let's waste no time with frivolities

just now - - 

Me: [on the phone for several minutes] blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Okay, good talking with you! Bye bye.

Zoralee: What did you say, Mama?

Me: I was talking to the midwife. I asked her if she could help me get the baby out of my tummy when we go to Montana.

Zoralee: OKAY! I'M READY! I SHOULD PUT MY BOOKS AWAY!

the support of strong women

Each time I have been pregnant, I have longed for (and received, thankfully) the support of the strong women around me. I love birth stories of every type, whether or not they went according to the mother's hopes/plans! I think so often of the generations of women who have gone before me, including many of you, doing the work of growing a child within, laboring until he is ready, and then birthing that child, welcoming him with love, a soft breast, warm milk - no matter the pain it took to get him here. Such a common event is childbirth, but what a holy, extraordinary one too. Carrying a child for nine months wraps her up in skin and dreams, blood and potential; birth is the longest, most arduous unwrapping job, and of such a gift.

Now that I'm pregnant, I keep remembering this image from Zoralee's birth.
There are a series of shots from different angles (by my cousin, Sabrina),
but what I remember is the arms, always outstretched arms.**

There are invaluable men in my life too. In the first place, pregnancy itself is awfully difficult to attain without the presence of a man at some point. Beyond that, my hubby is my go-to guy for the extra needs of a pregnant woman (snicker, snicker - no but seriously, like getting me an enchilada at 10 p.m. or rubbing my neck to stave off headaches). He was an angel during Zoralee's birth. And he and my dad rushed around taking care of logistical things, like filling the birth tub, keeping the sidewalks clear of snow for the midwives' arrival, etc. I know that my dad and one of my uncles prays for this baby and I each and every day. So, I am certainly grateful for the man-folk. But this post is about the actual work of carrying a child for 9-ish months and then delivering him to the world.

Last week, I dressed for our trip to San Antonio. I wore a necklace that Tamie gave me when I miscarried last year. It is a tiny painting of a woman on a path. I thought of my generation of women, walking our journeys, struggling, emerging. I wore ear rings from Jason's Grandma Elizabeth, in honor of the past generations, from whom we learn so much - everything, really - with my own mom and grandmas in mind. And they, you, were a strength to me. I thought of you specifically when I laid on the exam table, even as my healthy baby came into view!


In early pregnancy a few months ago, I had a conversation with another pregnant woman. She had moved here with her family from India when she was a teenager, so we discussed the different cultural approaches to pregnancy, birth, early motherhood. Get this. In India, it is typical for a woman to go home to her own mother and spend the last trimester there, sometimes more, being cared for and waited upon. When the baby is born, the woman is expected to stay in bed for like a month, her only responsibility being to recuperate and to feed and love the new baby. They don't even allow visitors for a long time, and when the baby is something like 6 weeks old, it is taken out for its official meet the family and neighbors extravaganza. Even after that, they may stay at her mother's home for months. It could be whole year they are away from their own household, though I gather that's on the long end of things. I'm not sure what happens to the other children; surely the young ones come along.

As a side note, they also keep the baby's head shaved for a few years. That part made me a little sad. All that thick, dark hair shaved right off. I mean, I'm used to people crying when they give children their first hair TRIM at a year or two old - and sweetly saving locks of it for the baby books.

Anyway, I'd have to basically become a totally different person with a totally different background to subscribe to that kind of treatment, but I think it's really neat. When I tore a bit during delivery, my midwife said, "The best thing to do is just let this heal naturally, but since I don't trust you'll stay on bed rest for a solid week, I'm going to stitch it." She is a smart lady. And as long as I was all stitched up, we took Z on a little hike through the woods, up to church, at 3 days old. Thinking back, that may have had something to do with continuing to bleed for ages. Nevertheless, laying still is very hard, because right away I want to show the baby the chicken coop! I'm not saying this is a strength or a weakness; it's just a thing. Possibly a Western thing - not the Old West of cowboys, well yeah, that too - but like Western culture. (That was a hardcore rabbit trail, starting with an Indian-American woman and ending with the Old West.)

I end by saying, women, you are a huge source of strength to me, and I thank you sincerely.



**Photo: I had quite a few participants over the course of the three days, all of whom I asked to be there. As it turns out, the literal presence of so many people might've been a factor in my slow labor. There's always a catch to the good stuff, right? But that photo is so meaningful to me because of what it stands for - hands outstretched, comfort, assurance that I can do this!

pee-pee teepees

I'm not 100% certain we're having a boy, but it's definitely my stronger hunch - especially after the ultrasound, even though we chose not to look. I dunno; I just got the wee-wee vibe. So when we hit that really cool Quarry Market on the way home, I picked us up a set of these. They're really simple, and look easy enough to make, but it was super fun to spend money on our (most likely) boy.

one, one, one

We are home from San Antonio. In brief form, here are the results. More to come tomorrow.

*  All is well. Thank you, God; all is well.
*  There is one baby.
*  He or she is very cute, at least in the one head he has - and two arms.
*  The technician didn't show us the legs, at the risk of us sighting the gender. We're a bit sad about that now, just because, as long as we were looking, it would've been nice to see the whole of the baby's shape. We almost waffled on the gender secrecy, right there in the exam room. It was so tempting! Ultrasounds are pretty neat.
*  Baby's organs are healthy. The heart beats and beats, beautifully.
*  I cannot believe how cool the spine and ribs are. Who told those to form so uniformly? How is my body doing this??
*  Growth is on target. Weight appears to be one pound and one ounce.
*  If they hadn't otherwise been told how far along I was, they'd put my due date at May 31, based on the baby's development. This is one day earlier than the midwives put it. So, basically, the same.
*  The placenta is in a good place; no previa. 
*  I am one relieved mama, and Jason, one relieved papa. Like the cutest papa-to-be, he watched the DVD several times as soon as we got home, analyzing it for facial structure and eyelashes, calling us over to see what he'd found.


Friends, thank you for your comments of support! I feel the prayers. I was prepared for a rocky journey, and it is such a relief knowing that that's not my path to walk this time, for now anyway. I can only fight the battles, make the choices, and live the life that's right in front of me. At least, it makes for a lot less anxiety that way. But now what will I worry about, since this baby's development seems to be on track?! I'm open for suggestions. Just kidding; I'll think of something on my own in no time, or else I'll turn on the news for ideas.

But truly, thank you for reading and thank you for your presence.

ultrasound tomorrow

After I put Zoralee to bed, I found myself hemming and hawing around the house and distracting Jason from his reading with random tidbits of conversation. I was on my way to bed, but came back to ask Jason if we should find out what the sex is if it turns out to actually be two babies. We decided probably not. If a surprise is a surprise, why aren't two surprises two surprises? Then I said that if we find out something's wrong with the baby, like seriously wrong, I want to know the sex. Jason asked why. I wasn't sure. As I'm analyzing now, do I think a less than perfect baby isn't worth being surprised over? No, I don't think so. I would just want to know the most I could about the little being I was praying and weeping for and wondering about. The phrase that's running through my mind, in relation to receiving bad news is, "From now on, everything's different." And I'm readying myself to have that be the title of my next blog post.

So yeah, I realized tonight that I am really nervous about this ultrasound. I guess it's because the only ultrasound experience I've ever had showed our miscarried baby. I know this one is doing fine, generically, because I can feel the little bugger moving around. And my belly is poking out. And I'm still pregnant. Stuff like that. But what if they say, "Look! Twins! Oh, nope; it's just one baby.....with two heads." I don't know what the statistical chances of that are - I'm guessing fairly low - but what if? Is this something I should be aware of the entire second half of the baby's time inside me?

As crazy as this may sound to everyone who has had ultrasounds for their pregnancies, I liked not knowing the first thing about Zoralee. Of course, the whole time, I was resigned to idea of losing the pregnancy, but that's just because I'm a pessimist; I wasn't necessarily agitated about it, and I had no specific knowledge to hang my fears on. But this pregnancy - geez, I'm freaking myself right on out. If my baby doesn't have problems yet, I may just will them into its life by the power of suggestion, poor thing.


I'm also afraid they're going to say I have placenta previa, or any other number of potential problems. Wouldn't I like to know?, you may ask. Nope! Because from what I read, many cases of placenta previa work themselves out by the time of delivery. And I don't want to worry about it unnecessarily, which I will do if I know about it, sure as the sun doth shine. If there is a problem, it's better to know now and monitor it than to be surprised in labor, especially a home birth. Cognitively, I know that.

But I am feeling like a real ostrich-with-her-head-in-the-sand kind of girl right now. And I'm nervous and pouty about this ultrasound tomorrow.

oh, in that case...

(photo taken a couple weeks ago)

This morning - 

          Zoralee: I want pop.

          Me: No, we only have pop for a special treat.

          Zoralee: I want pop for a special treat.

"God gave this balloon to me."

*   *   *   *   *

This morning, we started receiving some winter apparel I've been buying on ebay, in anticipation of heading to Montana in March. 

          Me: Oh, Zoralee, these are your snow boots!

          Zoralee: I want to go snowin' in my snow boots!

a small point of clarification about X-Box vs homesteading

It occurred to me that it was a bit rude to say Jason may as well be making a homestead during his off hours than playing X-Box. Jason himself rarely plays X-Box. I simply used that as a generic, veg-out type of activity that humans sometimes engage in. 

And I thank ye.

addendum to last post

Furthermore about the hippie subculture:

I laid in bed last night, realizing that I had forgotten to state my main point, which was actually Jason's main annoyance about this sub-counter-culture we sometimes find ourselves in (thereby highlighting the slippery slope of trying to convey someone else's thoughts, however pertinent to your own). The main point is not annoyance at people dressing or thinking like each other; such is unavoidable. The main point is smugness, despite the stated and assumed values of openness, naturalness, wholeness, and so on. Smugness is what is so troublesome.

The Quarry Market experience in San Antonio was the main prompting for this discussion between us, because at the Market, all of a sudden, after 7 months, we were plopped down into a group of people like whom we look, smell, and eat. Kinda made us go, "whoa." I hadn't given a thought to the people, or specifically to my interactions with them, because I was so enthralled to be walking through a Whole Foods store with a HUGE aisle of bulk food, samples of cheese and chocolate and tea around every bend, the smells of coffee and castille soap transporting us out of the southern Texas we have known so far. But Jason noticed the general air of aloofness among our fellow shoppers, people keeping to themselves, not offering many friendly smiles or gestures. We felt this same way in Flagstaff several years back, like outsiders, except among a few people we actually got to know. And that's the rub, right? Getting to know people.

  

There's a big difference between analyzing trends within groups - a perfectly warranted endeavor, in my opinion - and tossing everybody you meet into categories. Human-tossing can be a fun and easy past time, but it discounts people's stories and complexities. A big word for me lately, apart from all this, has been "connection." What's life if we're not connected to the people around us, finding common ground, trying to understand each other? It takes effort and creativity, empathy and patience. That doesn't mean we agree with everything everybody does, but it does mean approaching relationships with more humility. Very little positive change occurs apart from connection with each other.

Lastly, I have to personally watch this smugness thing. I'm learning to be alarmed if my first thought about another person or group is, "I'm not like that." Even in the most extreme cases, couldn't we be nearly anybody, if the circumstances were just so? We'd like to think there's no way we could be talked into pushing the neighbor lady into a gas chamber. But hey, if it's 1938 Germany, and it's either her or your kids, what are you gonna do? The neighbor lady was far too nosy anyway, right? There's such a fine line between having strong ideas and convictions, and thinking those make me more worthwhile than the next guy.

thoughts and thinkings (and not about you know who, either - Zoralee! She's so cute.)

So, hey! First, a few words this evening about my love. Jason, that is, not Z. Most importantly, this week Jason was awarded his Science bachelor's degree! Yayyyyyy for Jason!!! He had actually completed his classes long ago, but, through a combination of falling through the Biology department's cracks and his own dilly-dallying / finding work to support our family, the degree was just now awarded. Some day he may even use that degree; you never know.

Other odds and ends... Jason is now finished with a month of working nights. Hot dog. There were a couple random days thrown in too for various trainings, just to keep his circadian rhythm at its most distressed. I am so glad we'll get to see him anymore at normal hours and in good spirits. He has been working on a new skill: tossing little limes into the air and whacking at them with a knife, hoping to perfectly slice them. Then he squeezes them onto key lime pie. Tonight I received in the mail from my mom a book I have been wanting to own: The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding. Jason said, "Does it have lots of good pictures?"

We had birthdays this week. I'm a year older than he, but for three days each year we're the same age. I am so happy to be spending my life with him. So, so, so happy! Oh sure - it's work, it's effort, it's putting up and shutting up and standing up and trying to resolve things and letting some things stay unresolved. It's ridiculous conversations in which he swears I have been singing one of my favorite childhood songs with a syncopated rhythm since he met me, but now that he hears it on the CD I bought Zoralee, the rhythm isn't actually syncopated. Truth is, I haven't been singing it syncopated; he heard what he wanted to, and his brain filled in the gaps incorrectly. It happens. Anyway, forget about that. Jason is an amazing human being. I am truly honored to be figuring it all out with him.
 
This year we all spent two Same Age Days in San Antonio with Barb, Jason's mom. She had come to visit for nine days, and those were her last two here. We had a heck of a lot of fun, despite the weather being unexpectedly near freezing. We went to the zoo, but learned that the animals were inactive, all cozied up in their houses, so we didn't go in. Zoralee was sleeping when we arrived, so I stayed in the car with her while Jason and Barb got a head start on the Japanese Gardens next door. When Z awoke and looked out the window, she said, "Oh, shoot! I see the zoo!" How sad it was to tell her we weren't going inside! But at the Japanese Gardens there were fish, ducks, and beautiful plants and walkways. And a waterfall. We also ditched our plan to walk on the San Antonio River Walk, which was probably fine since the annual draining of it ended the day before. Lovely timing all around, eh? But we made do. We visited the Alamo. We ate at a great Thai restaurant. We found ourselves sitting in a hotel lobby with 50 strangers, all of us sloppy-haired and in our pajamas, due to a middle of the night fire alarm. And we hit a jackpot shopping center: The Quarry Market. It was a taste of the northwest, and I was brought nearly to tears by the experience. It deserves its own blog post. We made some hearty memories with Barb, or Nana.

Zoralee still refers to her bed as Nana's bed, since that's where Barb stayed. Turns out that Barb is Z's best fast dance partner; they really get down together, wild head shakes and everything. Jason is Zoralee's best slow dance partner. Oh how this child loves to dance. Okay, I broke the ice and may as well say a few words about Z. I am trying with renewed effort to get rid of her cradle cap (dry scalp) from babyhood, so this week we've had a series of oil-and-brush-the-head sessions. She likes to follow up with getting out my supposed cradle cap. Today she brushed my hair for 10 minutes. It was dreamy. It's impossible to get all the oil out of her hair with one shampooing, and senseless to try too hard since I am re-oiling it the next bath, but boy does Z look like a grease-ball in the meantime. Welp, here's one more Z quote from out of the blue a few days ago, and then I'm on to something else. We don't know where she got this, but she stated it clearly several times, so we weren't mishearing her.
          
            Z: Papa, Mama has a condition.

*   *   *   *   *

Switch of gears!

We've been dreaming again about our own little homestead. This time, though, it may be a necessity as much as anything. There is limited housing available - practically nothing to rent - in the North Dakota town we're heading to, so it's either purchase something we really don't care for, or make our own place. Problem: Jason has a full time job, and we want to have a livable place within a few months. On the other hand, Z and I will probably be in Montana for the spring, birthing a new family member and whatnot, so Jason'll have some evening and weekend time to kill anyway. Why not set up a homestead, I say! Sure beats playing X-Box.


Dream mode is so danged fun, right? There have been a few projects / trips in our married life that have consumed us for weeks or years, and this is one of them: our own  place - functional, intentional, as off the grid as possible, a whole wall of the living room actually a rock-climbing wall, living in tune with our surroundings. So the dilemma is, how much effort do we put into a place in North Dakota, where we'll likely only live for a few years? We're thinking of this particular place as a prototype. Iron out all the kinks, learn from our mistakes. Jason has specifically gotten really interested in permaculture, which, according to the Merriam-Webster online dictionary, is "an agricultural system or method that seeks to integrate human activity with natural surroundings so as to create highly efficient self-sustaining ecosystems." Sounds pretty brainy, if you ask me. So I let Jason worry about the whys and hows, and I jump in when there's a clear cut chore to do, or if something needs poked fun at. But check out this website: www.saveourskills.com.

When we dive into the back-to-the-land subculture that seems to be primarily populated by hippie types, we find ourselves a little annoyed. Well, Jason more than me, but I can understand it. I think it's because he and I seem to have been placed in that category ourselves by some who know us. I am laughing now, because if I were to list off some of the reasons for that stereotype, it would appear obvious that we ARE hippies after all. But we differ from them, as a whole, on lots of issues and in lots of ways. We flip between NPR and Fox News, to get an earful from both sides. We have good hippie friends whom we love and good Walmart-shopping friends whom we love. That's just the way of it. My point is, any group who is apparently counter-culture just for the sake of being counter-culture starts to look foolish when they all own the same clothing and use the same jargon and believe the same things. It can be said of any group, of course. It just doesn't feel right to be stuck in one category - almost any category! However, it's a fact of life that unless you invent a totally new clothing style or way of speaking, you're going to look like some group of people. Anyway, we've been thinking and dreaming and reading about self-sufficiency (and small community-sufficiency, making your own stuff, home-schooling, quality of life over quantity of possessions, etc.) for 7 or 8 years now, and I have found it interesting the wide range of people with whom we have these commonalities - from those on the far political left to those on the far political right, and lots of ages.


I am not necessarily going to develop these ideas further on this post, or go back and organize them. I choose tonight instead to continue with stream-of-consciousness blogging.


Speaking of dreams, isn't the word "daymare" ingenious? It really captures the mental life of an imaginative worry-wart. A daymare is like a nightmare, but you're awake. So tonight when I was putting Zoralee to sleep, I had a ridiculous daymare that I would be tucking in our new baby and somehow a string from my shirt would get wrapped around one of its toes. When I stood up from the bed, I would turn very quickly to leave the room, not realizing the baby was still attached to me. The string would break, naturally, as soon as the baby's full weight was on it, sending him to the floor. I was able to dismiss that daymare, reasoning there's no way a string could wrap around the toe enough times. UNLESS! Unless I do that circle snake-dancer thing that I like to do in front of babies to get them to sleep! Oh no.  

Anyway, if you read this far, why not answer this question in the comment area? Let's see...the question is: would you rather pee every time you sneeze or poop every time someone says your name (from one of the Would You Rather websites)? Shoot. This isn't even a quandry, right? Who would pick pooping? I know from personal, current experience that peeing when you sneeze is nothing. But pooping when someone says your name? That's ridiculous. Okay, don't let my thoughts color your answer.