Sunday, December 14, 2008
double misery
I woke today to discover my city blanketed in snow. Snow continues to swirl about furiously and the weather forecast predicts ever more of it before this blast is through. Stuck inside, antsy and heavy and irritable, I watch the snow gather and ponder tomorrow's morning commute with dread (dear Minnesota reader: Portland knows nothing about driving in snow -nada. And it doesn't help that the city has approximately 2 snow plows in its entire winter fleet and salt trucks? -yeah, right! Even 2 inches of snow can shut this city down for days).
And to add to my misery, I glanced in the mirror this morning and cried in horror upon discovering the jagged, pink beginnings of stretch marks angling up from my pelvis towards my belly button. Yes, that's right: stretch marks. And I still have nearly 3 months of growing left to do. I have a feeling my body will be completely unrecognizable when this whole baby thing is said and done -and this morning I am none too happy about it. The baby is squirming and kicking even now (he loves his morning cup of Assam with milk), and I cannot help but resent him just the tiniest bit. His whopping three pounds and his sweet, chubby 69th percentile means mommy is growing too -and not necessarily in a good way.
I know it is infantile to care so much, and I am sure I will get over it once I am holding the chubby little cause-of-all-suffering in my arms, but in the meantime I feel like sobbing wretchedly for my lost youth....and because it is fucking snowing in Portland....
And to add to my misery, I glanced in the mirror this morning and cried in horror upon discovering the jagged, pink beginnings of stretch marks angling up from my pelvis towards my belly button. Yes, that's right: stretch marks. And I still have nearly 3 months of growing left to do. I have a feeling my body will be completely unrecognizable when this whole baby thing is said and done -and this morning I am none too happy about it. The baby is squirming and kicking even now (he loves his morning cup of Assam with milk), and I cannot help but resent him just the tiniest bit. His whopping three pounds and his sweet, chubby 69th percentile means mommy is growing too -and not necessarily in a good way.
I know it is infantile to care so much, and I am sure I will get over it once I am holding the chubby little cause-of-all-suffering in my arms, but in the meantime I feel like sobbing wretchedly for my lost youth....and because it is fucking snowing in Portland....
Saturday, December 13, 2008
lie down in darkness
I just finished reading William Styron's Lie Down in Darkness. It was a dreadful, dark, beautiful but terrible read, full of dispicable characters behaving shamefully. It amazes me to reflect that Styron published this text when he was a scant 22 years of age. How could he have known such dark and awful truths about marriage and incest and jealousy and familial dissolution at such an age?
I must return the book to the library this afternoon, but before doing so, I need to jot down a few of my favorite passages:
p. 109
Standing on his glassed-in porch with a prescription in hand, watching the taillight of the doctor's car recede into the night, it had occurred to him, as it had a thousand times before, that it was the most awful thing --you went through life expecting things to get better, hoping for the vacant, idle day when you would be free from worry, and although you were conscious of the folly of expecting a giddy, bright time like that, you nevertheless went on hoping, sustaining your poor illusions: he groped for something meaningful --but his thoughts dwindled off into a prosy and confused prayer which he left half-completed.
p. 154
Even though this was not all. Yes. For though their supper conversation was guarded, and so chilly that it seemed their breath must turn frosty on the air, there yet had remained beneath the mistrust and suspicion that enveloped both of them the tiniest germ, some memento each of them had unconsciously salvaged, that cautioned them to keep their voices down and remember, hush: listen --the aerial melody of departed gaiety, as fragile as the smoke from burning dance cards, candles, midnight fires, might still be heard, very sad and distant, if you closed your eyes and let the years fall away. They had never closed their eyes, but the sense of something small and winking and indestructible remained...
p. 272
And his hunger went forth again, sending fingers through the crushed, vegetable air; only this time, helplessly, his thoughts became flaccid and wet and infantile, and he hungered to go to the toilet more than anything else; in spirit he wandered down the aisle, mincing painfully past the lulled and turgid guests. They didn't notice him or, if they did, paid him no heed. Their heads would be bent in prayer --his too, in fact --but now he was standing in the downstairs bathroom, in fancy watching the mosaic tiles, the immaculate tub, feeling all anxiety flow blissfully away, along with the lemon-clear stream. My God, he thought, my God, my God, so far away. Desire and hunger settled over him, and he thought of things past and passing, of all things fleeting, and of himself a child again standing above the anxient plumbing forty years ago; watching it then, that yellow jet, why hadn't he been made sick with the strangeness of the water flowing from him so promiscuously? Sick as he was now, stifled by roses in a strange room, and knowing that to be born is unbelievable.
p. 273
She remembered a time when she was young. She had wanted the future to be like a nice, long, congenial tea party, where everyone talked a little, danced a little and had polite manners. She had come to the party and it had been ghastly: everyone misbehaved and no one had a good time.
I must return the book to the library this afternoon, but before doing so, I need to jot down a few of my favorite passages:
p. 109
Standing on his glassed-in porch with a prescription in hand, watching the taillight of the doctor's car recede into the night, it had occurred to him, as it had a thousand times before, that it was the most awful thing --you went through life expecting things to get better, hoping for the vacant, idle day when you would be free from worry, and although you were conscious of the folly of expecting a giddy, bright time like that, you nevertheless went on hoping, sustaining your poor illusions: he groped for something meaningful --but his thoughts dwindled off into a prosy and confused prayer which he left half-completed.
p. 154
Even though this was not all. Yes. For though their supper conversation was guarded, and so chilly that it seemed their breath must turn frosty on the air, there yet had remained beneath the mistrust and suspicion that enveloped both of them the tiniest germ, some memento each of them had unconsciously salvaged, that cautioned them to keep their voices down and remember, hush: listen --the aerial melody of departed gaiety, as fragile as the smoke from burning dance cards, candles, midnight fires, might still be heard, very sad and distant, if you closed your eyes and let the years fall away. They had never closed their eyes, but the sense of something small and winking and indestructible remained...
p. 272
And his hunger went forth again, sending fingers through the crushed, vegetable air; only this time, helplessly, his thoughts became flaccid and wet and infantile, and he hungered to go to the toilet more than anything else; in spirit he wandered down the aisle, mincing painfully past the lulled and turgid guests. They didn't notice him or, if they did, paid him no heed. Their heads would be bent in prayer --his too, in fact --but now he was standing in the downstairs bathroom, in fancy watching the mosaic tiles, the immaculate tub, feeling all anxiety flow blissfully away, along with the lemon-clear stream. My God, he thought, my God, my God, so far away. Desire and hunger settled over him, and he thought of things past and passing, of all things fleeting, and of himself a child again standing above the anxient plumbing forty years ago; watching it then, that yellow jet, why hadn't he been made sick with the strangeness of the water flowing from him so promiscuously? Sick as he was now, stifled by roses in a strange room, and knowing that to be born is unbelievable.
p. 273
She remembered a time when she was young. She had wanted the future to be like a nice, long, congenial tea party, where everyone talked a little, danced a little and had polite manners. She had come to the party and it had been ghastly: everyone misbehaved and no one had a good time.
Friday, December 12, 2008
visitation at 28 weeks
It has started to get cramped in the place where my son lives. He looks bored and weary, yawning and stretching and twisting about, trying to get comfortable. I know exactly how he feels. It was harder than ever this time to make out his features, to tell one scrawny grasping limb from the other, to discern belly from bum and kidney from liver. He was all folded in on himself like a little contortionist. We caught a quick glimpse of his face and watched him open and close his mouth like a little fish, probably sucking up and swallowing a bit of the brine in which he's been pickling these many months.
M kept his eyes peeled for the sight of tiny clenching fists, a tell-tale sign that all is well in his baby brain (DS babies cannot manage the task). The technician took measurements and, based on the numbers, told us he is likely weighing around 3 pounds and is in the 69th percentile -so, he's well above average but not quite gigantic, which was good news. M doesn't particularly want a teensy, squalling worm of a baby. 7 pounds or more would be ideal, lest he live in constant fear of breaking it's tiny bird bones. And it's true -itty bitty babies are so delicate and really rather frightening. I like the meatier variety. Plus, you can accidentally starve them at first and they won't wither away (that breast-feeding thing doesn't come quite as "naturally" as they say, from what I hear).
We didn't come away with any new pictures -he just wasn't feeling very photogenic this go around. And we weren't invited back for another awe-struck gander at the gray flickering view-screen. His growth is steady and his heart is beating strong and there just isn't a need. He will live the remainder of his days in utero in perfect privacy. The next time we meet will be in the flesh - face to face -no more of this "through the glass, darkly" bit. And I, for one, cannot wait.
M kept his eyes peeled for the sight of tiny clenching fists, a tell-tale sign that all is well in his baby brain (DS babies cannot manage the task). The technician took measurements and, based on the numbers, told us he is likely weighing around 3 pounds and is in the 69th percentile -so, he's well above average but not quite gigantic, which was good news. M doesn't particularly want a teensy, squalling worm of a baby. 7 pounds or more would be ideal, lest he live in constant fear of breaking it's tiny bird bones. And it's true -itty bitty babies are so delicate and really rather frightening. I like the meatier variety. Plus, you can accidentally starve them at first and they won't wither away (that breast-feeding thing doesn't come quite as "naturally" as they say, from what I hear).
We didn't come away with any new pictures -he just wasn't feeling very photogenic this go around. And we weren't invited back for another awe-struck gander at the gray flickering view-screen. His growth is steady and his heart is beating strong and there just isn't a need. He will live the remainder of his days in utero in perfect privacy. The next time we meet will be in the flesh - face to face -no more of this "through the glass, darkly" bit. And I, for one, cannot wait.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
love hormones
We were shown a very brief clip from the film The Business of Being Born during our Bradley Method childbirth class this evening. The segment featured French obstetrician Micheal Odent discussing the incredible cocktail of hormones that are released in the mother's body during the moments immediately preceding birth. He calls them "love hormones." According to Odent, these hormones (chief among them being oxytocin) "prime" both the mother and baby to connect with one another and form an "addiction" for one another. He argues that using pain-blocking drugs or giving birth by caesarean section impedes this consequential hormonal release and perhaps diminishes the ability of the mother and baby to fully bond with one another in those first crucial moments.
While he spoke, the film showed clip after clip of mothers reaching for their just-born infants, tears staining their faces as they clutched their infants to their chests. Their faces shone with pure joy as the agony of the past moments receded into memory. The babies, wet and wrinkled and confused, gazed up at their mother's faces as they made their first clumsy efforts to latch on. These mothers were active and engaged and immediately available to their babies during those critical first moments in the living world.
The film also showed a drugged mother, stretched out on her back, wired up and plugged in, her eyes drifting listlessly, her manner languid and strange. The doctor showed her the newborn infant and the mother smiled a slow, drunken smile and waved a hand as the baby was whisked away to be cleaned or tested or taken down the hall to a cold nursery until the mother could sober up.
It was a powerful contrasting visual and the message of the film definitely struck me full force. One of the primary reasons I am choosing to attempt a natural childbirth is to experience this rite of passage unhindered and unmitigated. I want first-person, intimate, in-the-moment, immediacy, whatever the cost in pain and suffering. I've experienced sedatives and numbing agents in the past, whether recreationally or to ease various medical procedures, and I know that to be anything less than my very own clear-headed self would be bothersome and strange and wreck the moment to my thinking. I cannot help but want to be as present as possible and feel the full gamut of natural sensations and emotions during this crucial moment in my life and that of my new baby boy. I want our very first meeting to be a pure and undiluted affair.
I recognize that there are circumstances in which drugs or intervention of another sort may prove necessary, and I hope I can be flexible enough in the moment to permit a change of plan when change is required. But I am committed to the course that I have chosen. There really isn't a choice, as far as I am concerned.
While he spoke, the film showed clip after clip of mothers reaching for their just-born infants, tears staining their faces as they clutched their infants to their chests. Their faces shone with pure joy as the agony of the past moments receded into memory. The babies, wet and wrinkled and confused, gazed up at their mother's faces as they made their first clumsy efforts to latch on. These mothers were active and engaged and immediately available to their babies during those critical first moments in the living world.
The film also showed a drugged mother, stretched out on her back, wired up and plugged in, her eyes drifting listlessly, her manner languid and strange. The doctor showed her the newborn infant and the mother smiled a slow, drunken smile and waved a hand as the baby was whisked away to be cleaned or tested or taken down the hall to a cold nursery until the mother could sober up.
It was a powerful contrasting visual and the message of the film definitely struck me full force. One of the primary reasons I am choosing to attempt a natural childbirth is to experience this rite of passage unhindered and unmitigated. I want first-person, intimate, in-the-moment, immediacy, whatever the cost in pain and suffering. I've experienced sedatives and numbing agents in the past, whether recreationally or to ease various medical procedures, and I know that to be anything less than my very own clear-headed self would be bothersome and strange and wreck the moment to my thinking. I cannot help but want to be as present as possible and feel the full gamut of natural sensations and emotions during this crucial moment in my life and that of my new baby boy. I want our very first meeting to be a pure and undiluted affair.
I recognize that there are circumstances in which drugs or intervention of another sort may prove necessary, and I hope I can be flexible enough in the moment to permit a change of plan when change is required. But I am committed to the course that I have chosen. There really isn't a choice, as far as I am concerned.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
maternal love
This morning as I lay curled on my side, palm pressed against my abdomen awaiting the taps and pokes of my baby's feet and elbows, I remarked to M in a voice that shook with emotion: "It is strange how much I love him and I haven't even met him yet!" His movements inside me stir in me a profound, maternal care and concern unlike any I have felt for anyone. Sometimes I feel similarly for M, especially in those rare, tender moments when I think of what he must have been like as a child. But M can take care of himself for the most part -he isn't vulnerable and unformed and needy like this small human growing inside of me.
M said he felt the same way during the ultrasounds. Watching his little son squirming in a blur on the screen brought him near to tears. I wish M could feel it as often as I do - every time I sense his small body stirring in my belly.
M said he felt the same way during the ultrasounds. Watching his little son squirming in a blur on the screen brought him near to tears. I wish M could feel it as often as I do - every time I sense his small body stirring in my belly.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
introduction
Last night, as I dutifully lay on my left side in proper relaxation position (those Bradley classes are worth something, after all), the baby started squirming something awful. I rolled onto my back and palmed my abdomen, hoping to catch his fits and starts while they were here. I called M into the room and ordered him to palm my belly and wait. Before long another bursting kick punched the surface of my skin. M's eyes lit up: "There!" he said with excitement. "I felt him!"
How strange that 6 months on, all the while I have been suffering the growth of this human inside me, and now M is finally "feeling him."
How strange that 6 months on, all the while I have been suffering the growth of this human inside me, and now M is finally "feeling him."
Saturday, November 15, 2008
bedding the garden
We spent the day slogging in the garden, pulling out rotted tomato vines and raking a ragged mess of magnolia leaves. My poor back aches and I am nursing a nasty blister in the crook of my left thumb joint, but it felt good to get dirty again after a long hiatus. In rooting about, I found a glorious red rose blooming on a climbing vine that I thought had seen better days. What a handsome surprise! The sun shone low in the sky and the sweat of our labors saw us both in t-shirts by the day's end -another mid-November surprise.
savage protection
I've become strangely protective of my belly of late. I know the baby is safe and cushioned inside a taut bag of water, but I cannot help but think my protective hand might help a little in an emergency. Last night, as M and I wandered home from dinner in the darkness, a sketchy fellow ambled by on his bicycle with his unchained pit bull lumbering behind him. I gasped, grabbed my belly and hid behind M until the coast was clear. And then as I slept, even in dreams my belly was under threat. I dreamed that I was shooting hoops with a friend and some hoodlums approached and tried to push us off the court. I swore at them defiantly and held my ground, but when the strangers faces loomed over me I gripped my belly in fear. "You can't hurt me! -I'm pregnant!" I declared. "We'll see about that!" the men threatened. I woke up with a start, frightened by my own cries and gripping my abdomen savagely.
It is startling to feel so strong and protective and yet so vulnerable all at once. And I know these sensations are just a taste of what is to come. How much more difficult will it be to protect my child years from now when he is outside of my womb, wandering around alone in the dark scary world without me there to shield him?
It is startling to feel so strong and protective and yet so vulnerable all at once. And I know these sensations are just a taste of what is to come. How much more difficult will it be to protect my child years from now when he is outside of my womb, wandering around alone in the dark scary world without me there to shield him?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
baby lust
For a long while now, I have hankered after an opportunity to hold a baby -ya know, sort of give it a test run, see how it plays. I haven't held a single solitary infant since my visit to my sister's home and to my friend C's, so all the while I've been pregnant, babies have remained an elusive, distance mystery. I have seen them on the street, in strollers and carriers or cradled in their mother's arms. I've ogled them at the doctor's office waiting room, wondering how weird it would be to ask a new mom and a complete stranger for a chance to test drive her baby. I never got up the nerve, because really: that's creepy.
But today, oh glorious day, my friend B invited us over for dinner along with another friend who brought along her 2 month-old infant son. He was dozing in his car seat when I arrived, but his mom gladly woke him so that I could hold him. He blinked and peered up at me, his eyes deep blue, watery and confused. His weight felt unfamiliar in my arms, and holding him was a bit of an art since I had to maneuver his little body around the one that is growing inside of me. My boy must have sensed the competition, because all the while I held this other little one, his kicks and punches persisted. It was as though he were saying: "hey! -what about me!" The baby was a smiling, sweet, charming thing and didn't cry the entire duration of our visit. I bounced him on my lap and blew puffs of air into his face to watch him gasp and giggle. His eyes met mine with an intense smiling un-self-consciousness that thrilled me. Babies have no shame. I handed the baby off to M, who gingerly took him in his hands and tried to make him comfortable., M has probably held 3 babies total in all of his life, so it was sweet to watch him try to wrangle this one.
On the way home, I asked M if he was ready. "Can you believe we're going to have one of those in our house, in our lives, day and night without end, in less than 120 days?" It still seems completely unreal. He nodded and insisted that it will be a fun adventure, although not without its challenges. "I hope we get one like that -smiling and happy instead of the fussy, whiny, monster sort" I said with a sigh. But I suppose we shall love him either way.
But today, oh glorious day, my friend B invited us over for dinner along with another friend who brought along her 2 month-old infant son. He was dozing in his car seat when I arrived, but his mom gladly woke him so that I could hold him. He blinked and peered up at me, his eyes deep blue, watery and confused. His weight felt unfamiliar in my arms, and holding him was a bit of an art since I had to maneuver his little body around the one that is growing inside of me. My boy must have sensed the competition, because all the while I held this other little one, his kicks and punches persisted. It was as though he were saying: "hey! -what about me!" The baby was a smiling, sweet, charming thing and didn't cry the entire duration of our visit. I bounced him on my lap and blew puffs of air into his face to watch him gasp and giggle. His eyes met mine with an intense smiling un-self-consciousness that thrilled me. Babies have no shame. I handed the baby off to M, who gingerly took him in his hands and tried to make him comfortable., M has probably held 3 babies total in all of his life, so it was sweet to watch him try to wrangle this one.
On the way home, I asked M if he was ready. "Can you believe we're going to have one of those in our house, in our lives, day and night without end, in less than 120 days?" It still seems completely unreal. He nodded and insisted that it will be a fun adventure, although not without its challenges. "I hope we get one like that -smiling and happy instead of the fussy, whiny, monster sort" I said with a sigh. But I suppose we shall love him either way.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
the thrill of a good bargain
M and I spent the entire day intermittently trolling Craigslist and rolling around the Portand metro checking out this and that in an effort to economically pimp out the baby's nursery. We drove all the way to Gresham and scored a beautiful convertible crib for a measly $50, and while there the seller tossed in a high-end glider for an extra $50. Rounding out the room is a $60 changing table and a $35 gliding ottoman (the fabric doesn't match that of the glider, but that can easily be altered) and a $150 solid pine dresser that will likely follow our son to college and beyond.
It feels good to get things settled. I know it won't get any easier the bigger I grow to get all my ducks in a row. And it feels all the better knowing I have done so on the cheap.
It feels good to get things settled. I know it won't get any easier the bigger I grow to get all my ducks in a row. And it feels all the better knowing I have done so on the cheap.
Friday, November 7, 2008
gone missing
I know I've been remiss in ignoring the blog these last few weeks. Every evening as I stagger into bed exhausted and heavy, I think of all the things I might have written about if only I had the stamina. But stamina isn't the only thing missing. I can't help but feel somewhat tongue-tied of late (those who know me best are having serious doubts about this one). The other afternoon I was listening to a live recording of Kristen Hersh (of Throwing Muses) and on the record she discusses being pregnant and how it alters your ability to focus. She said (in so many words) that when you're pregnant you are intently transfixed on this other-worldly, internal universe -and that world isn't more important or necessarily more interesting, but it consumes your vision for the duration.
That is how I feel -- like my vision is focused on this nonverbal interior landscape, and these passing days are like a mist drifting over me. I am hardly aware of the passage of time, except in those rare moments of panic when I realize with a start "I only have 17 weeks left!" or when I remember that I haven't signed up for birthing classes yet. It is an annoying state of mind, to be perfectly honest. I would love nothing more than to feel very grounded in the physical experience of being pregnant. But I am finding it heady and light and mystical and not at all real.
So this is my offering of excuse. Hopefully breaking the ice with this confession will spur me to write with more regularity over the coming months. I know that one day I will be glad of this record.
That is how I feel -- like my vision is focused on this nonverbal interior landscape, and these passing days are like a mist drifting over me. I am hardly aware of the passage of time, except in those rare moments of panic when I realize with a start "I only have 17 weeks left!" or when I remember that I haven't signed up for birthing classes yet. It is an annoying state of mind, to be perfectly honest. I would love nothing more than to feel very grounded in the physical experience of being pregnant. But I am finding it heady and light and mystical and not at all real.
So this is my offering of excuse. Hopefully breaking the ice with this confession will spur me to write with more regularity over the coming months. I know that one day I will be glad of this record.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
lookout mountain & hood river apple harvest
Today we ventured a hike we've long wanted to, but have never quite found the time: Lookout Mountain. We dragged our long lost friend V and K along for a ride (I say 'long lost' because K, who was once a fixture of my everyday, has been working at the Oregon coast these past several weeks as program staff for Outdoor School). It was great to see them both and catch up on all their news during the long ride up and around Mt. Hood.The morning fog cleared quickly, and left in it's wake a gorgeous, clear, crisp sunny day. As we climbed into the mountains, we watched the car's temperature gauge drop by degrees. We piled out of the car at the trail head in 29 degree weather. A skim of snow crunched under our shoes as we made our way up the winding trail to the mountain top. The trail was not so steep as it might have been, for which I was grateful. M and I had tried another steep mountain scramble at Wallowa Lake last week and I just about busted a lung -climbing straight uphill while pregnant is not advisable. But this trail climbed gradually and while I huffed and puffed and crept rather slower than I once might have it was quite manageable.
We rounded the top of stony butte and as we caught a glimpse of the staggering vista a blast of icy wind nearly knocked us off our feet. I scrambled to wrap myself in the scarf I had abandoned during the heat of the climb. The view was magnificent and the day could not have been clearer. Mt. Hood, Adams, St.Helen's, Rainier, Jefferson, Bachelor, Three Sisters, and a far off speck that might have been McLoughlin or even California's Mt. Shasta all shone crystal clear in the distance. To the west, an endless, rolling stretch of conifer tops pierced the sky, and to the east a patchwork of farm fields spread like a giant quilt in the sunshine.
We huddled down in a rocky windbreak to rest and enjoy the scene. M scrambled around taking photographs. After a spell, we wound our way back down the trail to the car.
We had originally wanted to catch another hike at Fifteen Mile Creek, but it was getting later and we all hankered for a picnic lunch and some crisp Hood River apples, so off we went to the valley to enjoy the fall festivals and find a decent picnic spot (it seems there is a festival celebrating the harvest of something almost every single day in Oregon).
Our first stop was the Draper Girls Country Farm, a place we've often stopped before to taste whatever is in season, cherries, berries, peaches, pears -you name it. This time, a huge tent covered dozens of bins of apple varieties, from dull Jonagolds and crisp Galas, to tart Fujis and mealy Gravensteins, from the obscure, sour-tasting Winter Banana to my new favorite, the perfect apple: Pacific Rose. We made a few purchases, found a table on the lawn with a view of Mt. Hood, and enjoyed our picnic lunch while basking in the low glow of the glorious autumn afternoon sunshine.
After lunch, we made our way down Highway 35 towards Hood River, stopping along the way to visit a cookie factory (free samples!) and a pumpkin patch sporting a silly Cinderella themed corn maze. Our journey ended at the superb Double Mountain Brewery where my friends sampled the newest dry-hopped IPA while I looked on in envy.
It was a perfect day spent living perfectly and in perfect company. Now the rains can begin in earnest (they're scheduled to start as of this coming Wednesday -waah!).
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
penance
It can no longer be denied -the Portland winter is upon us. Today dawned crisp and chill, and the sun glistened in the sky. But by afternoon the sky was crowded with clouds and a steady rain began to fall. It will likely continue until next June. So long to the lingering, meandering neighborhood walks in the waning evening light, now we pack ourselves off to the gym for a long, sweaty slog on the elliptical machines and the treadmills and the hellish stair masters. I confess I would far rather run or walk out of doors, but the rain takes much of the joy out of walking, and running is no longer an option (the giant breasts and burgeoning belly make it highly uncomfortable -I do not understand how large people do it?).
Today we trudged up the street through the cold to the community fitness center for an hour penance. It is fortunately only 5 blocks away. I say fortunately, because were it any farther it would likely see less of me. I look forward to taking full advantage of the facilities there once the kid is here. They have a fantastic kids pool as well as an extensive community ed class list, and the annual family membership is very affordable.
But meanwhile, working out pregnant is a real challenge. Up until today, I hadn't had to contend with the belly, just the shortness of breath and exhaustion that go with the territory (as if that weren't enough). Crunches with a baby belly are likely only possible for another month. Already, things felt snug and tight down there -I had better cram in as many as I can before it is too late. Half hour on the elliptical and I was ready to get back to my perch on the living room sofa.
I made the big mistake of stepping on the scale before I left. It seems I've gained 6 lbs since my last appointment on September 19th, which is way more than I was hoping for. According to the midwives, I have already gained over half of my allowable 35 lbs for the entire pregnancy -and I still have more than half the way to go. I am trying not to get too hung up on the numbers. I am decidedly not just eating for sport, but given that my diet is primarily vegetarian (and has been without ill effect for the last decade), I am certain that I am eating far more carbohydrates than are good for me simply in order to feel full. I have tried to add more fish on a regular basis, but even still I know I am not nearing the 80-100 grams of protein that are required.
On the other hand, I can't help but think the focus on pregnancy weight gain and post-baby weight loss is a little misguided. I am sure it would be nice to gain only the minimum, but does it benefit me at all to stress about each extra pound? Food is one of life's great pleasures, and I hate to make an enemy of it. A dear friend put it best when she told me that given all the sacrifices required of her during the long, hell of pregnancy, she was not about to deny herself a cupcake here and there. I tend to agree -my pleasures are so few these days, what harm can be done by partaking of a few extra enjoyable calories? Gone are the nightly stouts and IPAs, the bottles of pinot shared with friends, cigarettes, brie, sushi (well, I still enjoy sushi -shhhhh) jogging...the list is long. If I want to eat a giant, chocolate dipped macaroon, no one had better try to stop me.
Today we trudged up the street through the cold to the community fitness center for an hour penance. It is fortunately only 5 blocks away. I say fortunately, because were it any farther it would likely see less of me. I look forward to taking full advantage of the facilities there once the kid is here. They have a fantastic kids pool as well as an extensive community ed class list, and the annual family membership is very affordable.
But meanwhile, working out pregnant is a real challenge. Up until today, I hadn't had to contend with the belly, just the shortness of breath and exhaustion that go with the territory (as if that weren't enough). Crunches with a baby belly are likely only possible for another month. Already, things felt snug and tight down there -I had better cram in as many as I can before it is too late. Half hour on the elliptical and I was ready to get back to my perch on the living room sofa.
I made the big mistake of stepping on the scale before I left. It seems I've gained 6 lbs since my last appointment on September 19th, which is way more than I was hoping for. According to the midwives, I have already gained over half of my allowable 35 lbs for the entire pregnancy -and I still have more than half the way to go. I am trying not to get too hung up on the numbers. I am decidedly not just eating for sport, but given that my diet is primarily vegetarian (and has been without ill effect for the last decade), I am certain that I am eating far more carbohydrates than are good for me simply in order to feel full. I have tried to add more fish on a regular basis, but even still I know I am not nearing the 80-100 grams of protein that are required.
On the other hand, I can't help but think the focus on pregnancy weight gain and post-baby weight loss is a little misguided. I am sure it would be nice to gain only the minimum, but does it benefit me at all to stress about each extra pound? Food is one of life's great pleasures, and I hate to make an enemy of it. A dear friend put it best when she told me that given all the sacrifices required of her during the long, hell of pregnancy, she was not about to deny herself a cupcake here and there. I tend to agree -my pleasures are so few these days, what harm can be done by partaking of a few extra enjoyable calories? Gone are the nightly stouts and IPAs, the bottles of pinot shared with friends, cigarettes, brie, sushi (well, I still enjoy sushi -shhhhh) jogging...the list is long. If I want to eat a giant, chocolate dipped macaroon, no one had better try to stop me.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
wednesday evening at the library
M and I have developed a new and relaxing mid-week habit. The Woodstock Library remains open until 8PM on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, so we've taken to stopping by during our evening neighborhood strolls. We both enjoy a good hour or more perusing the stacks at random and picking out whatever catches the eye. This evening I scored a few handsome volumes right off the bat: Charlotte Bronte's Shirley, E.M. Forester's Where Angels Fear To Tread, Wallace Stegner's Recapitulation, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde and Thornton Wilder's The Bridge of San Luis Rey. Of course, it is unlikely I will sink my literary teeth into each and every one of these tomes, but it is nice to have a handful of worthy candidates on hand at all times should time become a sudden luxury. M spent most of the evening hunkered down over the CDs, stacking them one by one on the table as he discovered fresh sounds.
Browsing among the memoirs and prose, I happened on a text by Kim Stafford, local son and the biological son of the great poet, William Stafford. The book is entitled Having Everything Right: Essays on Place and features various meditations on his experiences traveling the back roads of the Pacific Northwest. Having done a bit of adventuring myself of late, I was intrigued and settled in at a table for a bit of reading.
I happened to open to an essay about his journey through eastern Oregon and into Montana to investigate the site of the US Army's siege of Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce ("A Few Miles Short of Wisdom"). Rather than face relocation to a distant reservation or resist and risk the great bloodshed of war, Chief Joseph opted to lead the Wallowa band of the Nez Perce out of the Wallowa basin, across Idaho and Montana towards Canada where freedom awaited. The US Army would have none of it and pursued them all the way. The men, women and children of the Nez Perce tribe eluded capture for three months, fighting intermittently over 1700 miles when finally, at Big Hole Montana they suffered some of their greatest losses. They were captured soon after. A National Battlefield now marks the spot of this devastating massacre.
Kim Stafford describes his visit to this national monument and his attempt to glean some measure of meaning from his experience there beyond that of your average tourist. He asks the ranger if many Nez Perce people visit the site, to which the rangers gives the rather cryptic, halting reply that yes, they visit, except only at night for their ceremonies. The ranger tells him that you can tell they have been there from the ribbons that they leave in the trees and in the glade. Stafford wanders onto the battlefield, noting the plaques and markers that told the story of snipers positions here and Army positions there and the numbered lost and injured. And then he sees the ribbons, some new and shiny fluttering from the tree branches, others from a time gone by, lying rotted and fading in the dust, beads and bullets scattered nearby. He writes (and I quote at length because I found it beautiful):
"A century collapses into this moment of ground, where generations of private celebration grew outward from one story. This square yard of pine duff bound a guest register that could never be tallied, only renewed, only inhabited by the night-faithful memory that walked in the form of the people. Twenty steps east from the tree with the ribbons a ton of granite, hewn to a block and polished, was carved with the story as the US Army had lived it through. That was one way to remember 1877: carve the truth in stone and draft a platoon of guardians, write books and print brochures and script slide shows and build a hall to house them all, then carve a trail with numbers like a tattoo on the hill...
...The books, the message on stone, the trail's configuration would all have to be revised by an act of will; the ribbons were either renewed or lost by the very nature of their fragility. Sun and rain destroyed them. Pine budded and grew. Flowers withered, and the ribbons.
Suddenly in the heat a kind of fear chilled me --fear about my fellowship with the sometimes acquisitive tribe of patriots named America. Even in small things, we wish to map our conquest of the planet and the past. My own childhood collections flickered through my mind: stamps, stones, leaves pressed in a Bible, insects stilled by cotton soaked with alcohol and pinned to styrofoam in a box. And arrowheads. Smoky obsidian and blood-red flint. Modern habit is to lay such things away safe behind glass, and I had learned that habit well. I knew how to lift each bead with tweezers, plot and take each bullet up, sift them all out from the dust and alter them from a part of the world to an illustration of it. Could I leave the bones of the story still, and carry only its breath away in my mouth? Or would I thread five beads on a pine needle souvenir, saying softly to myself no one would know them gone?"
(ribbons and feathers adorn the tree beside Chief Old Joseph's grave -Wallowa Lake, Oregon)
Browsing among the memoirs and prose, I happened on a text by Kim Stafford, local son and the biological son of the great poet, William Stafford. The book is entitled Having Everything Right: Essays on Place and features various meditations on his experiences traveling the back roads of the Pacific Northwest. Having done a bit of adventuring myself of late, I was intrigued and settled in at a table for a bit of reading.
I happened to open to an essay about his journey through eastern Oregon and into Montana to investigate the site of the US Army's siege of Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce ("A Few Miles Short of Wisdom"). Rather than face relocation to a distant reservation or resist and risk the great bloodshed of war, Chief Joseph opted to lead the Wallowa band of the Nez Perce out of the Wallowa basin, across Idaho and Montana towards Canada where freedom awaited. The US Army would have none of it and pursued them all the way. The men, women and children of the Nez Perce tribe eluded capture for three months, fighting intermittently over 1700 miles when finally, at Big Hole Montana they suffered some of their greatest losses. They were captured soon after. A National Battlefield now marks the spot of this devastating massacre.
Kim Stafford describes his visit to this national monument and his attempt to glean some measure of meaning from his experience there beyond that of your average tourist. He asks the ranger if many Nez Perce people visit the site, to which the rangers gives the rather cryptic, halting reply that yes, they visit, except only at night for their ceremonies. The ranger tells him that you can tell they have been there from the ribbons that they leave in the trees and in the glade. Stafford wanders onto the battlefield, noting the plaques and markers that told the story of snipers positions here and Army positions there and the numbered lost and injured. And then he sees the ribbons, some new and shiny fluttering from the tree branches, others from a time gone by, lying rotted and fading in the dust, beads and bullets scattered nearby. He writes (and I quote at length because I found it beautiful):
"A century collapses into this moment of ground, where generations of private celebration grew outward from one story. This square yard of pine duff bound a guest register that could never be tallied, only renewed, only inhabited by the night-faithful memory that walked in the form of the people. Twenty steps east from the tree with the ribbons a ton of granite, hewn to a block and polished, was carved with the story as the US Army had lived it through. That was one way to remember 1877: carve the truth in stone and draft a platoon of guardians, write books and print brochures and script slide shows and build a hall to house them all, then carve a trail with numbers like a tattoo on the hill...
...The books, the message on stone, the trail's configuration would all have to be revised by an act of will; the ribbons were either renewed or lost by the very nature of their fragility. Sun and rain destroyed them. Pine budded and grew. Flowers withered, and the ribbons.
Suddenly in the heat a kind of fear chilled me --fear about my fellowship with the sometimes acquisitive tribe of patriots named America. Even in small things, we wish to map our conquest of the planet and the past. My own childhood collections flickered through my mind: stamps, stones, leaves pressed in a Bible, insects stilled by cotton soaked with alcohol and pinned to styrofoam in a box. And arrowheads. Smoky obsidian and blood-red flint. Modern habit is to lay such things away safe behind glass, and I had learned that habit well. I knew how to lift each bead with tweezers, plot and take each bullet up, sift them all out from the dust and alter them from a part of the world to an illustration of it. Could I leave the bones of the story still, and carry only its breath away in my mouth? Or would I thread five beads on a pine needle souvenir, saying softly to myself no one would know them gone?"
(ribbons and feathers adorn the tree beside Chief Old Joseph's grave -Wallowa Lake, Oregon)
Monday, October 6, 2008
tamastslikt cultural institute
To break up the long, cramped road trip from Joseph to Portland (6 hours in a car exceeds my usual limit by approximately 5 hours), we decided to stop midway in Pendleton at the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute, a museum dedicated to the traditions and artifacts of the three primary tribes of the Eastern Columbia valley, the Cayuse, the Umatilla and the Walla Walla (http://www.tamastslikt.org/default.cfm). Plotted in the middle of nowhere and sharing acreage with a casino, we weren't sure what to expect, but we were pleasantly surprised to find a sophisticated and highly organized exhibit space.
The exhibit was organized simply as a time-line through history, and as one moved through the exhibit the artifacts, photographs and accompanying narrative reflected the changes that were taking place culturally. But what proved most effective was the way in which the exhibit changed structurally as one progressed. The earliest points in time, intending to reflect native life prior to the imposition of white culture, were loosely structured and open, featuring wide spaces mostly circular in shape. With the advent of US western expansion, we moved gradually into enclosed spaces, the first structure close, cramped and dark like a rustic trading post, then through a structure intended to represent a church (the history of the missions), and lastly, through a classroom space (coinciding with the history of mandated boarding school for native children). The effect of this physical transformation as we moved through the exhibit space was powerful. These external changes induced a deep empathy for the plight of these people as they slowly watched their culture erode and their wild, open lands disappear. We could feel their fear, sorrow and discomfort as we shuffled into the claustrophobic, boxy, rigid structures and away from the wide grassy plains and craggy hillsides that had previously defined their existence. It was altogether quite moving and rather discomfiting.
I should also note that I was most appreciative of the exhibits strict control. The narrative that accompanied each display was well written and to the point and the displays themselves were not cluttered and overdone. It seems that too many museums attempt to cover far too much material, which always leaves the visitor feeling slightly overwhelmed. I remember feeling this way at the Bob Dylan exhibit at the Walker in Minneapolis a few years back. Although I enjoyed that experience tremendously, it was quite simply an exercise in sensory overload -video, photographs, scraps of paper, detailed plaques, crammed display cases -so much information that I could absorb only a fraction unless I wanted to spend the entire day, which I did not. The Tamastslikt Cultural Institutes exhibit was classy, creative and moving. If you ever find yourself in Pendleton (rodeo, anyone?) and you're craving a bit of culture, I highly recommend a visit.
The exhibit was organized simply as a time-line through history, and as one moved through the exhibit the artifacts, photographs and accompanying narrative reflected the changes that were taking place culturally. But what proved most effective was the way in which the exhibit changed structurally as one progressed. The earliest points in time, intending to reflect native life prior to the imposition of white culture, were loosely structured and open, featuring wide spaces mostly circular in shape. With the advent of US western expansion, we moved gradually into enclosed spaces, the first structure close, cramped and dark like a rustic trading post, then through a structure intended to represent a church (the history of the missions), and lastly, through a classroom space (coinciding with the history of mandated boarding school for native children). The effect of this physical transformation as we moved through the exhibit space was powerful. These external changes induced a deep empathy for the plight of these people as they slowly watched their culture erode and their wild, open lands disappear. We could feel their fear, sorrow and discomfort as we shuffled into the claustrophobic, boxy, rigid structures and away from the wide grassy plains and craggy hillsides that had previously defined their existence. It was altogether quite moving and rather discomfiting.
I should also note that I was most appreciative of the exhibits strict control. The narrative that accompanied each display was well written and to the point and the displays themselves were not cluttered and overdone. It seems that too many museums attempt to cover far too much material, which always leaves the visitor feeling slightly overwhelmed. I remember feeling this way at the Bob Dylan exhibit at the Walker in Minneapolis a few years back. Although I enjoyed that experience tremendously, it was quite simply an exercise in sensory overload -video, photographs, scraps of paper, detailed plaques, crammed display cases -so much information that I could absorb only a fraction unless I wanted to spend the entire day, which I did not. The Tamastslikt Cultural Institutes exhibit was classy, creative and moving. If you ever find yourself in Pendleton (rodeo, anyone?) and you're craving a bit of culture, I highly recommend a visit.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
milkshake madness
I almost never indulge in anything as decadent as a milkshake, but when I do, it damn well better be a good one. So, today after being stuck in a car for 5 hours on the way home from Joseph, when my milkshake order was mixed up and I received a syrupy sweet strawberry imitation instead of a real fruit smoothie, I lost it. Down came the tears as I sucked the nasty concoction through a straw, trying my best to derive some cheer from the moment. But it was over –the pleasure of the moment was gone.
M looked over in bewilderment, “Are you crying?” He clicked off the radio. “What’s wrong?” And it was the same thing that is always wrong these days: I am left so few pleasures in life these 9 long, bloody months, if I order a goddamn milkshake I want to be able to enjoy it!
But in truth, it wasn’t the milkshake, it was being tired and carsick, it was dreading returning to work the following day, it was anxiety about how each calorie counts and the fact that a wasted crappy milkshake was one less milkshake I could enjoy in the months to come. I knew I was being infantile and I wondered secretly how much worse I would be come months 7-9. I thought back on the ice cube exercise and how far I had to go in terms of learning stress/pain management techniques (i.e. if a bad milkshake makes me cry, what is labor going to do to me?).
The tears subsided as quickly as they came. M put the radio back on and gripped my hand across the console. I hope my next milkshake is a good one.
M looked over in bewilderment, “Are you crying?” He clicked off the radio. “What’s wrong?” And it was the same thing that is always wrong these days: I am left so few pleasures in life these 9 long, bloody months, if I order a goddamn milkshake I want to be able to enjoy it!
But in truth, it wasn’t the milkshake, it was being tired and carsick, it was dreading returning to work the following day, it was anxiety about how each calorie counts and the fact that a wasted crappy milkshake was one less milkshake I could enjoy in the months to come. I knew I was being infantile and I wondered secretly how much worse I would be come months 7-9. I thought back on the ice cube exercise and how far I had to go in terms of learning stress/pain management techniques (i.e. if a bad milkshake makes me cry, what is labor going to do to me?).
The tears subsided as quickly as they came. M put the radio back on and gripped my hand across the console. I hope my next milkshake is a good one.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
hell's canyon
It drizzled steadily outside this morning as we enjoyed the delicious smell of soysauges and eggs frying on the stove in our little cabin. CNN blared on the television (we are suckers for 24-hour news channels) and the gas fireplace warmed the room as we packed the cooler and prepared our maps for the day ahead. Our plan was to head for Imnaha and then creep up a gravel road to Hat Point where we might catch panoramic vistas of the Snake River and Hell’s Canyon and maybe sneak in a hike along the ridge.
The rain let up as we rolled out of Joseph east towards Imnaha. At the recommendation of the fellow working the Joseph Chevron station, we stopped in at the tavern in Imnaha to inquire as to the condition of the road leading up to Hat Point. An old coot working the counter assured us the road was safe, excepting perhaps the first 5 miles which he promised were rather rough. And rough they were as our car hauled up the bumpy, rocky one-track winding road to the top of the ridge. We crawled 24 miles on gravel, although after the first 5 miles the travel eased a bit, winding through forests and along steep ledges overlooking the Imnaha Canyon to the West and Black and Bear Mountains to the south. Hat Point loomed ahead, shrouded in clouds. As we neared our destination it became clear that we were in for a serious disappointment. The watchtower situated atop the highest point was scarcely visible through the fog. We climbed the tower and peered out into the vast expanse of pure white, our rain jackets wrapped tight around our bodies to shield us from the whipping rain.
(the view from Hat Point)
We retreated to our car in grim defeat to peruse the maps and consider our options. We could wait around and hope for a clearing in the clouds, but time was short and we figured we would try our luck at another lookout about 35 miles to our south. So, we turned back and rumbled down the treacherous track to the valley, just as a thunderstorm roiled on the horizon. Lightening crashed round us and the rain came in sheets and I begged M to steer carefully as we wound our way off the mountain and back to level ground.
Back in Imnaha, we branched off onto yet another rough, stony road, this one taking us 30 miles or more south towards the alternate lookout. I grumbled and whined, never one for long car rides, I had not imagined spending day 2 in the Wallowa’s cooped up in the car. 30 miles is nothing on pavement, but on dirt it takes a good hour to navigate. Add to this my poor pregnant belly was completely empty as it rounded on 2pm. Anyone who’s been pregnant knows that ignoring the urge to eat when hungry leads to nothing but misery for anyone within 10 yards of said pregnant woman, to say nothing of the misery the woman feels. Poor M bore my bad attitude with stoicism. We just needed to get somewhere. Anywhere.
At long last we reached our destination. The clouds were on hiatus temporarily and gave us a tiny glimpse of the grandeur for which we’d suffered these many hours: Hell’s Canyon. But I had only one thing in mind, and that was making myself a hearty sandwich. M took a few photos from the lookout point while I cracked the cooler and dug in. By the time my lunch break was over, the clouds were moving in again and destroying the view for which we’d worked so hard. My hunger sated, I cheered up and took in the waning view. The wind was fierce and chill rains began to fall again. We decided to give up our hiking plans and instead opted to retreat back to civilization. M joked that many people claim to enjoy a day spent driving through lovely scenery. I would like to know if those people a) are driving on nauseatingly bumpy gravel roads and, b) are pregnant. Because if so, I think they’re lying.
The rain let up as we rolled out of Joseph east towards Imnaha. At the recommendation of the fellow working the Joseph Chevron station, we stopped in at the tavern in Imnaha to inquire as to the condition of the road leading up to Hat Point. An old coot working the counter assured us the road was safe, excepting perhaps the first 5 miles which he promised were rather rough. And rough they were as our car hauled up the bumpy, rocky one-track winding road to the top of the ridge. We crawled 24 miles on gravel, although after the first 5 miles the travel eased a bit, winding through forests and along steep ledges overlooking the Imnaha Canyon to the West and Black and Bear Mountains to the south. Hat Point loomed ahead, shrouded in clouds. As we neared our destination it became clear that we were in for a serious disappointment. The watchtower situated atop the highest point was scarcely visible through the fog. We climbed the tower and peered out into the vast expanse of pure white, our rain jackets wrapped tight around our bodies to shield us from the whipping rain.
(the view from Hat Point)
We retreated to our car in grim defeat to peruse the maps and consider our options. We could wait around and hope for a clearing in the clouds, but time was short and we figured we would try our luck at another lookout about 35 miles to our south. So, we turned back and rumbled down the treacherous track to the valley, just as a thunderstorm roiled on the horizon. Lightening crashed round us and the rain came in sheets and I begged M to steer carefully as we wound our way off the mountain and back to level ground.
Back in Imnaha, we branched off onto yet another rough, stony road, this one taking us 30 miles or more south towards the alternate lookout. I grumbled and whined, never one for long car rides, I had not imagined spending day 2 in the Wallowa’s cooped up in the car. 30 miles is nothing on pavement, but on dirt it takes a good hour to navigate. Add to this my poor pregnant belly was completely empty as it rounded on 2pm. Anyone who’s been pregnant knows that ignoring the urge to eat when hungry leads to nothing but misery for anyone within 10 yards of said pregnant woman, to say nothing of the misery the woman feels. Poor M bore my bad attitude with stoicism. We just needed to get somewhere. Anywhere.
At long last we reached our destination. The clouds were on hiatus temporarily and gave us a tiny glimpse of the grandeur for which we’d suffered these many hours: Hell’s Canyon. But I had only one thing in mind, and that was making myself a hearty sandwich. M took a few photos from the lookout point while I cracked the cooler and dug in. By the time my lunch break was over, the clouds were moving in again and destroying the view for which we’d worked so hard. My hunger sated, I cheered up and took in the waning view. The wind was fierce and chill rains began to fall again. We decided to give up our hiking plans and instead opted to retreat back to civilization. M joked that many people claim to enjoy a day spent driving through lovely scenery. I would like to know if those people a) are driving on nauseatingly bumpy gravel roads and, b) are pregnant. Because if so, I think they’re lying.
Friday, October 3, 2008
hurricane creek
I am an unapologetic backseat driver. I am terrified of dying in a car and so in order to avoid the likelihood, I annoy M (and anyone else behind the wheel) by advising constantly on speed, turn signal usage, following distance and the like. I justify this behavior by reminding M (or whoever will listen) that there have indeed been instances, however rare, when my startling gasps have saved us from a near miss. More often than not, these near-shrieks are simply frightening and attend to no immediate danger, but I will remain vigilant nonetheless.
Now M is what we like to call a backseat hiker. His harping has grown particularly more acute now that I am carrying his first born son. I admit I am off a bit off kilter, owing to my growing girth up front. As we trek along, through forests and over hills, M walks behind me warning me to be careful over the stony parts, to go slow on the descent and occasionally, over particularly treacherous bits, he’ll grab my arm tight and hold on for dear life, as though without him I might hurl myself over a cliff and to my death. It strikes me as sweet, although a bit silly.
Today he was in good backseat hiker form as we crawled out of the forest and along the ledges of Slick Rock at Hurricane Creek. We were lucky to stumble on this fabulous destination, since it wasn’t in our initial travel plans. But during a brief visit to a bronze art gallery in Joseph this afternoon, we met a local who tipped us off to a hidden hike deep into the canyons of the Eagle Cap Wilderness.
The forest here is distinct from those of the West. Gone are the verdant ferns and spongy moss that carpet the floor of the forests of the Willamette Valley and soggy Cascades. This forest was more like the seasonal forests of the east –the Northern Minnesota forests of my childhood. Quaking aspen glowed pale yellow and shimmered in the breeze and the ponderosa pines released their lemony scent into the air. Downed trees littered the canyon floor and we puzzled at the cause. We speculated that Hurricane Creek takes its name from gale force winds that blow down the canyon, and it was a mite windy during our excursion. We learned in later reading that the trees are knocked down by annual avalanches.
We hiked in rather late in the afternoon, and reached our destination just as the light began to fade. With a 2+ mile return trip, we couldn’t linger but we dearly wanted to. Slick Rock was an amazing sight. Water trickled from high up on the mountain, sliding down the face and at the base, cutting a deep cavern through the granite. The gray granite peaks of the Sacajawea and the Matterhorn mountains towered 9,000 feet above the trail, dwarfing the rest of the landscape. They don’t call the Wallowa’s “Oregon’s Alps” for nothing.
The winds picked up and dark clouds rolled in as we turned our backs on the brilliance of the scene and started for the trailhead at a quicker clip than that which brought us in. My legs were tired (we’d done a series of hikes that morning also) and my gait grew sloppy and I stumbled on the descent. Thankfully, M was there behind me as ever, ready to direct my stride and advise me on how best to navigate the dangers of the trail.
Now M is what we like to call a backseat hiker. His harping has grown particularly more acute now that I am carrying his first born son. I admit I am off a bit off kilter, owing to my growing girth up front. As we trek along, through forests and over hills, M walks behind me warning me to be careful over the stony parts, to go slow on the descent and occasionally, over particularly treacherous bits, he’ll grab my arm tight and hold on for dear life, as though without him I might hurl myself over a cliff and to my death. It strikes me as sweet, although a bit silly.
Today he was in good backseat hiker form as we crawled out of the forest and along the ledges of Slick Rock at Hurricane Creek. We were lucky to stumble on this fabulous destination, since it wasn’t in our initial travel plans. But during a brief visit to a bronze art gallery in Joseph this afternoon, we met a local who tipped us off to a hidden hike deep into the canyons of the Eagle Cap Wilderness.
The forest here is distinct from those of the West. Gone are the verdant ferns and spongy moss that carpet the floor of the forests of the Willamette Valley and soggy Cascades. This forest was more like the seasonal forests of the east –the Northern Minnesota forests of my childhood. Quaking aspen glowed pale yellow and shimmered in the breeze and the ponderosa pines released their lemony scent into the air. Downed trees littered the canyon floor and we puzzled at the cause. We speculated that Hurricane Creek takes its name from gale force winds that blow down the canyon, and it was a mite windy during our excursion. We learned in later reading that the trees are knocked down by annual avalanches.
We hiked in rather late in the afternoon, and reached our destination just as the light began to fade. With a 2+ mile return trip, we couldn’t linger but we dearly wanted to. Slick Rock was an amazing sight. Water trickled from high up on the mountain, sliding down the face and at the base, cutting a deep cavern through the granite. The gray granite peaks of the Sacajawea and the Matterhorn mountains towered 9,000 feet above the trail, dwarfing the rest of the landscape. They don’t call the Wallowa’s “Oregon’s Alps” for nothing.
The winds picked up and dark clouds rolled in as we turned our backs on the brilliance of the scene and started for the trailhead at a quicker clip than that which brought us in. My legs were tired (we’d done a series of hikes that morning also) and my gait grew sloppy and I stumbled on the descent. Thankfully, M was there behind me as ever, ready to direct my stride and advise me on how best to navigate the dangers of the trail.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
escape to wallowa lake
A dear friend sent a card about a week ago in which she congratulated me on my pregnancy and implored me to take full advantage of my waning freedom by traveling as much as possible. She has 2 small boys and knows well how difficult and exhausting it is to get out of town. M and I took her at her word and a mere two weeks following our adventures in John Day, we plotted yet another escape –this time to Wallowa Lake and Hell’s Canyon.
We departed Portland on time for a change (I’ll note that M had his car serviced early last week in preparation –so, you can teach an old dog new tricks after all!) and headed out of town just as the Vice Presidential debate kicked off. We spent the 6 hour trip glued to public radio, dialing through the stations when we would move out of range, listening to the debates and then the after math as the pundits and public weighed in. We rolled into Joseph, Oregon just before midnight and settled into our cozy cabin at Wallowa Lake Resort, a modest resort just a short walk from the shores of the lake. We opted for a cabin this go-around (instead of our usual cheap and sleazy motel) because we knew that in early October the chances for rain were high. Should it piss rain in true Oregon style, we knew we’d be glad for something a little more spacious with cooking facilities where we wouldn’t mind hanging out for hours if need be. I hope we don’t wind up stuck indoors, but if we do this is a decent place to wile away the hours.
We departed Portland on time for a change (I’ll note that M had his car serviced early last week in preparation –so, you can teach an old dog new tricks after all!) and headed out of town just as the Vice Presidential debate kicked off. We spent the 6 hour trip glued to public radio, dialing through the stations when we would move out of range, listening to the debates and then the after math as the pundits and public weighed in. We rolled into Joseph, Oregon just before midnight and settled into our cozy cabin at Wallowa Lake Resort, a modest resort just a short walk from the shores of the lake. We opted for a cabin this go-around (instead of our usual cheap and sleazy motel) because we knew that in early October the chances for rain were high. Should it piss rain in true Oregon style, we knew we’d be glad for something a little more spacious with cooking facilities where we wouldn’t mind hanging out for hours if need be. I hope we don’t wind up stuck indoors, but if we do this is a decent place to wile away the hours.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
facing the facts
I’ve been thinking a lot these last few days about March 6th and what that fateful day will look like. Up until recently, I’d studiously avoided any thought that hinted of labor and child birth. It just seemed much too early in the game to consider, and as I struggled to get through each work day without retching or falling asleep, I could not countenance meditation on additional pain and suffering. But now that I have eased into the glowing, relaxed middle trimester, and as the baby grows and starts to show himself, I have found myself curious about just how he plans to make his escape.
A trip to Powell’s Books, my local library and a good friend’s bookshelf yielded three books that I have begun studying in bits and pieces: Birthing from Within by Pam England and Rob Horowitz, Active Birth: The New Approach to Giving Birth Naturally by Janet Balaskas and Dr. Robert Bradley’s Husband Coached Childbirth.
Bradley’s book is the only I haven’t cracked yet. To my thinking, M should give this a gander and see if it is something he is up for -if so, perhaps I will consider it. But I’ll note that I have mild reservations about being “coached” by anyone with a penis at this most woman-centered moment, but that is for another blog post.
The midwives at OHSU recommended Birthing from Within, and in fact suggested I take a class patterned after the text. I figured I would give the book a once over before I signed up for a class I may or not appreciate. I confess I am not overly impressed with the method thus far. The thrust is a very artistic, emotional, therapeutic one. Classes are largely consumed with doing birth art, whereby the women and their partners are encouraged to draw or sculpt their ideas of pregnancy and birth. The theory is that through art the woman will come face to face with her deepest held fears and beliefs about childbirth and in facing these demons she will be better able to exorcise them. The truth is, I find this sort of public expression of emotion rather embarrassing, and I suspect I might spend the class time more concerned with the quality of art I am producing than with how near I am growing to the heart of my emotions concerning childbirth.
Despite these downsides, there was one exercise that the book suggested that intrigued me. In the Birthing from Within classes, participants are told to grip a chunk of ice tight in their fists. According to the author, the dull, piercing, unceasing, shooting pain of the cold mirrors in part the steady ache of a contraction. While gripping the ice, participants are encouraged to employ various relaxation techniques taught during the class. As the class progresses, the participants are made to hold the ice for longer and longer interims, all the while struggling with mind over matter. M and I tried the ice trick, each of us cringing and miserable as the pain of the brutal cold shot up our arms. I tried breathing deeply, yoga-style. M held his hand over the sink as his ice cube slowly melted, gritting his teeth. I tossed my ice cube early and hurriedly squeezed the life back into my hand. M held tight to his for a moment longer, toughing it out like a guy. I told him that I wish he could have the baby for me.
But of all the books, the one I’ve appreciated most so far is Active Birth. The book is replete with gritty details and chock full of scary photographs of women in various positions and phases of childbirth. There is nothing fluffy, emotional or new-age about the approach, just basic, down-to-earth instructions for what to expect and how to position the body for maximum relief. Reading this text, I felt empowered and capable to tackle the experience. I saw labor as earthy and real instead of ethereal and spiritual. I do not doubt that giving birth is a frightening and painful experience, but I am looking forward to getting through it safely and I will be proud of myself if I can manage it with minimal unnecessary intervention.
One of the most interesting and intimidating tidbits was when the author described the phase of birth called the “transition.” Apparently, this is the interlude between the hard labor phase during which the cervix is slowly dilating and the phase when the woman is compelled to push the baby out. The text describes a brief pause in the process, a cessation of contractions and steady pain as the body shifts gears and prepares for the hard work ahead. The transition is described as the most terrifying aspect of the entire birth. Many women feel as though they are unable to proceed, or, more frighteningly, that they are going to die. Shaking, vomiting, confusion, and panic attacks are all common sensations associated with this phase. Here is a passage I found particularly interesting:
This irrational fear is sometimes not even conscious. Dr. Michel Odent calls is “physiological fear”; he believes that this fear just before giving birth has a useful function in raising the level of adrenaline…He believes the attendants should not overly reassure or disturb the mother at this stage. In his observations, if she is left more or less alone to experience this fear, a quick and efficient expulsive reflex usually follows (pg 129).
There is something so curious and horrible about ushering in a new life while simultaneously feeling vividly as though one’s own life is about to expire. And the thought of being left utterly alone with this emotion sounds terrifying, although I cannot imagine suffering it in the company of others either. But the truth is, everyone faces death alone, no matter who is close at hand. I suppose facing the fear of death is no different.
All told, I have clearly got a lot of reading and studying before me, especially if my response to the ice trick is any indication of where I stand in terms of readiness. But another part of me figures I will never be ready, no matter how I prepare. As M likes to joke, having a baby is the biggest science experiment we’ll ever conduct. Unfortunately, my body is the crucible.
A trip to Powell’s Books, my local library and a good friend’s bookshelf yielded three books that I have begun studying in bits and pieces: Birthing from Within by Pam England and Rob Horowitz, Active Birth: The New Approach to Giving Birth Naturally by Janet Balaskas and Dr. Robert Bradley’s Husband Coached Childbirth.
Bradley’s book is the only I haven’t cracked yet. To my thinking, M should give this a gander and see if it is something he is up for -if so, perhaps I will consider it. But I’ll note that I have mild reservations about being “coached” by anyone with a penis at this most woman-centered moment, but that is for another blog post.
The midwives at OHSU recommended Birthing from Within, and in fact suggested I take a class patterned after the text. I figured I would give the book a once over before I signed up for a class I may or not appreciate. I confess I am not overly impressed with the method thus far. The thrust is a very artistic, emotional, therapeutic one. Classes are largely consumed with doing birth art, whereby the women and their partners are encouraged to draw or sculpt their ideas of pregnancy and birth. The theory is that through art the woman will come face to face with her deepest held fears and beliefs about childbirth and in facing these demons she will be better able to exorcise them. The truth is, I find this sort of public expression of emotion rather embarrassing, and I suspect I might spend the class time more concerned with the quality of art I am producing than with how near I am growing to the heart of my emotions concerning childbirth.
Despite these downsides, there was one exercise that the book suggested that intrigued me. In the Birthing from Within classes, participants are told to grip a chunk of ice tight in their fists. According to the author, the dull, piercing, unceasing, shooting pain of the cold mirrors in part the steady ache of a contraction. While gripping the ice, participants are encouraged to employ various relaxation techniques taught during the class. As the class progresses, the participants are made to hold the ice for longer and longer interims, all the while struggling with mind over matter. M and I tried the ice trick, each of us cringing and miserable as the pain of the brutal cold shot up our arms. I tried breathing deeply, yoga-style. M held his hand over the sink as his ice cube slowly melted, gritting his teeth. I tossed my ice cube early and hurriedly squeezed the life back into my hand. M held tight to his for a moment longer, toughing it out like a guy. I told him that I wish he could have the baby for me.
But of all the books, the one I’ve appreciated most so far is Active Birth. The book is replete with gritty details and chock full of scary photographs of women in various positions and phases of childbirth. There is nothing fluffy, emotional or new-age about the approach, just basic, down-to-earth instructions for what to expect and how to position the body for maximum relief. Reading this text, I felt empowered and capable to tackle the experience. I saw labor as earthy and real instead of ethereal and spiritual. I do not doubt that giving birth is a frightening and painful experience, but I am looking forward to getting through it safely and I will be proud of myself if I can manage it with minimal unnecessary intervention.
One of the most interesting and intimidating tidbits was when the author described the phase of birth called the “transition.” Apparently, this is the interlude between the hard labor phase during which the cervix is slowly dilating and the phase when the woman is compelled to push the baby out. The text describes a brief pause in the process, a cessation of contractions and steady pain as the body shifts gears and prepares for the hard work ahead. The transition is described as the most terrifying aspect of the entire birth. Many women feel as though they are unable to proceed, or, more frighteningly, that they are going to die. Shaking, vomiting, confusion, and panic attacks are all common sensations associated with this phase. Here is a passage I found particularly interesting:
This irrational fear is sometimes not even conscious. Dr. Michel Odent calls is “physiological fear”; he believes that this fear just before giving birth has a useful function in raising the level of adrenaline…He believes the attendants should not overly reassure or disturb the mother at this stage. In his observations, if she is left more or less alone to experience this fear, a quick and efficient expulsive reflex usually follows (pg 129).
There is something so curious and horrible about ushering in a new life while simultaneously feeling vividly as though one’s own life is about to expire. And the thought of being left utterly alone with this emotion sounds terrifying, although I cannot imagine suffering it in the company of others either. But the truth is, everyone faces death alone, no matter who is close at hand. I suppose facing the fear of death is no different.
All told, I have clearly got a lot of reading and studying before me, especially if my response to the ice trick is any indication of where I stand in terms of readiness. But another part of me figures I will never be ready, no matter how I prepare. As M likes to joke, having a baby is the biggest science experiment we’ll ever conduct. Unfortunately, my body is the crucible.
Friday, September 26, 2008
the new man in my life
We had another appointment with the scary Finnish Perinatal specialist this morning (I say scary, because he was very alarmist at our last screening and suggested our child may have a heart defect –which is why we returned for this appointment today). So, once again, I found myself in a darkened room with slime on my belly and a leaping image on the screen before me. The baby had grown tremendously since the last time we met, no longer a soft human-like blob, he had grown fatter and his features had begun to develop. In fact, the doctor informed us that according to the measurements he is a full week and ½ ahead of schedule (“He’s already weeks ahead of the other kids,” M bragged in jest, warming up for his future proud-father role). He squirmed and rolled all the while we watched him. The doctor asked if I had felt any movement yet, and when I answered in the negative, he assured me that I would soon since the boy was a bundle of wild energy. His frantic movements allowed us to peak at all his bits and pieces, his adorable profile, his tiny rump (as he pushed his bum in the air and curled face down), his genitalia, which was unmistakably male. At one point he actually waved at us as we stared straight into his little alien skull-face. The technician giggled as we both marveled at the coincidence. She snapped a photo at that instant.
And so, it’s official: I’m outnumbered. We’re having a boy. I greeted the news with joy, relief and a few reservations. I grew up with a sister and know nothing about the world of boys (my brother left home when I was five). And yet, the thought of being adored by a little man (instead of being loathed by a teenaged daughter) sounds like a refreshing change from the parent-child relationship with which I am most familiar. A friend of mine who has a 4-year-old boy remarked in jest that mothering a boy is like getting to raise small version of your husband. I like the thought, but hope I can avoid the creepy mother-son relationship that proves the bane of so many poor daughters-in-law, myself included. But that is what we call putting the cart before the horse…As another dear friend says, you don’t just wind up with a teenage son, you get an infant first, then a toddler, then an 8-year-old and so on. You have plenty of time to warm up before the game gets difficult….or more difficult, as the case may be.
And so, it’s official: I’m outnumbered. We’re having a boy. I greeted the news with joy, relief and a few reservations. I grew up with a sister and know nothing about the world of boys (my brother left home when I was five). And yet, the thought of being adored by a little man (instead of being loathed by a teenaged daughter) sounds like a refreshing change from the parent-child relationship with which I am most familiar. A friend of mine who has a 4-year-old boy remarked in jest that mothering a boy is like getting to raise small version of your husband. I like the thought, but hope I can avoid the creepy mother-son relationship that proves the bane of so many poor daughters-in-law, myself included. But that is what we call putting the cart before the horse…As another dear friend says, you don’t just wind up with a teenage son, you get an infant first, then a toddler, then an 8-year-old and so on. You have plenty of time to warm up before the game gets difficult….or more difficult, as the case may be.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
a word about fossil
Visiting Fossil Oregon brought up feelings that reminded me of those I had while traveling abroad, especially insofar as I felt like a stranger in a strange land. In a town of 430 people, it is hard not to stick out like a sore thumb. As we wandered the quiet streets in the evenings, the good people of Fossil stared at us from the windows of passing pickups and from their front porches -and they always waved. Over greasy but decent breakfasts each morning at one of the town's only cafes, we eavesdropped as local gossip spread from table to table with lightening speed. A table full of old rednecks flirted with the middle aged waitress by irritatingly ringing a bell every time they required a warm up. She went along good-naturedly, but M speculated that she must hate those bastards -and they probably do that every single morning. At a pub one night, a crew of young folks ambled in, one wearing a black broad-brimmed cowboy hat, the sleeves cut off of his shirt. The only girl in the group giggled and clung to her boyfriend's arm. I hoped for the poor thing's sake she could keep herself from getting pregnant, especially if she harbored dreams of ever leaving this god-forsaken place. The boy in the black hat noticed my eyes upon him and tipped his hat courteously in my direction. I was glad we hadn't put the Obama sticker on the car just yet.
Fossil's claim to fame is not only it's proximity to the great paleontological finds to the south and east. An old lake bed behind the town's high school holds a treasure trove of fossils, and anyone with a trowel, a bucket and a little patience can try their hand at locating some to keep. Unfortunately, we were too busy seeing the more dramatic sites and never got to take a trip behind the school. M and I wondered if the Christian churches in Fossil preached the ridiculous notion that the earth was created only 4,000 years ago, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary lying in their own back yards. I would be surprised if that were so, but then again, maybe not. I was reminded of comedian Bill Hicks' joke that God planted the dinosaur bones on earth just to test our faith -that somehow God is just fucking with us.
What made our visit even more interesting was that an old acquaintance from high school once lived in Fossil. When he found out I was planning a visit (those facebook status statements have a way of getting around) he offered all sorts of helpful advise on what to see and where to go. He even suggested a few out-of-the-way hikes that you won't find in any tourist brochures. And in a way only possible in 2008 with the miracles of wi-fi, facebook, and gmail, he served as our day-by-day tour guide all the way from his current residence in Sweden. I felt as though by imagining his past experiences with the place, we were able to put a more human face on the people and places that we encountered in and around Fossil. I felt I was better able to appreciate the place, being able to see it through someone else's eyes.
Fossil's claim to fame is not only it's proximity to the great paleontological finds to the south and east. An old lake bed behind the town's high school holds a treasure trove of fossils, and anyone with a trowel, a bucket and a little patience can try their hand at locating some to keep. Unfortunately, we were too busy seeing the more dramatic sites and never got to take a trip behind the school. M and I wondered if the Christian churches in Fossil preached the ridiculous notion that the earth was created only 4,000 years ago, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary lying in their own back yards. I would be surprised if that were so, but then again, maybe not. I was reminded of comedian Bill Hicks' joke that God planted the dinosaur bones on earth just to test our faith -that somehow God is just fucking with us.
What made our visit even more interesting was that an old acquaintance from high school once lived in Fossil. When he found out I was planning a visit (those facebook status statements have a way of getting around) he offered all sorts of helpful advise on what to see and where to go. He even suggested a few out-of-the-way hikes that you won't find in any tourist brochures. And in a way only possible in 2008 with the miracles of wi-fi, facebook, and gmail, he served as our day-by-day tour guide all the way from his current residence in Sweden. I felt as though by imagining his past experiences with the place, we were able to put a more human face on the people and places that we encountered in and around Fossil. I felt I was better able to appreciate the place, being able to see it through someone else's eyes.
Friday, September 12, 2008
john day fossil beds -sheep rock unit
We hit the highway and headed east towards the brilliant morning sun (after the requisite stop for a tire patch). Just past the Columbia Gorge the steep cliffs flattened out and rounded off and turned into hills and the damp green dried up and was replaced by sage. We turned south and inland towards the center of Oregon somewhere around a backwater along the Columbia called Arlington, Oregon. We pulled off for gas and I heard the attendant asking a local where they were headed, the car all gassed up and ready to go, "Shopping?" "To the doctor," the local replied and the car rolled up the ramp and onto the freeway, likely heading an hour west to The Dalles. It seemed strangely foreign to live in a place where a visit to the doctor involved a road trip.
The John Day Highway, or Highway #19, twisted about wildly, wending through mysterious fields, past windmill farms, diving head-long into the heart of Oregon. We passed towns so small they scarcely warranted being called towns, -maybe hamlets? -or settlements? -a few sticks cobbled together to form shacks, maybe a crumbling silo or two? Like the town of Olex, named after a fellow named Alex but somehow misspelled in a turn-of-the-century game of operator. Or Clem, a dusty, dead place that was likely quite happening at one time, fixed as it was at the junction of several well-travelled roads. M drove and I leaned out the car window, snapping blurry photos of red barns and verdant hillsides and the wheat fields, golden and eternal in the sunshine. It was no time before we wound our way into the town of Fossil, the site of our motel and our base of operation for the coming two days.
The Fossil Motel and RV Park seemed a friendly enough place, although a bit scabby and worn. The town was bedraggled and silent, like every other town we'd seen along the way, but with 430 inhabitants, it was not entirely lifeless. We stopped only to fetch keys and say hello -it was noon and we still had miles to go to Sheep Rock, the furthest east unit of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument.
We pulled into the parking lot at the James Cant ranch, an historic 1918 homestead nestled in the shadow of Sheep Rock, and a ranger ambled down the path from the house to greet us. Travelling in autumn has it's perks -we were the only ones there. He pointed out the highlights, and invited us to pick fruit in the orchards in back. We unloaded our bounteous picnic provisions and settled in to enjoy a quick lunch and a meander about the property.
The Cant Ranch was a vibrant sheep operation at the turn of the century, and the cavernous barn and rusty implements of the trade were still scattered about and remained rather well-preserved. The orchards dated from that time as well. One apple tree had been brutally hacked back some time past, but in a sign of careful tending and gentle restoration, a slender, young start burst, heavy with fruit, from out of the hoary, shrunken stump. The bright scent of sage and juniper tingled our noses as we enjoyed the quiet of the afternoon.
Just around the bend from the Cant Ranch stands the Thomas Condon Paleontology Center, the primary visitor center for the National Monument. We popped in for a visit and took in the exhibits featuring the fossils of creatures seen only in dreams and sci-fi films. 40 million years worth of evolving creatures crawled across the face of Oregon and left their bits and pieces behind for us to puzzle out the meaning of their strange, terrible lives. According to fossil records and the best guesses of science, central Oregon's deserts were at one time a vast tropical forest. The ancestral Cascade Range rose up only later to block the rainy, coastal weather (to the great delight of us soggy Portlanders on whom the rains now fall), leaving the steppe behind it as dry as a bone. But in those rainy years, Entelodants, or "terminator pigs" as they like to call them at the Condon Center, roamed around with their out sized heads and giant scooper teeth, at home in the company of the ancient ancestors of horses, rhinos, and elephants (gomphotheres). The mountains rose up and then crumbled over time. Giant fissures opened in the surface of the earth and basalt lava poured across the lands, devouring everything all at once and preserving it forever in stone.
We left the center staggering under the bizarre weight of history. This place, it's strange rolling hillsides and craggy red outcroppings held mysteries locked fast in each stone. We stopped for a hike at the Blue Basin, our last stop before calling it a day. The sun was slowly drifting in the west, casting a haunting, sidelong light on everything. Steep chalky, sea-green colored cliffs rose up all around us as we wandered among the rocks and up the side of the hill. The ascent was intense and the evening light pierced our eyes as we climbed in and out of the shadows of the cliffs. We paused at the top and took in the vast measure of the valley below, stretching out far to the setting sun in the west. Nothing interfered with the distant vision and it felt like we could see forever.
We crept down and out of the cliffs, back to the car and raced back up the road to Fossil and to bed. But we felt changed, however modestly, by the sites of the day -the frighteningly huge distances of both space and time that stretched our imaginations to the breaking point. I could tell it was going to be a great weekend.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
man's man
Our big trip got off this evening to a halting start. After work, we rushed about the house, packed the car to the gills and headed towards the freeway and out of town. M recalled at the last moment that the tire had suffered a slow leak in the preceding weeks and declared that he really ought to check the levels before we find ourselves halfway to nowhere with a flat. We pulled into a Shell station, checked the air and noted that it was perilously low. It was too late for a fix -all the shops were closed an hour past -but M assured me that the tire was leaking slowly, so we might be able to make the 4 hour drive and find a place to repair the tire on the morning after. Wary, but trusting, we roared towards the Columbia Gorge and just before we entered the scenic area the car's "Low Pressure" light started blinking it's frantic warning, so we turned around pronto and headed for home, defeated and irritable.
So much for a late night arrival and early morning hikes in the crisp desert air. We would have to overnight at home and get the tire repaired the following morning, delaying our trip by 12 hours or so. I was disproportionately crushed, considering the seriousness of the situation (pregnancy can do strange things to you), and upon arriving home I promptly locked myself in the bathroom and bawled like an infant. I had been working so hard of late and so rarely do I take a day off work, to lose but a few hours of freedom and fun seemed devastating. Poor M felt like a heel. And I didn't do much to let him off, I confess. But the truth is, he's just not much of a car guy and these sorts of things repeatedly escape him.
I remember when M and I first hooked up, I got an incredulous interrogation from my father concerning M's man's-man credentials: "Doesn't he know how to change the oil? -How about fixin' a flat? -Hasn't he ever operated a miter saw? -ever worked a garden?" Enthralled with M's lofty and high flown traits (compared especially with those of my father) -- his intelligence, grace, and sensitivity -- I retorted: "Can you play guitar? -ever try to read ancient Greek? -How are your UNIX skills?" He shut up awfully quick.
Since those days, my dad has come to love M like a son, but I still think he wonders how on earth we're getting by out here, alone in the wild west, without a grease monkey on hand. The one time my family came to visit several years back, my dad went to work around the house, fixing the sagging gutter and changing the seal on the toilet (with his bare hands, at that!). He worked tirelessly as if to take care of all the business my wonderful but delinquent husband left undone.
And I admit that tonight I wished for a fraction of a second that M had just a tiny bit of my father in him. But when M got teary eyed and swore that he was sorry and that he "ruined everything" I felt bad for making such a crazy-pregnant-lady scene. I hugged away his awful, sinking feeling, and we ordered Thai food and made a fun night of it after all.
And tomorrow we're off...I think...
So much for a late night arrival and early morning hikes in the crisp desert air. We would have to overnight at home and get the tire repaired the following morning, delaying our trip by 12 hours or so. I was disproportionately crushed, considering the seriousness of the situation (pregnancy can do strange things to you), and upon arriving home I promptly locked myself in the bathroom and bawled like an infant. I had been working so hard of late and so rarely do I take a day off work, to lose but a few hours of freedom and fun seemed devastating. Poor M felt like a heel. And I didn't do much to let him off, I confess. But the truth is, he's just not much of a car guy and these sorts of things repeatedly escape him.
I remember when M and I first hooked up, I got an incredulous interrogation from my father concerning M's man's-man credentials: "Doesn't he know how to change the oil? -How about fixin' a flat? -Hasn't he ever operated a miter saw? -ever worked a garden?" Enthralled with M's lofty and high flown traits (compared especially with those of my father) -- his intelligence, grace, and sensitivity -- I retorted: "Can you play guitar? -ever try to read ancient Greek? -How are your UNIX skills?" He shut up awfully quick.
Since those days, my dad has come to love M like a son, but I still think he wonders how on earth we're getting by out here, alone in the wild west, without a grease monkey on hand. The one time my family came to visit several years back, my dad went to work around the house, fixing the sagging gutter and changing the seal on the toilet (with his bare hands, at that!). He worked tirelessly as if to take care of all the business my wonderful but delinquent husband left undone.
And I admit that tonight I wished for a fraction of a second that M had just a tiny bit of my father in him. But when M got teary eyed and swore that he was sorry and that he "ruined everything" I felt bad for making such a crazy-pregnant-lady scene. I hugged away his awful, sinking feeling, and we ordered Thai food and made a fun night of it after all.
And tomorrow we're off...I think...
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
birthday
Tonight we celebrated M's 32nd birthday in our usual understated way. We walked several miles through the neighborhoods to our favorite pizza shop, Apizza Scholls. We've been coming here since the place opened on Hawthorne a few years back and every now and again we get the royal treatment. Tonight I remarked that it was M's birthday and we were ushered past the hoards (who'd likely waited hours) to a perch at the bar. We ordered up and I took tiny sips of M's pale ale while we waited for the hot, salty pie to come out of the oven.
M said he is thankful that we are able to take pleasure in the small things in life -the regular, every day happiness that sometimes gets passed over in the search for a more glamorous life. I don't want a more glamorous life. I seconded his praise, smiling my agreement. We are both so incredibly lucky to have found each other.
We talked about how this pregnancy separates us a little, more than we are accustomed (we work together, for crying out loud!). Parenting is going to be a profoundly different experience for each of us, and while we can share in it and appreciate one another, we will not be able to fully comprehend each other's point of view. It is already a different thing for me. From day one, my life changed in radical ways. I cannot ignore the change that has come -not the change that is coming -it is already here for me. I told him I will be glad when he can place his palms on my belly and feel the baby moving. It will be one way for him to walk beside me on my journey.
We finished our dinner, wrapped the leftovers and spilled out onto Hawthorne full and contented. We ambled up to 7/11 for a chocolate bar and raced back to catch the #14 home to Felony Flats. Now we're off to bed, eager for the adventures that await us this weekend (we are leaving tomorrow to spend two days hiking around the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument). Until then...
M said he is thankful that we are able to take pleasure in the small things in life -the regular, every day happiness that sometimes gets passed over in the search for a more glamorous life. I don't want a more glamorous life. I seconded his praise, smiling my agreement. We are both so incredibly lucky to have found each other.
We talked about how this pregnancy separates us a little, more than we are accustomed (we work together, for crying out loud!). Parenting is going to be a profoundly different experience for each of us, and while we can share in it and appreciate one another, we will not be able to fully comprehend each other's point of view. It is already a different thing for me. From day one, my life changed in radical ways. I cannot ignore the change that has come -not the change that is coming -it is already here for me. I told him I will be glad when he can place his palms on my belly and feel the baby moving. It will be one way for him to walk beside me on my journey.
We finished our dinner, wrapped the leftovers and spilled out onto Hawthorne full and contented. We ambled up to 7/11 for a chocolate bar and raced back to catch the #14 home to Felony Flats. Now we're off to bed, eager for the adventures that await us this weekend (we are leaving tomorrow to spend two days hiking around the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument). Until then...
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
tenterhooks
I seem to have developed a disturbing inability take a joke. Particularly jokes about whether or not I'll be a good mother. A few months ago, I think I might have gone along, jolly enough, taking the piss out of myself for a laugh. Not so these days. Anger lurks just beneath the surface and any hint at criticism brings a burst of startling rage. Poor M has been the victim of a few rather fiery eruptions.
I tried to explain to him that I have been listening to a constant inner monologue all the while I've been pregnant. It never ceases, it only waxes and wanes in intensity. My thoughts toss back and forth between joy, terror, anxiety, tenderness and sometimes they all come upon me at once in a mad rush. The raw, naked truth of my circumstances is difficult to ignore -and it grows ever more impossible as my belly expands. And I can't help but feel a little bit alone in my head about it all, because M just cannot reach the places I am going.
I asked a friend who'd recently given birth about these complicated emotions and she assured me they were par for the course. She told me that her infant was about a month old when her husband surprised her with the declaration that "he didn't really realize how 24/7 the whole thing would be." She laughed and reminded him about how utterly freaked out she was from the moment she found out she was pregnant. He just didn't get it then, but one month in and he was starting to catch on. She encouraged me that I have nine long, vulnerable months to work out all the kinks in my feelings and by the time the baby shows his/her face I should have processed the worst of it and be fully braced and ready for the work ahead. That's when M can panic. And I will be kind enough not to make jokes at his expense.
I tried to explain to him that I have been listening to a constant inner monologue all the while I've been pregnant. It never ceases, it only waxes and wanes in intensity. My thoughts toss back and forth between joy, terror, anxiety, tenderness and sometimes they all come upon me at once in a mad rush. The raw, naked truth of my circumstances is difficult to ignore -and it grows ever more impossible as my belly expands. And I can't help but feel a little bit alone in my head about it all, because M just cannot reach the places I am going.
I asked a friend who'd recently given birth about these complicated emotions and she assured me they were par for the course. She told me that her infant was about a month old when her husband surprised her with the declaration that "he didn't really realize how 24/7 the whole thing would be." She laughed and reminded him about how utterly freaked out she was from the moment she found out she was pregnant. He just didn't get it then, but one month in and he was starting to catch on. She encouraged me that I have nine long, vulnerable months to work out all the kinks in my feelings and by the time the baby shows his/her face I should have processed the worst of it and be fully braced and ready for the work ahead. That's when M can panic. And I will be kind enough not to make jokes at his expense.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
hop harvest
This morning, M and I spent a few slow hours sitting on a blanket in the driveway plucking hop cones off razor-sharp vines. We wound up with equal parts Cascade and Willamette, both of which will flavor this fall's stout and IPA nicely. The full, fruity scented resin clung to our fingertips after hours of picking, making us both crave the taste of a frothy brew. Unfortunately, such pleasure is forbidden me (the internet arguments on this point are a fantastic late-night read:), but the smell was a pleasant substitute. I cannot wait until the kitchen is filled with the smell of the malt, hops and grains as they bubble on the stove.
Friday, September 5, 2008
born and unborn
I've been in a tizzy the last few weeks, watching the political conventions and placing ever-changing bets on just where this country is going in a few months time. After the high, happy, warm-hearted, fellow-feeling of the DNC I plummeted back to earth in a painful hurry while taking in the hate speech that passed for the RNC.
I get this way every four years -completely obsessed, that is. In 2000 I watched the recount shenanigans in dismay, hardly believing a Bush win was possible in the first place. I recall sizing up everyone whose paths I crossed in the weeks that followed: apparently 50% of Americans (every other person I met) found Bush's shoddy history appealing enough to elect him president. After all, we elect people based on the fact that they might be fun to have a beer with, never mind actually being smart enough to govern a vast, militarized nation in chaotic globalized world. And now in 2008 and I fear the same lot of rot is about to be shoved down the throats of the reasoned and responsible. Governer Palin is a ridiculous, cynical choice -a choice with the sole aim of shoring up the Evangelical vote. But as in 2000 and 2004 with respect to Bush, I am flabbergasted to read polls indicating Palin is viewed favorably by most Americans. And it is for similar reasons: she reminds people of themselves - ignorant, white trash, nasty, bigoted. Since when do we vote for people based on their similarity to ourselves?! Personally, I'd prefer a leader vastly more intelligent than me...
I think the fact that I am pregnant ups the ante more than a little. One of the primary reasons M and I never dared to dream of having children is our intense fear of the devastation that awaits citizens of this planet someday in the not-so-distant future. The environment is in peril, key resources grow scarcer every day -the world just seemed such a hostile place in which to bring new life. Obama's message of hope and change allowed us to dare to dream of a future that is a little bit brighter -and it seemed for a time that he might win. I cannot bear to think of introducing my son or daughter to another four years of the downward spiral.
And I find it slightly ironic that the party of "pro-life" would have me scared to death for my unborn child's future. See, they parade the "pro-life" idea but their affection for life appears to reach it's limit just as soon as the unborn are born into the world. "Once you are here, dear unborn child, you're on your own! Good luck getting health care, child care, reasonable rent, decent schools, breathable air. We just promised to get you here alive."
I get this way every four years -completely obsessed, that is. In 2000 I watched the recount shenanigans in dismay, hardly believing a Bush win was possible in the first place. I recall sizing up everyone whose paths I crossed in the weeks that followed: apparently 50% of Americans (every other person I met) found Bush's shoddy history appealing enough to elect him president. After all, we elect people based on the fact that they might be fun to have a beer with, never mind actually being smart enough to govern a vast, militarized nation in chaotic globalized world. And now in 2008 and I fear the same lot of rot is about to be shoved down the throats of the reasoned and responsible. Governer Palin is a ridiculous, cynical choice -a choice with the sole aim of shoring up the Evangelical vote. But as in 2000 and 2004 with respect to Bush, I am flabbergasted to read polls indicating Palin is viewed favorably by most Americans. And it is for similar reasons: she reminds people of themselves - ignorant, white trash, nasty, bigoted. Since when do we vote for people based on their similarity to ourselves?! Personally, I'd prefer a leader vastly more intelligent than me...
I think the fact that I am pregnant ups the ante more than a little. One of the primary reasons M and I never dared to dream of having children is our intense fear of the devastation that awaits citizens of this planet someday in the not-so-distant future. The environment is in peril, key resources grow scarcer every day -the world just seemed such a hostile place in which to bring new life. Obama's message of hope and change allowed us to dare to dream of a future that is a little bit brighter -and it seemed for a time that he might win. I cannot bear to think of introducing my son or daughter to another four years of the downward spiral.
And I find it slightly ironic that the party of "pro-life" would have me scared to death for my unborn child's future. See, they parade the "pro-life" idea but their affection for life appears to reach it's limit just as soon as the unborn are born into the world. "Once you are here, dear unborn child, you're on your own! Good luck getting health care, child care, reasonable rent, decent schools, breathable air. We just promised to get you here alive."
Saturday, August 30, 2008
tokenism
This morning John McCain's campaign eclipsed Obama's shining moment by naming Gov. Sarah Palin as his Vice President on the very heels of Obama's nomination acceptance speech. All the newspapers were full of nothing but response to the surprise pick. Barack Obama's amazing speech got nary a mention.
The nomination of Gov. Palin reeks of tokenism -it a cynical, risky, desperate, pandering move aimed at collecting the votes of women, particularly those embittered by Sen. Clinton's failure to secure the nomination. But Gov. Palin and Sen. Cinton are similar in anatomy only, and it is insulting to suggest that women area so stupid as to be swayed merely by the addition of a female to the Republican ticket. But maybe they are?
The nomination of Gov. Palin reeks of tokenism -it a cynical, risky, desperate, pandering move aimed at collecting the votes of women, particularly those embittered by Sen. Clinton's failure to secure the nomination. But Gov. Palin and Sen. Cinton are similar in anatomy only, and it is insulting to suggest that women area so stupid as to be swayed merely by the addition of a female to the Republican ticket. But maybe they are?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
playing god
The genetic counselor rang my cellphone while I was at work this afternoon. I asked her to hold a moment while I scurried for a paper and pen and ducked into the nearest conference room and shut the door. "So, what's the news?" I asked breathlessly.
"Good news! -your blood work came in really strong," she declared.
I felt the air go out of me in a giant rush and I jotted the numbers on the page: 1 in 710 for Down Syndrome. 1 in 10,000 for Trisomy 18.
During our initial prenatal appointment at OHSU, we initiated the agonizing genetic testing process. You can hardly blame me for omitting the ugly details from previous posts, since contemplating the potential one's fetus has of being damaged is little but a massive killjoy -and I want nothing more than to be joyful. I didn't even want to talk about it with M -what is the sense in considering what-ifs? I just kept to myself and waited for the call.
Our hope was to avoid the more invasive sorts of tests like amniocentesis (which carries it's own attendant risks) and so we chose instead to undergo a vague first trimester screen called the "sequential screen." The screen involves a bizarre calculation based on the combination of the measurement of the clear space on the back of the baby's neck (called the Nuchal Translucency measurement), the maternal age, the size of the fetus, crown to rump, and a bunch of crazy blood work. I think of it as akin to the way credit agencies calculate one's credit score -secretive and possibly totally bogus. But it was better than a needle through the belly.
The trouble with the sequential screen is that you don't get any certainty at the end of the day -only rough odds. 1 in 300 or worse is considered "high risk." And I didn't start out on the best footing. After the thrill of watching the baby squirm on the video screen, we were left alone in the darkness with our happiness for a few sweet moments until a mad-scientist-like character barged in, introduced himself and told us that our baby had an "above average NT measurement" (2.4mm instead of the "normal" 2.1mm -missed the mark by .3mm?!). He highly recommended we undergo a fetal echo-cardiogram and other extensive testing. We went home jittery and anxious and I spent the following days hunkered down with google-search to read horror stories. Never a good idea.
I was just praying for something on the other end of 1 in 300. If I could manage to squeak out better than a .5% chance, I think I could live with that without suffering paralyzing anxiety for the rest of the pregnancy. But if the number came in just on the cusp, I was anticipating having to make decisions that I would rather avoid -the decision to allow an invasion of my uterus which would put my baby at risk of a miscarriage (after the misery of the first trimester, I couldn't imagine doing it all again someday! -or what if the baby dies and all the tests come in negative?). Or worse, if the child were found to be disabled in the extreme, would I decide to keep it? I didn't think so, but I also couldn't bear the thought of terminating this late in the game. But the idea of raising a disabled child never found its way into any of our fantasies over the last few months, and I knew if it came down to it I would wind up playing God -and I am hardly qualified.
I told M the good news as soon as I hung up the phone. We both felt the burden that had been hanging about our necks since August 15th lift and we settled in to savor the coming months with lighter hearts.
"Good news! -your blood work came in really strong," she declared.
I felt the air go out of me in a giant rush and I jotted the numbers on the page: 1 in 710 for Down Syndrome. 1 in 10,000 for Trisomy 18.
During our initial prenatal appointment at OHSU, we initiated the agonizing genetic testing process. You can hardly blame me for omitting the ugly details from previous posts, since contemplating the potential one's fetus has of being damaged is little but a massive killjoy -and I want nothing more than to be joyful. I didn't even want to talk about it with M -what is the sense in considering what-ifs? I just kept to myself and waited for the call.
Our hope was to avoid the more invasive sorts of tests like amniocentesis (which carries it's own attendant risks) and so we chose instead to undergo a vague first trimester screen called the "sequential screen." The screen involves a bizarre calculation based on the combination of the measurement of the clear space on the back of the baby's neck (called the Nuchal Translucency measurement), the maternal age, the size of the fetus, crown to rump, and a bunch of crazy blood work. I think of it as akin to the way credit agencies calculate one's credit score -secretive and possibly totally bogus. But it was better than a needle through the belly.
The trouble with the sequential screen is that you don't get any certainty at the end of the day -only rough odds. 1 in 300 or worse is considered "high risk." And I didn't start out on the best footing. After the thrill of watching the baby squirm on the video screen, we were left alone in the darkness with our happiness for a few sweet moments until a mad-scientist-like character barged in, introduced himself and told us that our baby had an "above average NT measurement" (2.4mm instead of the "normal" 2.1mm -missed the mark by .3mm?!). He highly recommended we undergo a fetal echo-cardiogram and other extensive testing. We went home jittery and anxious and I spent the following days hunkered down with google-search to read horror stories. Never a good idea.
I was just praying for something on the other end of 1 in 300. If I could manage to squeak out better than a .5% chance, I think I could live with that without suffering paralyzing anxiety for the rest of the pregnancy. But if the number came in just on the cusp, I was anticipating having to make decisions that I would rather avoid -the decision to allow an invasion of my uterus which would put my baby at risk of a miscarriage (after the misery of the first trimester, I couldn't imagine doing it all again someday! -or what if the baby dies and all the tests come in negative?). Or worse, if the child were found to be disabled in the extreme, would I decide to keep it? I didn't think so, but I also couldn't bear the thought of terminating this late in the game. But the idea of raising a disabled child never found its way into any of our fantasies over the last few months, and I knew if it came down to it I would wind up playing God -and I am hardly qualified.
I told M the good news as soon as I hung up the phone. We both felt the burden that had been hanging about our necks since August 15th lift and we settled in to savor the coming months with lighter hearts.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
taming the jungle
I wasn't joking when I declared the garden a complete and utter mess (see above). And this morning I finally found sufficient energy to spend the entire day making up for the last three months of sloth. The weeds weren't so much the problem, since the heavy nasturtium cover seemed to keep them at bay and any weeds pulled up easily owing to the recent rains. But the nasturtiums were rampant, sprawling across paths, crawling among the beans and peas, and scaling the tall waving motherwort stalks. Every round, fluttering leaf was covered on it's backside with tiny black aphids and their bodies smashed against my arms as I wrestled with the curling vines and tossed them by the dense armful into a giant compost pile on the patio. Liberated from the tangle, the hidden fruits of the garden started to peer through the chaos. I discovered two magnificent orange-striped pumpkins, each at least a foot across, hiding in the anarchy. Fat cucumbers lolled in the dirt as the coiling tendrils of their mother vines crept up the apple-bough tipis. Juicy sauce tomatoes ripened on hardy limbs and giant beets camouflaged themselves in the dust.
I spent the day bent over and dusty, sweat pouring into my eyes and rashes spreading on the tender skin of my forearms from close encounters with the biting hops, the motherwort, and the clary sage. I grew light-headed from time to time and stopped to grab a bite of this or that, enough to restore my energy and keep me moving. It felt good to be bustling about, grimy and sore. It was nice to be spent at the end of the day by virtue of having worked hard, and not simply owing to the efforts of my veiled biology. Oh- I know the struggle taking place inside me to create a new organ is valiant (this amazing placenta on which a new human shall live for the months!) and I cheer my body on in its endeavors, but I cherish this raw, familiar, simple joy I get from working with my hands.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
winter preview
Last weekend's horrific heatwave broke on Monday with the sudden onrush of cool, blustery, rainy weather. This is perhaps the first summer of my 6-year tenure here in Portland during which I have witnessed several days of cold rain smack in the middle of the summer. I used to boast to my mid-western friends that while the winters here are indeed an ugly shade of soggy and gray, the summers never see even an ounce of rain and the sunshine dazzles at every last daybreak between July and September. This week has made a liar of me.
I can't say I mind it all that much. After the nausea, exhaustion and misery of my summer '08 I cannot help but wish to drift as quickly through the seasons as possible (and onwards to spring and March 6th!). The weather was utterly wasted on me as I slept through the sunny afternoons and hid out in my bedroom at every opportunity.
But now that I am feeling more human, I could stand another minor go-around of summer. I need to take a final stab at taming the garden before this season's vegetables are wasted for lack of maintenance and hygiene. I could probably manage a few more wilderness adventures, the like of which I won't be able to enjoy come summer '09 when diaper duty is my primary pursuit. I tell myself that I should dream up as much merriment as possible in these intervening months of liberation before the cold hibernation comes and then the frantic newness of the life that awaits me on the other side of the snow.
But I don't. I sit here and ponder and read and watch and wait and wish the time away. And I can't imagine any other way.
I can't say I mind it all that much. After the nausea, exhaustion and misery of my summer '08 I cannot help but wish to drift as quickly through the seasons as possible (and onwards to spring and March 6th!). The weather was utterly wasted on me as I slept through the sunny afternoons and hid out in my bedroom at every opportunity.
But now that I am feeling more human, I could stand another minor go-around of summer. I need to take a final stab at taming the garden before this season's vegetables are wasted for lack of maintenance and hygiene. I could probably manage a few more wilderness adventures, the like of which I won't be able to enjoy come summer '09 when diaper duty is my primary pursuit. I tell myself that I should dream up as much merriment as possible in these intervening months of liberation before the cold hibernation comes and then the frantic newness of the life that awaits me on the other side of the snow.
But I don't. I sit here and ponder and read and watch and wait and wish the time away. And I can't imagine any other way.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
revival
Oh, joyful day! I am at long last beginning the slow ascent out this horrible hole that has been my first trimester! Each day, I wake a little more rested and fall into bed a little less worn. I have been able to resume vigorous nightly workouts at the gym, something my sad, bloated body has missed dreadfully. I no longer require a lengthy post-work nap. I am cooking and cleaning and doing my part again, much to M's delight. The scent of onions and garlic still repels, but I will take what progress I am given and thank the heavens to have made it thus far. Hurrah!
Friday, August 15, 2008
first impressions
For one thing, he wouldn't stop moving. We watched his blurry alien body in black and white on the screen, his little limbs squirming all over the place, legs spread eagle, arms flailing. I say "his" because the technician pointed out what she considered a "highly prominent genital ridge" that hints ever so slightly at the fated gender. Of course, it is still far too early to tell anything for certain. The image flashed in and out of focus as the wand glided over my slicked belly, all the while the child explored its watery world.
The appointment started out dull enough as we fielded endless questions about our family's medical histories, our dietary habits, what drugs I've used and how often. We've settled on using the nurse-midwife program at OHSU's Center for Women's Health. It seems the perfect merger of high-tech medical hospital with natural childbirth center. Over the course of the nine months, the patient meets with all of the midwives in the practice and so on labor-day there are no surprises or awkward introductions. The midwife that we met seemed like a sweet grandmother- folksy, chatty and friendly (fulfilling all stereotypes, truth be told). She asked repeatedly if it was my intention to give birth naturally, as though I were something of a freak to attempt it. And maybe I am, but I would like to give it a try.
After the lengthy interview and intake, the midwife suggested I may have to return for the ultrasound and physical. They were simply too busy to manage it this morning. We were both disappointed but I was soothed when she said we could listen to the baby's heartbeat before we left. She lubed me up and started in with the sonogram. A deep, heavy thud could be heard through the static. "That's you," the midwife declared, but could find no trace of the baby's fluttering pulse. She persisted in her efforts, running the wand this way and that across my belly, searching out where the tiny plum-sized fetus could be hiding. No luck. Puzzled, and likely rather concerned, she suggested that they squeeze me in for an ultrasound immediately. M and I were thrilled.
We trudged across the street to the Physicians Pavilion to the prenatal screening center where we waited in the lobby with another young couple on the verge of hysteria. Apparently, the girl's amniotic fluid was running dangerously low and she was on her way to labor and delivery to be shot full of Potosin. The two of them seemed so young, so unprepared. The girl confessed she was terrified, but I assured her that the worst was probably a ways down the road, like 15 years or so. She laughed nervously and I could see the perspective shifting in her eyes. She was going to meet her baby in a few hours, her new roommate and constant companion. The labor would likely be a nightmare, but just another passage in a long, strange journey.
The technician ushered us into a darkened room and began the business with the belly jelly. The image leaped and flickered on the screen and instantly a human child materialized, its arms and legs waving around. My reality became instantly real in a way it hadn't been to date. All the illness, the exhaustion, the pain and irritability had a source all of a sudden -and that source is the size of an italian plum with tiny feet and miniature hands and a penchant for kicking and squirming around.
The technician informed me immediately that my uterus is retroverted, which explains why the midwife could not find the baby. Apparently, a number of women suffer from this abnormality which involves a tipped uterine position (the uterus points towards the spine instead of lying up and down inside the pelvis). It typically doesn't cause massive problems in pregnancy, excepting occasional back pain, constipation and in rare instances miscarriage. Very rarely, the uterus gets "stuck" inside the pelvis as it grows, which sounds positively terrifying. I am guessing that my tilted uterus is the primary culprit behind the severe lower back pain and the pressure in my hips that has troubled me of late.
All told, it was an amazing day and one I will likely never forget. I wish I had an ultrasound machine in my living room so I could watch the baby change from day to day. Now I wander through my daily business and imagine him there, tucked away deep inside my pelvis, waving his arms and legs and swimming around. I pray he doesn't get stuck back there and I forgive him for making me feel so terrible these last 11 weeks. I can't wait to meet him.
The appointment started out dull enough as we fielded endless questions about our family's medical histories, our dietary habits, what drugs I've used and how often. We've settled on using the nurse-midwife program at OHSU's Center for Women's Health. It seems the perfect merger of high-tech medical hospital with natural childbirth center. Over the course of the nine months, the patient meets with all of the midwives in the practice and so on labor-day there are no surprises or awkward introductions. The midwife that we met seemed like a sweet grandmother- folksy, chatty and friendly (fulfilling all stereotypes, truth be told). She asked repeatedly if it was my intention to give birth naturally, as though I were something of a freak to attempt it. And maybe I am, but I would like to give it a try.
After the lengthy interview and intake, the midwife suggested I may have to return for the ultrasound and physical. They were simply too busy to manage it this morning. We were both disappointed but I was soothed when she said we could listen to the baby's heartbeat before we left. She lubed me up and started in with the sonogram. A deep, heavy thud could be heard through the static. "That's you," the midwife declared, but could find no trace of the baby's fluttering pulse. She persisted in her efforts, running the wand this way and that across my belly, searching out where the tiny plum-sized fetus could be hiding. No luck. Puzzled, and likely rather concerned, she suggested that they squeeze me in for an ultrasound immediately. M and I were thrilled.
We trudged across the street to the Physicians Pavilion to the prenatal screening center where we waited in the lobby with another young couple on the verge of hysteria. Apparently, the girl's amniotic fluid was running dangerously low and she was on her way to labor and delivery to be shot full of Potosin. The two of them seemed so young, so unprepared. The girl confessed she was terrified, but I assured her that the worst was probably a ways down the road, like 15 years or so. She laughed nervously and I could see the perspective shifting in her eyes. She was going to meet her baby in a few hours, her new roommate and constant companion. The labor would likely be a nightmare, but just another passage in a long, strange journey.
The technician ushered us into a darkened room and began the business with the belly jelly. The image leaped and flickered on the screen and instantly a human child materialized, its arms and legs waving around. My reality became instantly real in a way it hadn't been to date. All the illness, the exhaustion, the pain and irritability had a source all of a sudden -and that source is the size of an italian plum with tiny feet and miniature hands and a penchant for kicking and squirming around.
The technician informed me immediately that my uterus is retroverted, which explains why the midwife could not find the baby. Apparently, a number of women suffer from this abnormality which involves a tipped uterine position (the uterus points towards the spine instead of lying up and down inside the pelvis). It typically doesn't cause massive problems in pregnancy, excepting occasional back pain, constipation and in rare instances miscarriage. Very rarely, the uterus gets "stuck" inside the pelvis as it grows, which sounds positively terrifying. I am guessing that my tilted uterus is the primary culprit behind the severe lower back pain and the pressure in my hips that has troubled me of late.
All told, it was an amazing day and one I will likely never forget. I wish I had an ultrasound machine in my living room so I could watch the baby change from day to day. Now I wander through my daily business and imagine him there, tucked away deep inside my pelvis, waving his arms and legs and swimming around. I pray he doesn't get stuck back there and I forgive him for making me feel so terrible these last 11 weeks. I can't wait to meet him.
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