the pear tree

Today's sunshine brought Portlanders crawling en mass from their homes and into their gardens. All of my neighbors were out, schlepping bark chips and cleaning up the debris left by the harsh winds of winter. I woke up with a plan to plant snow peas, which for some reason has become a West Coast Valentine's Day tradition. We took a quick trip to Portland Nursery for seeds, and while there we also scored a flaming gold forsythia shrub. I have always wanted a forsythia in my garden -it's bright early blooms signal for me the end of winter and seeing one on display always cheers me instantly (it is also a helpful sign that rose pruning should begin in earnest).

We also purchased a proud and erect little pear tree with several varieties grafted along it's trunk. We have hatched a plan to save the placenta from the birth and plant it beneath this little tree. This way, my son can grow along side the tree that is also growing from the same nutrients that fed him in his earliest days.

praise the process

A friend sent along a link to a great article published a year ago in New York Magazine entitled "How Not to Talk to Your Kids: The inverse power of praise." I provide a link here because I found it fascinating:

http://nymag.com/news/features/27840/

the privacy of personhood

Today my friend C declared how strange it is to realize that her daughter of one year is her own little person. I considered this thought as M and I waddled to the library in the early darkness of the evening tonight, hands held fast. I expect and accept the mystery of M -the fact that I shall never truly know the least bit what it feels like to experience the world in his skin, what his life looks like from his point of view. I know him better than I know anyone on earth, and yet he escapes me. The same goes for all my intimates -my love for them knows clear boundaries and however close I feel to these loved ones of mine, they always remain a cool remove away.

It is difficult to think the same shall be true in regard to my very own flesh and blood. This child growing within me even now will eternally be just as much a foreigner to me as the rest of them, despite his sharing the same space for these long minutes and despite being so utterly of my bones. I would like to think that our close confinement inclines us to greater intimacy, but I know deep down that this isn't so.

And here begins the anguish of the empty nest? I can tell already that motherhood is bound to be an amazing avalanche of terrible joy.

a little education

Tonight we attended a water birth class at the OHSU Richmond Clinic. I was glad to find that the course was taught by none other than Linda Glenn. In addition to her faculty work at OHSU, she attends her own patients as a home birth midwife and in fact helped established the first legal home birth practice back in the mid-70s in North Carolina. As if this incredible experience weren't amazing enough, she also attended the birth of my good friend B's first child and so her reputation had certainly proceeded her. I was not let down. She seemed a perfect fount of knowledge and had a tough, no-nonsense way about her that I admired. Despite her long tenure within the rather rigid environs of a modern hospital setting, she seemed perfectly comfortable voicing a dissenting opinion whenever it suited her fancy. And she was critical of the system within which she found a home, discounting various inane policies and rules as "something handed down from the risk management people despite the fact that there was NO science whatsoever behind it."

I found myself hoping against the odds that Linda Glenn is the midwife on-call 30-off days from now when the wee master decides to make his entrance. Chances are slim, but a girl can hope. The truth is, I think I would be happy with any of the midwives in the practice at OHSU. Each and every one seems to bring a little something different to the table, but all seem to share a fundamental commitment to guiding each woman in their care through an intervention-free childbirth if it is at all humanly possible. I feel I can trust them to support me through what will invariably be a terribly trying experience.

It was also somewhat encouraging to note just how very well I have educated myself going into this. There were precious few questions presented in class that I hadn't already considered in depth. One poor girl, who appeared within weeks of delivery, timidly inquired: "so, I take it Pitocin is something they give you to, like, get labor started???" I couldn't help but cynically speculate that she would more than likely be shot full of the evil stuff, opt for an epidural when her uterus started crunching painfully, and ultimately wind up on her back in stirrups instead of in the water where she dreamily hoped to be. In other words, what you don't know CAN hurt you.

I can't say for certain where my labor will take me -whether I will get the best case scenario or the worst or more likely something between - but I feel confident that whatever choices are presented me I will have weighed the consequences carefully for each potential course of action and I will make my decisions with information and education under my belt and a well-seasoned team of strong-minded midwives to guide me.

And if nothing else, I hope that just by typing these positive words and giving voice to my great big hopes I might make them just a little more possible. As Kate Bush says in one my all-time favorite lyrics: "I just know that something good is gonna happen. I don't know when. But just saying it could even make it happen."

long time passing

It would seem that I have all but abandoned this work. I regret that I have been far too exhausted too many evenings to record the myriad thoughts and sensations I have had these last several weeks. I am still working full time, and between that and our regular several-mile evening walks, I have little leftover for anything else. But I will try to relay a few fleeting thoughts before I find sleep irresistible:

With 33 days remaining I admit to a slight and occasional panic that the moments I have been awaiting have finally come. We painted a chalkboard on a door in the kitchen and have there kept a little countdown clock. Each day I change the mark and catch my breath a little as the numbers fall. The hospital bag is at the ready and the nursery is fully outfitted- replete with waterproof pads and diaper cream and lanisoh and onesies all manner of infant accouterments that I never in a million years imagined I would need. The boy continues to stretch and strain at his confinement, his kicks growing stronger by the day. I smile each time he turns and chide him, "patience, child."

Meanwhile, M and I keep up our daily dream-talk: will his hair be dark and curly? -his eyes blue or brown? -do his constant, eager movements portend a rambunctious and unruly boy? -can we keep his eyes from TV? -will he eat his vegetables or be fussier than either of his parents? -will he be kind or difficult -or a heart-rending combination of the two?

The labor doesn't frighten me, although some say it should. I simply don't see the purpose of feeding fear in the face of something so inevitable. I can't run away now, in any case, so I may as well buck up and face it with my best game face. Fortunately, our classes have been helpful in calming my nerves and I have scoured every natural childbirth book on the planet in an effort to self-educate. The hundreds of birth stories I have read give me courage and help me see that however diverse and complicated each woman's experience may be, she is able to get through it. I will get through it too.

I have been practicing my best baby-talk, chattering to him as if he were already here -a sort of rehearsal I suppose. It is silly, but it makes it more real. It is absolutely staggering to realize in a matter of weeks I will be sharing my heart and my home with this creature whom I have yet to meet!

And now, off to bed...