All In

Yesterday, The Husband and I went to the doctor to have The Kid’s picture taken again. It was an important visit, one that would tell us if I was worsening into High-Risk Pregnancy territory or improving into the Healthy Pregnancy zone. Not to mention the fact that every time we see those tiny arms and legs flopping around on screen, I feel a palpable relief at knowing that things are going well in the body apartment where The Kid lives, rent-free, for now.

The ultrasound technician pointed out kidneys, bladder, and stomach. Then we watched as TK jabbed an elbow out, and I felt it instantly. He kicked a leg, and I felt that too. Then he touched his toes, and I nearly applauded–best show I’ve ever seen on TV (including Felicity. Yeah, I said it). Our doctor came in and took a look and pronounced everything completely normal, then told us how to make Chicago-style pizza (it made sense at the time). And as we left, I had to laugh: both in relief, and at the idea that this whole pregnancy thing could ever be called normal.

I sat across from a new friend and her four-month-old boy at lunch this week and we commiserated over the weirdness that is childbearing. About the weight gain, the peeing, the psychos who call the whole thing “magical.” There was nothing magical about the way I sideswiped the garage on my way out this morning, hearing a sickening crunch as the glass in my side mirror shattered. Three thoughts popped into my mind: (1) I really need to stop yelling the F word as a gut reaction, especially after The Kid arrives; (2) I’m going to disappoint TH; and (3) he’s also going to be totally understanding about it. In a Not Me, who-freaks-out- over-cookie-crumbs-on-the-floor kind of way. So I called him, and sure enough, thoughts 2 and 3 were correct. And as I rued the fact that this accident would have been much more convenient had it occurred when I had a job, he assured me that mistakes happen and I was reminded of how thankful I am that he’s the one with whom I’m raising this child.

Then I called the Bro-in-Law, who has considerable experience in car body repair because he’s married to The Sis. Although I rear-ended three cars the year I got my license, my sister (whose birthday it is today; HB, RD and this is your present) holds the rare distinction of getting in a wreck on her way to the dealership to get her car repaired from her last wreck. Somewhere, The Dad is laughing at the baton he has passed to TH and the Bro-in-Law.

But–(there always is one, isn’t there?) despite the lack of income and presence of wrecks, one thing I am doing right is growing this little boy inside me, and while I refuse to use the word magical to describe the process, it is pretty amazing–feeling him practice what TH is certain is his superior kicking ability, looking at the car seat brought over by the Sis-in-Law the other day and knowing that in a few months it will be occupied. And though The Sis and I are only partly joking when we talk about a time-share arrangement wherein The Niece lives with us part-time and The Kid lives with them part-time and we convince them they’re siblings with two sets of parents…I know that ambivalence is a feeling that doesn’t stand a chance against love, and like my friend told me at lunch the other day, “when you see that face, it will all be worth it.” Let’s hope TH feels the same way after he gets a look at my mirror.

 

Coming to Life

I am ready for summer to die.

My internal clock must still be set on New York, because as soon as I see September approaching, my body expects to walk outside and feel cool winds, see leaves turning color. And that is just not happening around here in Atlanta. The highs promise to remain in the mid-90s all week, and when I go outside all I feel is pit sweat and lightheadedness. My brothers, this should not be.

The Apple Crumble and Autumn scented candles I bought in a spasm of hope a few weeks ago sit on the shelf, waiting for their moment to come to life. I see Halloween decorations and costumes and candy already dotting the aisles of the drugstore, and all I can do is wait for that turn in the temperature. As a child (i.e., up until a few years ago), I used to cling to summer–with its moments spent on lakes and at beaches and in pools, and dread fall–with its accompanying books and schedules. Now my favorite seasons are the in-between ones, the relief that spring brings from the frozen hibernation of winter and the relief that fall brings from the sweaty heat of summer. These seasons carry promise–the guarantee that time will turn over, that we will not stay where we are forever. Something deep within me responds to that promise, maybe because I know how much I need to not stay in one spot.

And yet that’s what I’m doing these days, home more often than not, my butt growing more accustomed to the couch cushions than the running trail as a matter of both circumstance and necessity. I’m facing the challenge of finding life in a blinking cursor and a growing document on a screen; in walks to the mailbox; in new recipes; in the pages of books; and in the people around me–one highlight being the wake-up call beside me this past Saturday morning in the form of The Husband bolting out of bed voluntarily and running around the house in celebration of Fantasy Football Draft Day. Talk about coming to life: we accomplished more before noon than ever (although most of it had to do with assembling food and drinks and loading them in the car to take to The Sis and Bro-in-Law’s).

I’m learning not to limit life to the places where I expect it to show up. I’m remembering why it’s not just encouraging that there was a third day–it’s essential. There is material I need for each day hidden in the reality of empty sheets and barren tombs. When I face the little deaths that life on this earth inevitably brings, I am forced to embrace the central tenet of my faith, the fact that resurrection means everything. If I don’t believe that life can come from death as much today as two milennia ago, then I might as well just fall asleep until labor starts. But in the waiting, there is living, and the fluttering life I feel inside will soon be matched by cool breezes outside, and as I bury my stuffed-up nose in the pages of great stories, I read the truth behind them all, the idea that sustains both nature and literature and everyday life: with death always comes life. That’s a promise.

Maternity Pants

I like to take stands on matters, even (especially?) when I’m under-qualified to do so. A lot of the conversations between The Husband and me start when I voice a vehement opinion on something–That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!–after which he gently explains the other side of the story, the side I never bothered reading, and I see how much more complicated that story is than I first thought. And just like that, he has helped me down from the ledge.

I took a stand early on about maternity clothes. As a conservative, I should be all about corporate greed, but I wanted to resist an industry built on manipulating women into buying clothes they can only wear for a few months. They won’t trick me! I planned to buy as few new clothes as possible, opting instead to wear my empire-waist dresses and leggings and voluminous shirts and see how long I could get by. (This is admittedly easier to do when you don’t have a job.) The one concession I did make was to allow for the purchase of maternity jeans, and as coolness edged into the air this past week, I walked into Target. I was high on the promise of fall and a stranger’s recognition of my bump, and I walked over to the maternity section. I found my jeans.

When I brought them home, I slid into them and they fit like a glove. I pulled the top layer of stretchy fabric over my belly and paraded back and forth in front of the mirror, imagining all the places where I could wear my new jeans, all the outfits that now opened up to me, the world of options at my disposal. I reasoned that they would come in handy even after The Kid comes out, when TH and I will go to the Mexican restaurant and I won’t have to unfasten the button on my jeans on the way home because I have my stretchy-belly pants. More chips, please.

My good mood lasted until that evening, when The Saga of My Former Employment had a new chapter added onto it–a chapter in which my name is trashed and my reputation threatened so that someone else’s may be spared–and I felt, suddenly, like I was under attack sitting there in my living room. The obvious perpetrator being persistent injustice dealt by someone else’s hand; the insidious sneak attack following, creeping into that place where only cold, hard honesty can uncover it–a spotlight on long-held insecurities.

I shrugged off TH’s attempts to comfort me and folded into myself instead, wrapping up in an isolating blanket of self-pity (my favorite kind of pity) and seething through angry tears. Then came the voices that unravel that blanket, that force me to unfold. First, TH speaking reason, reminding me of truth, talking me down from yet another ledge. Then, the truth itself.

What if you–and I’m just spitballing here–what if you, I don’t know, actually started BELIEVING what you say you believe? What is supposed to be bigger than all this crap that other people throw around? What if your faith, if grace, was your first resort instead of your last? What would that look like?

It would look like taking to my knees rather than climbing onto ledges. Like expecting much, rather than balling up and hiding. Like wearing pants that make room for all that’s to come, rather than trying to squeeze into what I can see.

I released my grip on myself and headed to the other side of the couch, under TH’s arm. And I felt it–the loosening of all the stakes I’ve placed that marked the limits of my faith. The borders where I allowed grace to end and fear to begin. I felt them scatter and disappear, and faith flowed freely, unbound. I felt a different kind of pity: pity for those who, like I did, choose to live in smallness. I stretched out, unhindered, as TH rested his hand on the bump in the center of me that won’t stop growing.

Vacations and Complications

I love a routine. I thrive on order and stability, and when my carefully laid plans get upset, so do I. I tend to regard such upsets as interruptions and intrusions, things to be fixed–though I am learning, with time and age and grace, to look upon them more invitingly. To see a designing hand in the midst of what looks like chaos.

But my love for a schedule intrudes even upon those times when I’m not supposed to have one: namely, vacation. Now don’t get me wrong–the itinerary doesn’t have to be packed to be satisfactory; in fact, I prefer it not be. This is one of the (many) reasons The Husband and I are perfect for each other: our idea of the perfect vacation involves a beach, a book, and the following routine: lift bottle to lips and drink. But I tend to get antsy if I’m sitting in one place too long, even if it is in front of a blue-green ocean, so I impose some predictable transition: read two chapters, go for a swim, towel off, reapply sunscreen, get a drink, begin again. Lather, rinse, repeat could well be my mantra.

TH and I went to Seaside this past weekend to celebrate our one-year anniversary. I’m so thankful for this trip, planned well before my untimely work dismissal and nonrefundable, and for the way vacations reset our clocks and teach us to re-appreciate one another. From the time we crossed the bridge on 331 and caught our first glimpse of water, my heartbeat slowed down and peace invaded my soul. Other than the spot between the Pitons in St. Lucia where we honeymooned (which is much less accessible), this beach is my favorite in the world. And spending it beside my favorite person? Heaven.

Our first night, we had dinner at the venue where our wedding and reception were held. We happened to be passed by our wedding coordinator, the venue’s event planner, on our way from the parking lot across the street, and she gave us a ride to the restaurant in her golf cart. The last time we were in that cart, we were being driven away from our reception, he in his tux and I in my dress, as our guests waved sparklers in the night. This night it was just us and the sunset and our baby kicking away (that kid loves a champagne toast).

The rest of the weekend was spent eating and sitting on the beach, with dips in the crystal-clear water thrown in. Our last morning, we picked up coffee in “town” (i.e., a two-minute walk from our cottage) and camped out one last time in the floury white sand. The early-morning water was calm and glasslike, with an occasional rolling wave. I felt the water rock me and the breeze sweep my faace and was reminded yet again of what it feels like to know we’re not alone in this world–to be able to look around at the beauty and know it has a source, to see devastation and know it will be answered. To feel the nail marks in his hands and touch his side.

I needed those moments more than I knew, because life goes on even when you step away from it and expects you to jump right back on the wheel when you return. And when I went to the OB yesterday and met the midwife (trust me, not a hippie thing–she’s legit), I was warned of a complication that could lie ahead–of numbers that will be closely monitored, of activity that needs to be lessened. No more elliptical workouts or spin class for me (I’ll miss you, Zach!) My routine reduced to dust, I drove to Target and comforted myself with a stop at Starbucks–where the barista asked what I was having. I almost angrily repeated my order (Vanilla latte! It’s not rocket science!) until I realized she was looking at my belly, marking the first time a stranger has asked about The Kid. That was when my smile returned.

Then, this morning I turned to my new, low-impact workout and suffered through thirty minutes of yoga (maybe I am becoming a hippie…) and it turned out that The Kid loves it. He’s flopping around like crazy in there hours later. This new low-impact living is not what I would have chosen, but sometimes these moments of slowing down are bestowed as blessings, not provided upon request. Sometimes a greater wisdom interrupts the work and workout schedule and steps in to wipe off the lens and calm the waters so that you can feel them rocking gently, even from hundreds of miles away.

Someone To Believe In

I remember the first (and so far, only) time I ever shot a gun. It was the summer after my first year in dental school, and I had a couple months off. I decided to spend it in Savannah, by myself, because I had always wanted to go on an extended solo excursion–this, to me, represented the height of independence and self-sufficience, two qualities in which I felt lacking. (This was prior to my move to New York City, when I effectively addressed my need for exploration. For five years.)

Because I was headed to a city where I knew no one, my parents were concerned for my safety. And like any good, conservative, red-state family, they assuaged their fears with a firearm; namely, a 380 revolver. The Dad drove me out to some family-owned land in the country and placed a homemade paper target on a tree. Then he gave me the instructions: release the safety, cock the hammer, pull the trigger. He demonstrated. My ears rang. Then he handed me the gun.

I hesitated. This, after all, was the man who taught me how to ride a bike by following behind me, holding on to the seat. Then I asked, “You’re not going to let go, are you?” And he replied, “No!” A few seconds later I looked back and he was twenty feet behind me. I was flying, then falling. (I did think it fishy that he had insisted I wear long pants for the occasion.) But I learned to ride a bike that day, and on this day about seventeen years later, I learned how to shoot a gun. Satisfied with my ability and aim, he took me home and gave me the gun in its holster and a box of ammunition. Then he said, “If someone breaks into your apartment at three am, they’re not there to borrow sugar. Shoot to kill.” A few days later, I drove to Savannah with the gun in my trunk.

A few days ago, The Husband and I were discussing our plan once The Kid pops out, specifically my intended work schedule. He worked it out aloud: “You can work three days a week, and write the other two.” There it was–the schedule I had hoped for myself, reflected in his plans–but most importantly, the allowance he had made in our budget and my time to make space for my dream. A dream he has adopted as his own. Those words he said were logistics, but what I heard was this: “I believe in you.”

Do I have to tell you how much that means?

I’ve been reading a book by John Eldredge about the stages of a boy’s life. I love it because, in our day and time, its premise is counter-cultural: boys were designed to be warriors, to be told they have what it takes, to be believed in. Not coddled, or hovered over obsessively, or kept indoors and away from mountains and ravines and football fields to prevent injury. They need to be taught, when they’re old enough, how weapons and power tools work–and then they need someone to hand them the gun and the box of ammunition. They need to hear that they are believed in so they can go out into the world and have the courage to defend their dreams…and, just maybe, those of their wives.

I find it interesting that faith in someone besides ourselves is the very essence of love, and I wonder: Who would have designed it that way?

Like New

I’m coming off a fun-filled, birthday-oriented weekend: candy and a DVD brought home by The Husband; champagne and fried chicken at Parish; dinner cooked by The Sis and Bro-in-Law (TH cleaned his plate then finished off mine–per usual); new weekday uniform gifted by The Sis that, sans job, renders me wrapped in super-soft cotton for the majority of the day–plus I get to call it my Writing Outfit which endows it with official importance. All in all, good times indeed.

So why did I wake up this morning with a case of the Mondays?

I have plenty of days when I don’t crack a smile or a conversation before the morning coffee is consumed–ask any of my former roommates. Then there are the mornings like this one, when losing a contact leaves me feeling like our house was targeted for nuclear attack; when the failure of my iPhone to charge is clearly a government conspiracy to drive me insane; when my former employer’s email reveals a depth of pathology that should be accompanied by The Twilight Zone theme music; when I see the obviously anorexic girl in my spin class and am more motivated to yell at than pray for her.

All this, and the toughest thing on my To-Do List for today is to pick up TH’s glasses at LensCrafters. What gives?

I’m beginning to understand that for all my pre-unemployment longing for days off the clock, I have a problem with not pulling in an income; with not having something taxable to do with my hands. I struggle with feeling useless, with coming up with accomplishments to prove my worth, with looking at this as a transition time rather than immersing myself in the opportunity I’ve been provided. And so, waking up this morning and being faced with a week of such thoughts, I copped an attitude.

Then I went downstairs and saw the freshly-painted room that TH labored over for two weekends: the luxurious red that surpasses my expectations and makes the walls look new and shifts the light in ways I never noticed before. I see the utensil left out for me, a small act of consideration that encourages me away from measuring out my life with coffee spoons. I climb onto my bike at said spin class and give in to the recognition that the instructor’s voice makes him sound just like Zach Galifianakis–which means that if I close my eyes, I can be transported to a Vegas elevator next to a bearded man with a baby strapped to his chest.

I walk outside and feel the hint of fall in the air, see the bus carrying kids to school, and hear the voice telling me to choose thankfulness–an admonition conceived not in some hippie self-help manual alongside other vague tips like “be light” and “spread love,” but a design on my life that has a Source and a purpose and a better reason than any I could dream up. And I know, despite moodiness and selfishness and all the other worst versions of myself I can be, that the specific nature of what I believe leaves me with this truth: there is Someone making all things new, no matter how they look right now. And that believing this is an act of courage that involves vision beyond what’s in front of me or how I feel. So I wrap myself in cotton, drink my coffee, and watch the light.

Surprise Parties

I just spent a significant amount of time licking icing off a napkin, debris left from surprise cupcakes from The Sis-in-Law. This after a buttery, cheesy, salty grits breakfast and a snack of coffee and chocolate chip cookie. So…yes. Yes, I am having a great birthday. Thanks for asking.

This past year has been full of Major Life Events. The Husband and I decided, why not? Let’s just pack it all in. So I turned thirty-three (Jesus year!), got married, started a new life in a new city, became a co-godparent with TH to The Niece, bought a house (okay, TH did that), and got knocked up (guess he did that too). Oh, and lost my job and sent out letters to literary agents and got rejected by some who wrote back! And the other night, when I received the email telling me I would not, in fact, be paid what I was owed, I felt the steam and blood pressure rising within; the familiar self-righteous vigilante justice button was pressed. And then, instead of resorting to the usual–high-pitched “how could she!” protestations and insults and threats and gnashing of teeth, I simply looked to my left, where TH sat. And I looked down, where The Kid sits. And for maybe the first time in my life, I thought about all I have instead of what I don’t. And I took a deep breath of gratitude and laughed. (And maybe muttered the word whore. But the laughing was louder.)

There is always something to celebrate, and always something to mourn. For so much of my life it was easier to see what was missing. What I thought I was waiting for, or was being denied. I have spent birthdays wishing for flowers, wondering when/if HE would show up, crying in my solitude, even begging the diarrhea to go away (in Italy, but still). This year, there are unknowns. There is a lawyer looking at my case. There are agents taking a pass. There is cutting back.

And there is so much more. There is the doorbell that just rang, the flowers delivered. I wondered if they would show up this year–we’re supposed to be watching our wallets, plus we’re married anyway, so aren’t the generous overtures supposed to taper off? But no. There are roses, there is a baby kicking, there will be sand in our toes next weekend, and there is a plan greater than my own. Grace always shows up, we just have to open the door.