I had reconsidered, and if the offer was still available I could guarantee them one year. (I ended up staying four years.)
So here I am. Because of the Sacred Yes, Jenn and I are married, living in the desert, and about to embark on the greatest adventure of either of our lives. We are bringing another being into the world who would have never existed if I had given into my fear and embraced the wobbly, familiar, fence-sitting "Maybe" of my previous career as a commitment-phobe.
Sliding doors open and closing in every moment.
Today, Jenn said she's "feeling restless" and doesn't know why, but I suspect she does. Yes, we are heading down the home stretch.
I feel fully prepared and qualified to deliver our baby and am even willing to sever the umbilicus with my teeth (if necessary) once the cord has stopped pulsing. How do I know to wait for the placental pulse to cease? Here is a clip from a hand-out given to us by our midwife--a "To Do" list of pre-birth preparation:
"Stay Calm (Nice lead) and remember that birth is a natural, healthy process. Encourage mother to deliver baby's head slowly, by panting if possible. Catch the baby's body (remember they're slippery!) and dry the baby with a clean, dry towel. Wrap the baby in a new, dry towel and wait for midwife to arrive. Keep the baby warm. Do not clamp/tie or cut cord. Leave the baby attached to the cord and wait for the placenta. If mother has cramping or gush of blood from the vagina, the placenta is probably ready to deliver. Have mother push while you pull GENTLY on the cord. If the placenta does not come at this time, wait. If the placenta delivers, leave baby attached to the cord and placenta until the midwife arrives."
There is something so touching about this paragraph. I feel assured and encouraged that Jenn and I have no reason to panic or worry. Also, what can I say, I like drama. The image of delivering our baby in a driving snow storm is quite appealing, even if we are living in the desert in the middle of Summer.
Before Jenn and I left Oregon, a psychic told her that living in New Mexico would put her jewelry on the map, but being a mother would put her on the map. Jenn believes she can create the kind of birthing experience she desires with a positive attitude and the right mind. I couldn't agree more, but me myself, I tend toward a pessimistic view of life. More often than not I have severe doubts about human nature even while I love and foster undying hope in humanity.
As I rode my bike today along the arroyo trail, I reflected on this cynical, lifelong point of view that seems to have permeated my every fiber since birth. I am the eternal optimess--always waiting for the other shoe to drop even whilst hundred dollar Nikes are raining from the sky. Thus, as I sweat (swat?) and pedaled, I asked myself this question: Why, when I have been so blessed, am I always braced for an energetic shot to the kidneys? To get to the bottom of this mystery, we must delve (insert wavy flashback lines here) and go back, back, back for a stroll down memory lane into -- Bum-bum-buh-bummmm! -- Tom's dark and seedy childhood.
Ha, Ha. Just kidding. The last thing I want to do at this stage is point a ruminating finger at, say, a hypothetical Jewish crone whose natural personality makes Eeyore seem like a party animal. Instead, I choose the high road (sort of, aside from the Eeyore allusion above) and accept my cynical optimism as both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it has taken said-hypothetical crone's son (i.e. me) and made him slightly Eeyore-esque in disposition himself; on the other hand, it has blessed the author with an above average sense of humor and a healthy lack of naivete.
This is not to say I don't aspire toward a sunnier disposition. I once asked Jenn how I could become more positive as a human being, and she said without hesitation, "Change your thoughts." I feel in my gut that she's right, but have yet take the steps to turn her advice into reality. Jenn, however, is living proof of what is possible. She is a master of re-framing her world view to see the positive side of things, sometimes to the point of making a pest of herself. Off-and-on, I have suspected my wife of using the disingenuous technique of playing devils advocate rather than giving me her true and honest opinion. In actuality, it is a probably a rare event, but even if I'm wrong, it doesn't makes her "Maybe You-Can-See-Things-This-Way" advice any less annoying. As you can see, I am a bit attached to my cynicism.
How this will manifest in fatherhood, I have no clue, but we are expecting our home birth to go into high gear any day. Lets see:
Birthing pool inflated? Check.
Midwife's two phone numbers stored in my cell phone? Check.
Chucks, shower curtains, and hose at the ready? Check.
Hundreds of garments of baby clothes folded and stored? Check?
Photographer lined up to record the blessed event? Check.
Stews and soups made and stored in the freezer to provide ready-made meals for the newly crowned mother? Working on it.
Inundation of visits from relatives and friends choreographed to help and support the new parents and, lets face it, because they want to be around a newly-delivered diving being? Double check.
Jenn and I are as ready as ready can be, which is to say, not at all. How does one prepare to have everything one once knew be turned on its head? Answer: Surrender to the process. Jenn and I go forward with profound gratitude and fear, excitement and Oh-My-God-Am-I-Really-Ready-for-This?
It started five years ago with a sacred Yes. While still in Oregon, I was fast approaching the end of my one year sabbatical. It had been a glorious year of writing, spiritual pursuits, and isolation, and I was preparing to return to New Mexico. But something inside, some intuitive hit told me it wasn't time yet. I closed my eyes and prayed. I said, "Spirit," I said, "whatever you send my way, the answer is Yes.
There have been four times in my life I have put this invitation out to the Universe with sincere intention, and each time it has lead to a major revolution in my life. This was not the exception.
I made the decision, as a symbolic gesture of my re-joining the planet (and with the mild hope of getting laid), to place an ad on the Portland Craigslist Personals. Around that same time, and more out of curiosity than anything, I visited some of the Oregon tribal websites. The last job I'd held in New Mexico was as a therapist at an urban clinic for Native Americans, and I was curious to see what the Northwest had going on. One tribe, The Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde, happened to be advertising for a mental health counselor. I called them to see if I could have a tour of the facility. In the mistaken belief I wanted to actually apply for the position, the HR guy suggested I send my resume first and then he would show me around. My thinking was, Okay, if that's what I need to do to see the place...
At the same time, a cute and very authentic young redhead responded to my personal ad. On our first date, we went out to the airport and watched planes landing and taking-off and talked. Let me tell you, the sparks did not fly. Jenn thought I was handsome but uber serious; and I found her sweet (normally the kiss of death), real, and importantly enough, she had big hooters. On our second date we got to know each other a bit more, and my appreciation grew. At the same time, Grand Ronde called me for a an interview and shortly thereafter offered me the job.
Grapple, grapple.
I mulled things over for a couple-three days and came to the conclusion that there was no fucking way I was going to stay in the Northwest to be with a woman I barely knew to work at a job I didn't really want. I called the tribe, turned down the position, and told Jenn I would be returning to New Mexico in six weeks. I asked her if we could date a bit in the meantime, to which she smiled and said she yes.
The more we hung out, the more I began to question my decision. Was it time to take a leap?
"No way," said my ego, "I'm going home."
That was when I heard the whisper. You know the one. It sounds like one's own thoughts, but isn't. It said, "Ah-ah-ah, remember, you said the answer was 'Yes' to whatever I sent your way."
Fuck, shit, cunt!
I stomped and kicked around a bit, and then I called Jenn and told her I was considering staying. I let her know that there was no pressure to, you know, fall in love or anything, and that we could just check things out. Then I called the grand Ronde HR guy back and told him that when they offered me the job, things had been moving a bit fast; that I had reconsidered, and if the offer was still available I could guarantee them one year. (I ended up staying four years.)
So here I am. Because of the Sacred Yes, Jenn and I are married, living in the desert, and about to embark on the greatest adventure of either of our lives. We are bringing another being into the world who would have never existed if I had given into my fear and embraced the wobbly, familiar, fence-sitting "Maybe" of my previous career as a commitment-phobe.
Sliding doors open and closing in every moment.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
AARP
Today is July 12th, 2011. Jenn's official due date is the 23rd, but I am told that Baby Arrival Prognosication is an imprecise science at best. The baby could pop anytime between tonight (unlikely) and the end of the month (possible, but also unlikely). Here is the beautiful mother-to-be and the author in a recent photo:
Jenn's pregnancy has been as smooth as can be, but she has reached the stage where she has pain in her back and hips, and her bones are softening and becoming more pliant due to the release of a hormone called Relaxen. When we first heard what it is was called, it lead to a solid day of coining equally obvious names. Reflexen, we decided, was the hormone released when a doctor hits one on the knee with a rubber mallet; Re-stampeden is the chemical the brain releases right before being trampled by rampaging elephants; Flatulen floods our bodies when we need to break wind; and we produce Regurgiten right before projectile vomiting.
Unfortunately, Jenn has now passed the point beyond which she can be reached by a good running banter. Her moods swings have become more frequent, and she's laughing at my jokes less and less. Anymore, after I crack (what to her is) a particularly corny jape, Jenn will say something like, "Come here so I can poke you in the eye."
(A quick word to the wise: If you value your life--and I cannot emphasize this enough--do not sing the chorus to Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People in a weak falsetto while in a car with Jenn. This is especially true if you don't really know the words to the song, and it comes out more like, "You better something something something ... faster than my bullet.")
It seems to me the final stage of pregnancy is designed to make the mother-to-be utterly ready to give birth. At this point, she would do almost anything to vacate the baby from her womb. Jenn, a woman whose body has traditionally been strong and sturdy, is not the exception. She is ready to be quit of the aches and pains of pregnancy, as well as the additional 35-40 extra pounds she's added. Jenn will have her wish soon enough, but even at this late date, it's still all I can do to fathom what we are about to experience.
I was at a Buddhist service last Sunday facilitated by, Gamlam, the lovely Buddhist nun and religious director of the Shakyamuni Buddhist Center. Before donning the plum and yellow robes of her order, Gamlam was a long-time hospice nurse. During the service, as is the Buddhist's wont, she spoke to us of death, rebirth and karma, but rather than paint the birthing process as a magical, transcendent experience, she referred to it as a birth "trauma." As one who has witnessed many beings entering the world, Gamlam suggested that if babies could communicate their experience--the pulsing uterus, the sounds, being expelled through a narrow birth canal into a strange world of light and sensory stimulation--he/she might indicate that it was something less than a joyous ride.
I can see her point. Newborns have never taken an unexposed breath, never seen unadorned light, never experienced anything but the most climate controlled of environments. Going from pure union with The Mother/God/Insert-Your-Belief-System-Here to this world of samsaric separation must be quite jarring. However, many transcendent experiences involve a passage through a symbolic birth canal. Suffering, it would appear, is an integral component in the transformation process. The choice is always there: to fight against our daily challenges (which I do, plenty), or say "Yes" to life.
The Native American sweat lodge is a great and timely metaphor for our entry into the world. The half dome of the purification lodge represents the womb of the Mother; the heated volcanic rocks in the center of the lodge are referred to as Grandfathers and represent the sacred masculine while the water poured on top of the rocks is the Grandmother. When the lodge pourer pours a ladle of water onto the rocks, the two meet in a sacred marriage, filling the lodge with an intense amount of heat. For four rounds the steam from the union carries the offered prayers up to the Creator. At the ceremony's end, each attendee exits the lodge through a low-set door on hands and knees, emerging from the womb humbly and reborn.
I am excited about the arrival of our daughter, but I still have middle-of-the-night moments when I wake up with an almost paralyzing fear and anxiety, distracted with a bad case of the Whaddabouts:
Whaddabout writing? Whaddabout traveling the world? Whaddabout my privacy and time alone? Whaddabout having a fragile little being utterly, completely, utterly dependent on me for the next however many years?
I am soon to be 51 and have already started receiving AARP membership mailers. Frankly, I wish they'd leave me alone as I find their unsolicited pitches a subtle and unwelcome reminder of my mortality. This is, after all, an organization of gray-haired, septuagenarians toddling across the country in over-sized RV's, pink Rava Jeeps in tow, as they make a mad dash for the next KOA camp ground. Let the AARP keep their discounts and caravans. I've only just started feeling as if I've fully entered into manhood. With a baby on the way and a lovely wife to support, my senior years will wait. They must.
I'll be 68 when little Zinnia Rain Bender (for this is now her name) turns 18 and eighty years-old when she reaches her prime as a powerful, thirty year-old world changer. Will I, in my dotard-hood, be a drooling invalid in medium-sized depends whom Jenn patiently feeds pureed sweet potatoes; or will I still be trekking the Andes with my delightful daughter and adventurous wife as we chatter away in Spanish and nibble at succulent racks of cuy (guinea-pigs-on-a-stick, to the uncouth)?
Last night I had a dream: I was cradling our little angel on one of my arms in what our birthing teacher called the football hold. Zinnia looked wise and sweet, old and young all at the same time, and the whaddabouts floated away on her breath like clouds in the breeze.
Jenn's pregnancy has been as smooth as can be, but she has reached the stage where she has pain in her back and hips, and her bones are softening and becoming more pliant due to the release of a hormone called Relaxen. When we first heard what it is was called, it lead to a solid day of coining equally obvious names. Reflexen, we decided, was the hormone released when a doctor hits one on the knee with a rubber mallet; Re-stampeden is the chemical the brain releases right before being trampled by rampaging elephants; Flatulen floods our bodies when we need to break wind; and we produce Regurgiten right before projectile vomiting.
Unfortunately, Jenn has now passed the point beyond which she can be reached by a good running banter. Her moods swings have become more frequent, and she's laughing at my jokes less and less. Anymore, after I crack (what to her is) a particularly corny jape, Jenn will say something like, "Come here so I can poke you in the eye."
(A quick word to the wise: If you value your life--and I cannot emphasize this enough--do not sing the chorus to Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People in a weak falsetto while in a car with Jenn. This is especially true if you don't really know the words to the song, and it comes out more like, "You better something something something ... faster than my bullet.")
It seems to me the final stage of pregnancy is designed to make the mother-to-be utterly ready to give birth. At this point, she would do almost anything to vacate the baby from her womb. Jenn, a woman whose body has traditionally been strong and sturdy, is not the exception. She is ready to be quit of the aches and pains of pregnancy, as well as the additional 35-40 extra pounds she's added. Jenn will have her wish soon enough, but even at this late date, it's still all I can do to fathom what we are about to experience.
I was at a Buddhist service last Sunday facilitated by, Gamlam, the lovely Buddhist nun and religious director of the Shakyamuni Buddhist Center. Before donning the plum and yellow robes of her order, Gamlam was a long-time hospice nurse. During the service, as is the Buddhist's wont, she spoke to us of death, rebirth and karma, but rather than paint the birthing process as a magical, transcendent experience, she referred to it as a birth "trauma." As one who has witnessed many beings entering the world, Gamlam suggested that if babies could communicate their experience--the pulsing uterus, the sounds, being expelled through a narrow birth canal into a strange world of light and sensory stimulation--he/she might indicate that it was something less than a joyous ride.
I can see her point. Newborns have never taken an unexposed breath, never seen unadorned light, never experienced anything but the most climate controlled of environments. Going from pure union with The Mother/God/Insert-Your-Belief-System-Here to this world of samsaric separation must be quite jarring. However, many transcendent experiences involve a passage through a symbolic birth canal. Suffering, it would appear, is an integral component in the transformation process. The choice is always there: to fight against our daily challenges (which I do, plenty), or say "Yes" to life.
The Native American sweat lodge is a great and timely metaphor for our entry into the world. The half dome of the purification lodge represents the womb of the Mother; the heated volcanic rocks in the center of the lodge are referred to as Grandfathers and represent the sacred masculine while the water poured on top of the rocks is the Grandmother. When the lodge pourer pours a ladle of water onto the rocks, the two meet in a sacred marriage, filling the lodge with an intense amount of heat. For four rounds the steam from the union carries the offered prayers up to the Creator. At the ceremony's end, each attendee exits the lodge through a low-set door on hands and knees, emerging from the womb humbly and reborn.
I am excited about the arrival of our daughter, but I still have middle-of-the-night moments when I wake up with an almost paralyzing fear and anxiety, distracted with a bad case of the Whaddabouts:
Whaddabout writing? Whaddabout traveling the world? Whaddabout my privacy and time alone? Whaddabout having a fragile little being utterly, completely, utterly dependent on me for the next however many years?
I am soon to be 51 and have already started receiving AARP membership mailers. Frankly, I wish they'd leave me alone as I find their unsolicited pitches a subtle and unwelcome reminder of my mortality. This is, after all, an organization of gray-haired, septuagenarians toddling across the country in over-sized RV's, pink Rava Jeeps in tow, as they make a mad dash for the next KOA camp ground. Let the AARP keep their discounts and caravans. I've only just started feeling as if I've fully entered into manhood. With a baby on the way and a lovely wife to support, my senior years will wait. They must.
I'll be 68 when little Zinnia Rain Bender (for this is now her name) turns 18 and eighty years-old when she reaches her prime as a powerful, thirty year-old world changer. Will I, in my dotard-hood, be a drooling invalid in medium-sized depends whom Jenn patiently feeds pureed sweet potatoes; or will I still be trekking the Andes with my delightful daughter and adventurous wife as we chatter away in Spanish and nibble at succulent racks of cuy (guinea-pigs-on-a-stick, to the uncouth)?
Last night I had a dream: I was cradling our little angel on one of my arms in what our birthing teacher called the football hold. Zinnia looked wise and sweet, old and young all at the same time, and the whaddabouts floated away on her breath like clouds in the breeze.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Life Unimagined
There's a Steve Martin film where he's speeding and pulled over by a state patrolman. The cop tells him to get out of his car and makes him run through a battery of field sobriety tests.
"Please touch your nose sir ... Now recite the alphabet backwards while standing on one foot," etc, etc.
The tests become increasingly more difficult.
"Okay," says the patrolman, "now I want you to do a series of back flips along the fog line."
"But--"
"Just do it, sir!"
"Wow," Steve Martin says aloud before nailing the flips, "these California State Police don't mess around."
Six years ago, my friends Marc and Susan journeyed down to Central America to pick up their cocoa-skinned Guatemalan baby girl, Sofia. To arrive at that point, they had to run the adoption gauntlet, as it were. They contacted a reputable adoption agency, filled out a lengthy application, had any number of friends and references checked out, and payed upward of $30,000 for expenses and adoption costs. They spent the better part of five days in Guatemala City getting to know their new baby daughter before at last bringing her back to Albuquerque.
That flight home--I can't even imagine. Two people travel to a foreign country as a couple and return as a family. No doubt the time needed to prepare for the addition to their family--the interviews and paperwork, the hoops to jump through, and the travel time--all served as a kind of white collar gestational period.
I refused to pick up Sofia for almost the entire first year of her life.
I did hold her briefly when they first got home. Susan thrust Sofia into my arms, and I offered the obligatory smile as if, gosh, there was nothing that would make me happier than holding this little infant in my arms. In reality, I couldn't--and to a certain extent still can't--get over the feeling that a human being was being passed to me like a bowl of chips, regardless of whether she liked it or not. I held Sofia as one would a particularly odoriferous bag of garbage--arms extended and slightly away from one's body. I looked at her and tried my best to make soothing, cooing sounds, but really, I was whistling in the dark. Not practiced in Baby-ese, I quickly ran out of material and simply stared at her with an anxious smile on my face. No doubt sensing my discomfort, Sofia started to squirm and arch her back.
"Um, she's moving," I said a little panicked.
"That's okay," Susan said with a smile. "She just needs to get used to you."
"That's okay," I said and quickly handed her back.
It took me nearly a year and hours of therapy to recover from the trauma of what became known (in my head) as the "Baby Holding Incident." I still went to Marc and Susan's on many occasions, and would often play with Sofia, but never allowed myself to swoop in like some entitled giant and just willy-nilly pick her up.
Then one morning ten months after they brought Sofia home, she stood up. Then I stood up and, natural as can be, I scooped her up as if I had been hanging around babies my entire life. Together we mosyed toward the back of the house where Sofia stared longingly at the door, then up at me, then back at the door. I got the hint. We took a turn around the backyard, and Sofia pointed at various things, her face lit with wonder and glee.
"That's a bird," I would say looking at the object of her delight.
She pointed to some flowers along the fence. "That's a rose," I said with excitement.
She pointed again. "That's tree. Can you say tree?"
"Buh," she said.
"Close enough."
We walked around the yard a bit more until Sofia indicated she wanted to get down. She crawled around on the grass a bit until ... uh-oh. "Susan," I said, through the back door, but keeping an eye on my charge, "Sofia's eating dirt."
"That's okay," Susan said from the kitchen. "She'll learn."
Fast forward four years. Jenn and I are visiting Marc and Susan from Oregon. Jenn is sitting in an overstuffed chair in the living room making jewelry. Sofia is standing to her right watching with fascination and chatting away while the family dog, Chaco, milled about under foot.
I let my attention be diverted by a coffee table book when I heard Jenn say, "Who told you that?"
I looked up to see an amused smile on her face.
"My mommy," Sofia said.
"What?" I asked from the couch.
"Sofia was just telling me about Chaco."
Sofia looked over at me with her innocent, almond eyes.
"What'd she say?" I asked.
"That they had to cut Chaco's balls off so he couldn't have babies."
Tears poured down my face, and Sofia studied me to figure out if I was laughing at her. I muted my mirth enough to convey that, while I loved what she said, my amusement was not at her expense.
Over the years, I have had any number of friends relate cute stories about their kids--if they are sent via email, more often than not I delete without reading--but I'm not sure that I've ever been more delighted by any child quote. Ever. This is what I am looking so forward to about parenthood: To be able to spend time with a being who is seeing everything for the first time, and by extension, will teach me to see things for the first time as well.
From the Prophet:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
As a young boy, I remember being in awe of my father. There didn't seem to be the name of a movie star he didn't know or a song he couldn't sing along to in his smooth baritone voice. He was the sea god whose shoulders I would ride as we swam through the chlorinated waters of our country club pool. Later, of course, we would watch the Packers get trounced on TV.
What an unimagined life. I still don't know how I got here. Jenn is getting bigger by the day. She thinks our baby turned last night to what's called the anterior position--face down toward her tail bone. This is the ideal birth position for mother and baby alike. Our daughter will be entering the world anytime between mid- and end of July. She will enter a world surrounded by fire and smoke, love and mystery. Many, many arms are awaiting her arrival. They will have to wait in line. I plan on packing a lifetime of baby holding into a few short years.
"Please touch your nose sir ... Now recite the alphabet backwards while standing on one foot," etc, etc.
The tests become increasingly more difficult.
"Okay," says the patrolman, "now I want you to do a series of back flips along the fog line."
"But--"
"Just do it, sir!"
"Wow," Steve Martin says aloud before nailing the flips, "these California State Police don't mess around."
Six years ago, my friends Marc and Susan journeyed down to Central America to pick up their cocoa-skinned Guatemalan baby girl, Sofia. To arrive at that point, they had to run the adoption gauntlet, as it were. They contacted a reputable adoption agency, filled out a lengthy application, had any number of friends and references checked out, and payed upward of $30,000 for expenses and adoption costs. They spent the better part of five days in Guatemala City getting to know their new baby daughter before at last bringing her back to Albuquerque.
That flight home--I can't even imagine. Two people travel to a foreign country as a couple and return as a family. No doubt the time needed to prepare for the addition to their family--the interviews and paperwork, the hoops to jump through, and the travel time--all served as a kind of white collar gestational period.
I refused to pick up Sofia for almost the entire first year of her life.
I did hold her briefly when they first got home. Susan thrust Sofia into my arms, and I offered the obligatory smile as if, gosh, there was nothing that would make me happier than holding this little infant in my arms. In reality, I couldn't--and to a certain extent still can't--get over the feeling that a human being was being passed to me like a bowl of chips, regardless of whether she liked it or not. I held Sofia as one would a particularly odoriferous bag of garbage--arms extended and slightly away from one's body. I looked at her and tried my best to make soothing, cooing sounds, but really, I was whistling in the dark. Not practiced in Baby-ese, I quickly ran out of material and simply stared at her with an anxious smile on my face. No doubt sensing my discomfort, Sofia started to squirm and arch her back.
"Um, she's moving," I said a little panicked.
"That's okay," Susan said with a smile. "She just needs to get used to you."
"That's okay," I said and quickly handed her back.
It took me nearly a year and hours of therapy to recover from the trauma of what became known (in my head) as the "Baby Holding Incident." I still went to Marc and Susan's on many occasions, and would often play with Sofia, but never allowed myself to swoop in like some entitled giant and just willy-nilly pick her up.
Then one morning ten months after they brought Sofia home, she stood up. Then I stood up and, natural as can be, I scooped her up as if I had been hanging around babies my entire life. Together we mosyed toward the back of the house where Sofia stared longingly at the door, then up at me, then back at the door. I got the hint. We took a turn around the backyard, and Sofia pointed at various things, her face lit with wonder and glee.
"That's a bird," I would say looking at the object of her delight.
She pointed to some flowers along the fence. "That's a rose," I said with excitement.
She pointed again. "That's tree. Can you say tree?"
"Buh," she said.
"Close enough."
We walked around the yard a bit more until Sofia indicated she wanted to get down. She crawled around on the grass a bit until ... uh-oh. "Susan," I said, through the back door, but keeping an eye on my charge, "Sofia's eating dirt."
"That's okay," Susan said from the kitchen. "She'll learn."
Fast forward four years. Jenn and I are visiting Marc and Susan from Oregon. Jenn is sitting in an overstuffed chair in the living room making jewelry. Sofia is standing to her right watching with fascination and chatting away while the family dog, Chaco, milled about under foot.
I let my attention be diverted by a coffee table book when I heard Jenn say, "Who told you that?"
I looked up to see an amused smile on her face.
"My mommy," Sofia said.
"What?" I asked from the couch.
"Sofia was just telling me about Chaco."
Sofia looked over at me with her innocent, almond eyes.
"What'd she say?" I asked.
"That they had to cut Chaco's balls off so he couldn't have babies."
Tears poured down my face, and Sofia studied me to figure out if I was laughing at her. I muted my mirth enough to convey that, while I loved what she said, my amusement was not at her expense.
Over the years, I have had any number of friends relate cute stories about their kids--if they are sent via email, more often than not I delete without reading--but I'm not sure that I've ever been more delighted by any child quote. Ever. This is what I am looking so forward to about parenthood: To be able to spend time with a being who is seeing everything for the first time, and by extension, will teach me to see things for the first time as well.
From the Prophet:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
As a young boy, I remember being in awe of my father. There didn't seem to be the name of a movie star he didn't know or a song he couldn't sing along to in his smooth baritone voice. He was the sea god whose shoulders I would ride as we swam through the chlorinated waters of our country club pool. Later, of course, we would watch the Packers get trounced on TV.
What an unimagined life. I still don't know how I got here. Jenn is getting bigger by the day. She thinks our baby turned last night to what's called the anterior position--face down toward her tail bone. This is the ideal birth position for mother and baby alike. Our daughter will be entering the world anytime between mid- and end of July. She will enter a world surrounded by fire and smoke, love and mystery. Many, many arms are awaiting her arrival. They will have to wait in line. I plan on packing a lifetime of baby holding into a few short years.
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