Four Months Already?!

You're sleeping in my lap now, something that we do regularly, and all I have to do is look down to see your sweet little face in the blue light from my laptop screen. You snort and wiggle and giggle in your sleep. Sometimes you cry too, and Mama snuggles you closer then.

I don't think I realized it when we were in the hospital, but giving birth to you was the first step in the most healing process I've ever experienced. When your grandma died, it left a huge hole in me, one that I was afraid to talk about, one that I felt awkward about, but somehow the aspect that defined me most. Losing her was the largest event in my life and for more than two decades, I measured everything by before her death and after. I missed her so much, missed her every single day, missed her so much that sometimes even as a grownup, I'd have days when I'd just double over and sob, "I want my mother" over and over and over.

She wasn't perfect (and I won't be either, not even close, which I'm sure you'll know all too well and all too soon) but she was mine and losing her was so painful. I didn't realize it for a long time, but I think I put off having you as long as I did because I was just scared. Scared that I'd die, scared that your dad would, scared that you would, that I'd make someone I loved so much only to lose them. But then, and this is one of the things I want you to know if you lose me before you have a baby of your own, I realized that not doing things because you're scared is not a valid reason. There are plenty of reasons not to have a baby - not wanting to give up the time, not wanting to share your life with someone who has no ability to share - but never, ever avoid doing something for no other reason than fear. Suddenly, irrationally, I wanted you SO badly - especially for some odd reason after reading The Beach Street Knitting Society and Yarn Club and Hens Dancing (British novels have such charmingly imperfect children...) - and then I finally got brave enough to say that aloud.

The Story of You, Part 5

Turns out your timing was perfect because my blood pressure spiked pretty badly right after you arrived (199 over 145). I wasn’t awake enough to be worried, but everyone in the delivery room was, especially Daddy and Grandpa. I was too busy feeding you your first meal. They gave me a few doses of medicine over the next hour or so, but they weren’t helping, and out of concern that I might have a seizure, they started me on a magnesium IV drip and moved me into the high-risk pregnancy section rather than regular labor recovery. Magnesium dulls your nervous system, so my arms felt like lead and I was very groggy for the next 24 hours, but between Daddy and the lactation consultant, we were able to make sure I could keep cuddling you and feeding you, even if I couldn’t actually lift you. By Tuesday night, I was able to come off the magnesium drip and I started making more sense right away – Daddy had been a little unnerved by how out of it I was, but I got better pretty quickly after the medicine was gone and I was able to have something other than clear liquids. French fries and chocolate chip cookies and iced tea from Max & Erma’s were what I wanted for dinner and it tasted SO good, since I’d not had anything other than juice and Jello since a piece of toast around lunch on Sunday.

Wednesday, my blood pressure still wasn’t low enough, so we had to hang out a bit longer, but I just got to feed you and cuddle with you and rest, so I didn’t mind at all. By Thursday morning, they thought you had a touch of jaundice and were concerned, so we were afraid you were in for another night in the hospital. I really just wanted to get you home and settled in our space (and get a shower!), so they scrambled around and found a light blanket and you came home as a little blue glowworm.

The ride home was the most terrifying car ride of Mama’s entire life! I’m still not sure exactly why. I wasn’t scared to be bringing you home – couldn’t wait, in fact. I think it was probably partly that we’d been in such a still, quiet, monochromatic environment, and suddenly, in my overly emotional state, we were out in the world with all these colors and noises and things moving and I was absolutely petrified that something would happen to you somehow. It didn’t help that an ambulance and fire trucks passed us. You slept through the whole thing, of course, but I cried and cried and cried so hard that I could hardly breathe. Scared Daddy pretty badly and he was thinking he was going to have to pull over and let me calm down, but we made it home and then things were so much better. I was so excited to start our life at home with you that I forgot all about how scared I’d been when we got home!

The Story of You, Part 4

I don’t remember much about the next few moments. Labor’s funny that way, and maybe someday you’ll know yourself, that your focus just narrows down smaller and smaller, until you’re only aware of a small part of your field of vision and your breath and the intense feelings in your body. For awhile, I was just aware of Liza at the foot of the bed, ready to help you come out, with Daddy on her left and Sue on her right, but then when you came, everything else just became a big hazy blur around the two of us. There could have been a marching band, a clown troupe, and a herd of llamas in the room, and I still wouldn’t have seen anything but you.

Liza held you up, and I remember Daddy just looking at you, completely awestruck, and then telling me, “Nora Rosalie is here.” After that, all I could say was, “You’re here. You’re really here.” They got you on my chest right away, where you promptly peed like you’d been holding it for nine months, and after that, the rest of the room just disappeared. They started cleaning me up, and I held you while the umbilical cord stopped pulsing. After they cut the cord, they whisked you away for a few minutes to warm you, wipe you off a bit, and give you a few doses of the routine medicines they give newborn babies. Daddy took your photo and texted it to everyone in the waiting room, but he was so excited that he didn’t realize that you were wearing a pink AND blue striped hat. Everyone was impatient with waiting to find out who you were, and he slipped out to the waiting room to tell them who you were. (We hadn’t known if you were a boy or a girl and we hadn’t told anyone the names we were thinking of. If you’d have been a boy, you’d most likely have been Davis Finn!)

Uncle Kelly and Mary were there, along with Pop-Pop and Aunt Robyn and Aunt Dana and your cousin John Paller who was visiting. Grandma and Grandpa got there just about 15 minutes after you arrived. Uncle Kelly came back first to see you all by himself, and then Pop-Pop, then Aunt Robyn, Aunt Dana and John. After that, Grandpa and Grandma came back for a few minutes. Everyone took turns holding you and admiring how very, very beautiful you were.

The Story of You, Part 3

Mama was having back labor, which means the contractions were more in her back than in her stomach, and while I wanted very much to have you without any medical interventions or any medicine, I was starting to wonder if I could manage it. Liza helped me move into a better position on the bed though, and while the back pain didn’t go completely away, some of the moving shifted you enough that Mama was able to get a second wind. It was wonderful, like a fog lifted, and I started thinking about how close you were to finally being here. Daddy didn’t move more than two feet from us the whole time; he never trembled or needed to sit down at all and Mama was so grateful that he was there. (Even if she did tell him to shut up, just one time, in the bathroom when no one else was around. And she apologized right away.)

Everyone kept telling me to push, but I just couldn’t. Didn’t seem like the time somehow, but before long, the urge to push did hit and then I couldn’t have stopped if they’d asked me to! I still wasn’t sure I could do it, and I’d almost go to sleep between contractions, just dozing off, but Liza and Sue and Daddy kept telling me that I could, that I was doing great, that you were almost here, and it wasn’t long at all before they could see the top of your head. Daddy and Mama both touched your head – we wanted the first touches you felt to be ours, if at all possible, and Liza moved a mirror down so that I could see you as you began to come out.

You had so much hair! Daddy told people later that your hair was born seven minutes before the rest of you, and he was probably right. Liza thought you must be a boy, because she said pretty hair is usually wasted on little boys, but she told Daddy that she wasn’t even going to look when you came out, just turn you around and hold you up for him to see. (I remember feeling just a tiny bit disappointed when she said that, because I’d so hoped you’d be a girl.) Once you started coming out, Liza saw that your umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck, but she untangled you, helped turn you just a little bit, and the next time I pushed, you came right out! It was 7:35 p.m. on Monday, September 6.

The Story of You, Part 2

That’s when we started scrambling. Daddy had been so ready for you, so all our bags were packed and by the door or already loaded. I cleaned up really quickly and got dressed and we hopped in the car. We started calling people before we were out of the driveway, and I remember looking at the clock in Daddy’s car and seeing that it was 3:23. We got everyone called and texted while Daddy hustled us to the hospital. Contractions were stepping up a bit, but still not too bad, but by the time we got up to admissions, I was sure you were coming and pretty soon!

They asked lots of questions and had a few things for me to sign (thank goodness we’d pre-registered), which isn’t easy to do when you’re excited and having labor pains! We got checked in (officially admitted at 5:10 p.m.), they did an initial exam with me telling them all the time that I had been 7 cm for days, and then we got into a delivery room. The room had a lovely tub and Mama had been looking forward to doing some of her laboring there, but you didn’t give us much time!

Liza Canowitz was on call for the weekend as midwife, and she was the first person we saw when we went to the doctor’s office, so it was good to see a friendly face. And, just as Mama’s labor pains were stepping up, the nurse, a little woman in her early 60s with short grey hair, walked in and said, “Hi, my name’s Sue.” Mama started to cry and had to explain that we were really missing your Grandma Sue and that it was nice to have a sign that she was with us.

The Story of You, Part 1

You took a whole four-day weekend to come into the world! On Friday morning, I had a doctor’s appointment and was dilated to 7 cm without even having any contractions. Ms. Eva wisely sent me home instead of to the hospital, knowing that they wouldn’t allow me to sit around at 7 cm for very long. Of course, that also meant that we didn’t necessarily have a lot of time once you started to arrive, so Eva told us to get to the hospital pretty quickly when contractions were in any sort of pattern. (Just to be on the safe side, we did a little checking online to make sure we knew the basics to deliver you ourselves, on the off chance that you wouldn’t give us much notice!) Friday was an auction day, so Daddy went to work, reluctantly, rather than sit around and watch me. I just rested and read and tried to wait patiently for you to get here, but nothing happened Friday. Saturday, Daddy was nervous enough (and so was Grandpa Gerald, who was calling twice a day, along with Pop-Pop and Uncle Kelly…) that he stayed home. But still no appearance!

Sunday was a peaceful day and when I went to be Sunday night, I thought to myself that you could come whenever you wanted because you’d given me a nice last “non-mom” weekend. Daddy and I went to the farmer’s market and the library, watched a movie (Up in the Air), and went for a few walks in town. I took lots of baths and got to finish a beautiful novel (One Day) that made me very grateful for the day that we decided to have you.

Monday was Labor Day, so Daddy didn’t have to go to work and we decided to just wait around for you. I wasn’t feeling great, but still having no pains or anything concrete, and I have to admit, we both were frustrated and antsy with all the waiting. Mama probably even cried a little, just from being on edge for so long! (And from answering so many phone calls that started with, “Are you still pregnant?”) Around 1 p.m., we decided to just lie down and read and see what happened. I was having some minor contractions, but they weren’t really forming a pattern, so it didn’t seem like time to head for the hospital. While I was reading, Daddy dozed off and John Henry was sleeping by my tummy. I felt a funny little pop and he got up and moved up by my face to snuggle – seems like he knew that my water had broken, even if I didn’t. Just before 3 p.m., we decided we had the beginnings of a pattern, so Mama decided to go to the bathroom, come back and lie down for just a bit longer. But when I got up, I just made it into the hall and the water let loose!

Any Minute Now...

Well, you certainly took us by surprise this morning! You were due yesterday (but not to worry - take your time...), and we had a doctor's appointment this morning. Two weeks ago, I was already completely effaced and dilated to 1 cm, but that's pretty common. Last week, Ms. Eva, who's taken such good care of us for awhile now, gave me a pass on a pelvic exam. (They're uncomfortable and they don't tell too much, or so we thought....) But this morning, we decided we'd do one, to maybe help get things moving and to see if we'd made any progress. They'd like us to schedule an induction for Thursday, when you'll be at 41 weeks, or schedule additional monitoring, which would make it safe to let you wait at least a week longer.

We'd decided to let you wait - no sense in rushing and neither one of us seems to be uncomfortable, but then Ms. Eva announced that I'm already dilated to 7 cm even though I haven't had any contractions! (Getting to 7 cm, for most women, is what takes hours and hours of active labor at the hospital, but you've apparently decided to skip right over that, considerate little person that you already seem to be.) She sent us home with orders to come right to the hospital at the first sign of any regular contractions, even if they're 15 minutes apart, because once things start moving, it might not take you long to get here at all. Daddy came home, sorted things out a bit, we rechecked the suitcase to make sure we have all the important things, and then he went to work for a bit. (There's a big auction every Labor Day weekend, but so he can slip away if necessary, he's not going to be doing any selling, just helping out. He's on pins and needles waiting for you to make your entrance!) I'm sitting here, resting up, snacking and taking warm baths, and working on your baby book. Miss Love and Marvin are keeping me company while Manny is warming up your pack-n-play for you, so you can show up whenever you like. Your Grandpa and Grandma Davis, Grandpa Richmond, Aunt Robyn, Aunt Dana and Uncle Kelly are all ready to make a mad dash for the hospital when we call. We absolutely can't wait to meet you!

Long Time No See

Sorry it's been so long since I've written much. We've been getting all sorts of things done around here, recovering from those rough days in early July. Your Grandma Sue passed away on July 6, the bathroom and kitchen were both in a state of complete disarray, and Dad and I managed to get something that felt an awful lot like bronchitis, which took me quite awhile to really get over.) And we drove to New Orleans and back - was too late for me to fly and your dad really wanted me to be able to go with him, both so he could keep an eye on us and so I could rest up some.

It was a great trip! We drove to Cincinnati, spent the night with your great-great-aunt Betty, who is so very excited about your arrival (she made you a crib quilt and her husband, Robert, helped make you a pillow), drove to Hattiesburg, Mississippi the next day, and then rolled into the French Quarter on Thursday morning in time for Dad to rehearse his talk. We stayed at the Hotel Monteleone on Royal, which is a beautiful old place, and were up on the eleventh floor with views of the Mississippi and the Quarter. Your dad was speaking at the Historic New Orleans Collection's Antiques Forum, where everyone thought he did a great job. We ate well and I fed you plenty of beignets, which we occasionally ate while soaking in the tub, so that I didn't cover you and the rest of my stomach with powdered sugar! Dinners at Delmonico's and Cafe Degas (and the Hotel Monteleone) along with lunches at K-Paul's and Bayona, so I think you grew quite a bit while we were there.

But we had to start home eventually, so we left New Orleans on a Sunday afternoon (after a patience-trying stop at Cafe du Monde) and drove to north Alabama where we spent the night with your great-aunt Judy, who also made you a crib quilt, and the next day we hauled ourselves the rest of the way home. Your Grandpa Gerald was positive that we were crazy and that you'd be born on the road somewhere, but we made it back safely and had a good time. And you can consider yourself inaugurated for road travel, which you'll probably be doing a lot of over the years. Dad and I like our road time, to catch up and debate and visit with each other, to listen to audiobooks and music, to watch the scenery roll by, seeing new places and finding new restaurants and B&B's. You'll be making your way to Deerfield with us in just a few weeks, I hope.

So now things are mostly ready for you. Bathroom still needs a bit of trim work and paint and the kitchen counters are stored in the barn, waiting for your dad to have a weekend free, but otherwise, we're pretty much set - just waiting for you! We can't wait to meet you - to find out who you are and what you look like and what you think and what you like. You've been growing in there so long and we've been planning on you, but we don't know very much about who "you" are, so we're (especially your dad) getting impatient for you to get here.

If you have babies someday, I hope you have as easy a time of it as I have had with you. The last few weeks have gotten a bit uncomfortable, as you're growing really fast now and needing more room on a near-daily basis, and I've cried a little bit, mostly frustrated with trying to sleep so I can be as rested up as possible when you arrive and need me, but otherwise, you've hardly been any trouble at all! I'll miss having you in there, as you've been good company, and I've gotten used to all your little wigglings and twitches and squirmings.

And if I'm not here to tell you when it happens, it'll all be okay and everyone has the kinds of thoughts, worries and concerns that you'll have. I've wished that your grandma Tish was here a lot, because I'm pretty sure she worried about me the same way: was this a good idea, will I be any good at it, what if we don't like each other, how will I manage everything, will I lose myself or my marriage, etc. That's all normal, normal about any big life moments, actually, because we typically want guarantees that things will work out the way we want them to. Babies, marriage, and the rest of life don't come with guarantees though, and you have to step out on faith and believe in your ability to cope with whatever comes along, which is scary sometimes. But I've done that a number of times over the years, and we'll talk about all that someday when you're here and interested, but it's always worked out well. Your aunt Erika likes to say that boldness is rewarded in life, so walking forward in faith and confidence ready to make things happen is a pretty good way to find out what's important to you and to make things happen. There aren't any guarantees, but if we knew exactly what we were going to get before we opened the package or exactly what we were going to see before we left home, there wouldn't be any point in anything, would there?

So, with just a few days before you're due, Sept. 2, I'll leave this here. Not sure if I'll have a chance to write again before you arrive, but I'll work to remember everything about the day you get here and tell you all about it. (And getting here soon would save your grandpas lots of phone calls - they're pretty much calling every day now for updates, like they think we'd have you and not call them right away!) Meanwhile, rest up - you've got a big journey and big transition ahead of you too, and we're all out here waiting to meet you. So many unknowns right now, but I know this and you should too: we love you and are looking forward to meeting you! Much love, Mama

Guardian Angels

It's been a rough few weeks and the next days are going to be especially hard. I hope you're resting well in there and not too crowded yet and that things are okay - feel like I haven't had as much time to think about you lately as I'd like. You already have more guardian angels than any baby I've ever known with your great-grandparents and your grandma watching over you, but you got another one this week - your Grandma Sue. She passed away July 6, so peacefully and still at home, but you should always remember that one of the last words she said to me was "Baby." I'm so sorry that she'll never get to hold you, and I know she is too, but I like to think that during the last few months, just the idea of you was a bright spot for her when she was feeling worse and worse. She was thrilled by the very idea of you, so I can only imagine how delighted she would have been by the you that is going to arrive soon.

I've asked your daddy to work hard to remember things about her, so that he'll have stories to tell you. After all, she's largely responsible for how well he turned out, and there's no disrespect intended - your grandpa's a great man and you're going to have so much fun together reading books and going places and your daddy certainly got your grandpa's wonderful brain - but I'm pretty sure his heart came from your grandma.

So now you have both your grandmas over there, maybe in the same place you are now, maybe you'll even have met them both. Initially, some people might think they were really different. Your Grandma Tish was a good student who loved music and books and all things school. She liked the outdoors, and while she was always fashionable, she loved bugs and snakes and anything that grew in the dirt. She was a good shot and a good hunter. She grew up very poor, the kind of poor I hope you won't ever know anything about, way out in the country where she walked to a one-room schoolhouse. Grandma Sue wasn't much interested in school (she'd have admitted that herself) and in the time I knew her, I don't think she read a book or expressed much of a preference for any kind of music. And while she went camping with your daddy and the rest of the family when he was little, bugs and slithery things weren't high on her list of favorite things and I don't think she ever shot a gun. She grew up pretty comfortably in a nice neighborhood outside of Cincinnati with neighbors close on all sides and well away from farms and livestock.

So, on the surface, really different, but I'm pretty sure I loved them both from the first minute I met them and maybe that's because, after talking with your dad the last few days, we've realized that our mamas may have been very different in their day-to-day lives, but they were equally adamant about the qualities they wanted to instill in us.

Compassion or empathy or just an awareness of other human beings was high on the list. Daddy says he was opening doors for other people as soon as he could wedge them open, and Grandma Sue made sure that he helped out when he was little by doing little errands in the neighborhood or accompanying her to the nursing home so he could see how much a little kindness means to those less fortunate. Grandma Tish would have approved, and from a very early age, she talked to me about other people's feelings, scolding me if she thought I came anywhere near making fun of someone, especially if she thought that I was being unkind about something they could do anything about. We weren't ever allowed to ridicule anyone, but the punishment was especially bad if she thought we were being cruel because of lack of money or their looks or their clothes. People don't ask for much of what they get in life, especially other children, and both our mothers wanted to make sure that we understood how fortunate we were just by virtue of the families we were born into and to realize that most people weren't as lucky.

Daddy says Grandma Sue was big on responsibility too. She wanted him to be responsible for himself, and so sometime in the future when he's making you do your own laundry or allowing you to get a bad grade on a homework assignment you forgot to turn in or insisting that you use some of your chore money to buy a more expensive pair of shoes than the ones he's willing to get you, you'll know why. You have to take responsibility for yourself in this world, and I'm not sure exactly how Grandma Sue learned that lesson, but I know Grandma Tish learned it the hard way - doing hard work early in life because her parents worked so hard to have even a little bit of money that she and her brothers often couldn't count on anyone else but themselves. Responsibility is a big word and a big concept, but our mamas started us on the path so early that it just came along gradually.

But, of course, like all mamas, they indulged us a bit too, and that was when it came to our curiosity. They couldn't have been more different in terms of their own interests in learning - Grandma Sue would hardly read a magazine, I think, while Grandma Tish would have read the label on every bottle in the bathroom if she'd had nothing else - but they both gave us free reign to learn and never discouraged any of our interests. When Daddy was little, he brought home snakes and frogs and bugs, and your grandma never complained. She helped him nurse some baby rabbits whose mother had been killed, and she taught him that he had to let them go be the little wild rabbits they were intended to be when they got big enough. I hauled in bleached jawbones from dead deer, ratty bird nests and all sorts of things, and Grandma Tish never missed the opportunity to help an injured robin rest up for a few days while teaching us about what robins ate and how they flew. She even brought home snakes sometimes to show us a little bit about how interesting and unique they were before letting them loose in the backyard. They wanted us to learn about the world on our own, to see things and figure things out and solve problems, because they knew that we needed that in order to grow up to be independent and to find the things that would excite us.

Three pretty basic concepts really - empathy, responsibility and curiosity - but they were at the core of what we learned from both your grandmas. Neither one of them cared much about whether we were rocket scientists or extremely wealthy or successful by anyone else's standards; they wanted us to be inquisitive, kind, and good citizens, figuring, rightly so, that the rest would fall in line somehow.

And those traits work well together. If you have empathy, you'll always use your curiosity and responsibility to help others. If you have responsibility, you'll be careful about what you do with your curiosity and you'll be guided to do good things with your empathy. And if you have curiosity, you'll be aware of when responsibility and empathy are necessary. Just know that when we're teaching you these three things, the things we think it's most important for you to know, you're learning what your grandmas thought was most important too and that they're watching over you all the time, loving you more than you can even imagine.

Watching the Garden Grow

Just last week, we put in a garden. Or rather, we just planted things in every available spot, because the garden is tiny, and we need it for tomatoes, of course. Tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, zucchini, and lettuce all went into the ground. We're still waiting on the potatoes, onions, spinach, beets, parsnips, dill and basil to show up from seeds. It's strange to look at those things and know that you'll be here before we have a chance to eat some of them. I had to give my credit card expiration date the other day, and by the time it expires, you'll have been here more than two months!

So we've been doing a lot of talking about all the things we want you to learn, the things we felt our parents did a good job with and the harder lessons we had to learn on our own that we'd like to teach you if we can. We certainly want you to be curious. That was something your Grandpa and Grandma Davis were great at, and I'm still trying to work out exactly how they did it. They both started out as teachers, so it certainly helped that they were always on the lookout for an opportunity to teach something, and teaching started well before school actually did! I don't ever remember being anything but fascinated by nature, and we did little experiments all the time. Can't wait to show you how charcoal briquettes will grow crystals or let you learn how plants "drink" by watching celery change colors from taking in water with food coloring. And I'll have to get all refreshed on planetary movement in order to duplicate your grandpa's incredible description of the solar system and lunar and solar eclipses. (It involved a flashlight, a grapefruit, a Nerf ball and a golf ball and more arms than you can imagine.) Sprouting a bean seed in a paper towel is just the beginning, I promise.

Your grandma was focused on compassion. She valued kindness and empathy beyond almost any other trait, and learning to respect and care for someone other than one's self was important to her. Especially if they were less fortunate. She didn't make us feel guilty for having so many opportunities, but she made sure we were always very aware that there were people all around us who didn't have as much as we had and not just in terms of material things. She reminded us that we went to school with children who didn't have as much love at home or as many aunts and uncles or parents who would take them to the library and that while we may judge someone with how they handle the circumstances of their lives, we never hold those circumstances themselves against them.

And hard work! Both of them know a lot about hard work, but they'd probably have sent you to your great-grandparents to learn about that. Your Grandpa Gene and Grandma Rosalie did more work before 9 a.m. than many people did all day, and they did it for the best reason that anyone can work: so that the people they loved could have things, including advantages and opportunities they never had. Grandma Rosalie would wash clothes, bake pies or rolls or casseroles to take to people with sick or dead family members, fix Grandpa Gene breakfast, start something for an evening meal and wash all the breakfast dishes by hand before she went off to work for the day. Grandpa Gene would feed cattle in all kinds of weather before going to work and, until he "retired," he'd spend his evenings and weekends doing harder physical labor than you'll probably ever have to do in your life: baling hay, resetting fence posts, digging ditches, or walking ridge lines looking for a cow that might be struggling to give birth.

That's why it's important to appreciate the adults in your life; even when you're frustrated with them, you need to remember that a big part of the reason that your grandpa and grandma and mom and dad get out of bed every day is to make sure that you have as many chances and as much help as you need to get started in life. When they were growing up, which wasn't that different from where and when I was growing up, no one had any money, so what set families apart, what made them strong and successful, was how hard they worked with what they had, how many opportunities they created for their children, and what set those children apart was how willing they were to take those hard-earned opportunities and do what was necessary to make something of them.

It's a little like the garden - the seed does a lot of work in the growing, and the sun and rain are like parents, bringing home what you need, but your grandma Tish would want you to know that all the generations of people before you were part of preparing the earth you were "planted" in, part of enriching it and building it up so that when the day came that you were finally planted in our family that you had the best chance possible. That's why adults get a little frustrated sometimes, too - they did a lot of work to prepare for you, to make things better, and on the one hand, all that was done to make sure you'd have chances they didn't, but on the other, they want to know that you know how much work it was and they want to know that you're not just going to take from the soil but be ready to do your own preparing too.

Being your mother is frightening for those very reasons - I not only have to do my very best to make sure you have a good place to grow, but I have to make sure that when you're grown up, you're smart enough and appreciative enough to do the same kind of work yourself. The first part is the easy part, because part of being a mother is wanting a good place for children to grow. The second part is harder and where I see so many mothers fail. It would be so easy to do too much for you, to make the place where you grow so free of weeds and problems and challenges that you'd shoot up fast without any opposition, but then you wouldn't be a very sturdy little plant. You'd have had it so easy that you'd not be ready to contribute back, to do the preparing part when it's your turn, and what you'd produce in life wouldn't be very strong or valuable because you wouldn't have grown strong from your own struggles. Your dad and I aren't just preparing you to grow for your own sake, but preparing you to give back, to be ready when the time comes to do the preparing for someone else.

Welcome to Motherhood

You are a wiggly baby and getting wigglier each day! Sorry to have taken so long to write to you/about you again, but you've been so considerate that there hasn't been much to report. (Although if I could make one request, I'd ask that you stop smushing my lungs - breathing for two with one set of lungs is challenging enough without having someone sprawling all around your lungs and diaphragm....) It's allowed us to get loads of work done around here in preparation for your arrival - upstairs bedrooms are reorganized and painted, along with some carpentry projects, and we just have to get the icky carpet out of the hallway. Then it will be time to demolish the kitchen and the bathroom! And we need to get the garden planted so there can be good homegrown vegetables in the pantry and the freezer for you to start out on next spring.

Don't know what we'd do without your grandpa and your uncle. They're both much more excited about you than they're letting on, I think, and they are planning to be here to get the kitchen and the bathroom work sorted out before you arrive. They aren't always good about saying how they feel, so their way of taking care of you is taking care of me, helping us get things ready for you, and making sure you have a nice shiny tub to take your baths in. I've got a long list of things to do, and while you're being very good, you're also growing very fast now, and I'm having a harder time keeping up, so help getting things off the list is so appreciated. And your grandpa did a quick repair job on your great grandma's sewing machine and then helped make up some curtains for our rooms and some pillow cases, so when you spit up all over them or spill apple juice on them (and you will), we'll be able to wash them right off. Right now, the pressure to get everything done is the only rough part of this process, and without much family, it's pretty daunting sometimes. But we're making progress!

I want that for you - to know how to do things for yourself. It's nice to have the convenience of paying someone, I suppose, but to feel useful, to feel like you contribute and can handle whatever comes your way, it really helps to be able to know how to do what needs done. Canning vegetables, patching drywall, sewing on buttons - all those little things let you live life on your terms so much more, and that's important. Not only that, but it means that you're always learning new things, not afraid to tackle a project that you haven't tried before, and a better problem solver because you have lots of experience to draw on. We're both looking forward to having you puttering around in the garden, making little things out of wood and fabric scraps, and learning to be useful to yourself and others!

Meanwhile, I'm happily learning that pregnancy is all about preparing for a baby. Growing you is important, but the whole process is pretty smart, because it also prepares moms some for how life will change once babies arrive. Feeling tired all the time? That's going to be normal after you get here. Feeling physically and socially limited a bit? Ditto. Learning that sometimes things around the house just can't be done as well as I'd like? Going to be the norm while looking after you. Too busy to shower or get my hair cut or find time for myself? Welcome to motherhood.

So, that's about it for now. Keep up the good work in there, stretch and grow as much as you need to (although again, keep the lungs in mind!), and we're looking forward to having you out here. Hardly a day goes by without your dad saying how excited he is to meet you, and that goes for both of us!

Safe and Sound

I have come to a basic conclusion about parenting and the differences between moms and dads. Moms and dads are, you know, very different, and you'll figure out exactly how, I'm sure, so that when you're eight, you'll be very adept at gauging your chances with each of us before deciding who to ask permission. Part of that probably is some deep hardwired connection in the brain, some basic chemical differences, but I think the biggest difference has to do with how you get here.

Your dad will never have the sense of complete safety and complete responsibility that I have for you now. (That's not to say that he won't love you as much. Of course he will, and it will be in a completely different way - that's why you get both of us, so we can take turns being the voice of reason!) You're inside ME. If something happens to you, it's my responsibility, and I have, in theory, the ability to keep you as safe as I possibly can. I realize there are external things that I can't know about or prevent, but still, for the most part, it's like you're tucked away in a box that I get to carry around with me all the time. As long as I feed you good things and stay out of harm's way, we're good, or at least so I can tell myself.

For the rest of your life, I'll make you nuts. That's because for the rest of my life, I'll remember my ability to keep you safe just by keeping myself safe, equating your safety with my personal responsibility, while he'll always view you as an external responsibility. Remember this and don't hold it against me when your dad will be more likely to let you do something crazy involving pulleys, an umbrella and water wings, while I'll be struggling to let you go get the mail without a bicycle helmet.

Happy Bump Day!

Actually, it's a Monday, but this morning we got our last look at you until you arrive. (We hope - no offense, but having another look probably means they're worried about you, so I can wait a few months to see you again.) Everything was fine. You're in the 88th percentile in terms of size. According to them, of course, because if you ask us, you're in a class by yourself. And all arms and legs, which must come from my side of the family, and a "Harvard-sized head" according to your doctor, which honestly you could have gotten anywhere in this family.... You were waving and wiggling, but you've been considerate enough to position my placenta between you and my stomach wall, so while I occasionally feel little twitches from you, there's not been much flailing and kicking felt yet. And you were very modest, making it difficult for the doctor to guess, but we had her make a note and seal it up in an envelope for us, just in case we change our minds or in case it comes to pass that anyone needs to know before you get here.

Mostly, I've been quiet for a few reasons - first, you've been quiet. Not much moving, not much making me sick. (Aside from that one bout of chest pain brought on by a cramped-up stomach - no worries about me confusing indigestion with a heart attack now, thank you very much, although I was thinking we were headed for the E.R. for a bit!) I can't say that I've ever felt calmer or more peaceful, and other than periodic frantic spells of whether or not you'll like me, whether or not you're okay in there, whether or not I'll be able to keep you safe, and all the other crazy things I worry about these days, we've been getting along swimmingly.

And we've been on the road quite a bit lately! Today's April 19th, and in the last 25 days or so, you've been to Delaware with me and your dad for a furniture conference at Winterthur, to Texas for a week where you got some of the first spring breezes and some needed sunshine, and to Oglebay Park in Wheeling where we went to an antique show and gave a few talks.

(And then your mother cried from Wheeling to Cambridge out of sheer homesickness. I hope you'll have a sense of place growing up, although it's one of the most inexplicable things in my life. "Home" for me is two places, sadly - West Virginia and where your dad is, and it's probably the greatest heartache in my life that those two places aren't the same place very often. Can't explain it, because it doesn't even have to do with people or specific houses, but a geographic location is home and always has been. Part of me desperately wants you to have it, and part of me, knowing the ache it causes, wants you to be free to go wherever you like.)

And finally, I've not had much to say because we've been working on getting the house ready for you and that's taken a great deal of free time. We're pulling up all the old, icky carpet, and we've painted the floors, walls, trim and doors in your room. We're rebuilding the bed in there too, although you'll be too little to sleep in it for quite some time. The guest room, which will eventually be yours, is almost done - should be reloaded this evening, and then we'll start on our room, where you'll be hanging out for awhile. After that, we're hoping your grandpa is going to come up and help Dad put in new countertops and a new sink, and finally, hopefully, before you arrive, there'll be a nice new bathtub with new paint and tile and trim so you have a clean space to splash around without flooding the foundation. Your dad wants tile around the tub, but your grandpa can probably tell him all about what my bathtimes did to his tile over the years! And then there's the garden - not doing too much there this year, but some tomatoes, cucumbers, beets, onions, rhubarb, lettuce, and who knows what else we'll come home with, will mean good eats for both of us while you're growing.

So, keep doing what you're doing in there while we keep getting ready for you out here!

Equatorial Calms

"Equatorial calms" sounds nicer than "doldrums." It's not a bad thing, but we've entered the quiet period of pregnancy. Nausea and fatigue are abating, jeans still fit, and sometimes I catch myself thinking, "Am I *really* pregnant?" Then I think, "You've seen two ultrasounds. You're pregnant." Pregnancy does weird things to your mind - don't make fun of your mother!

A couple of weeks ago (February 22, I think it was), we got to see you again, but you were very shy about showing us your face. Got a good look at your backside, though, and your ridiculously small feet. They are ridiculously tiny, which will probably have to console you later in life when you either have my long, skinny feet or your father's "Hobbit" feet. The nurse wanted to check your heart rate with the Doppler, but you were too squirmy for her to get a good read on you, so they decided to do a quick ultrasound just to make sure that you were fine and being productive. It just took a second for you to come into focus, and then all of a sudden, you flinched and wriggled and my breath just stopped. Yours didn't though - you were trucking right along, and your dad was the first one to spot the little tiny flicker that is your heart. So, we've confirmed you have toes (I didn't get the chance to count them, but I think you're good), and you have fingerprints and are now able to squint. Keep up the good work!

Your dad had a birthday this past weekend, one of the many things that makes me think, "This time next year, we'll be doing this with our baby," and we went out for birthday breakfast. Sitting there waiting for a table, I suddenly looked around this crowded Sunday-morning restaurant at all the older women, the young men in baggy pants, the new moms with babies, and realized that everyone, every single person on the planet, was once where and what you are now. Epiphanettes, we call those around here; the things you know, but suddenly see in a way that allows you to *know*. Was an amazing thought to realize that at some point, everyone I could see had once been so small, so formed yet unformed, so busy with the very basics of life, that they too had once not even been in existence. It's a powerful thing to realize life exists in a place where there once was nothing, and the knowledge that all of the things you are and will be and can be is already in there is beyond amazing. There's a lot waiting for you to discover out here....

Blue and Green

So we went to see Avatar yesterday. In 3-D. The day after morning sickness started. There are people out there who never know how grateful they should be for things they don't know almost happened. A number of people in the Worthington area, for example, should be very grateful they were not thrown up on during the noon showing of Avatar. I have no morning sickness in the morning - afternoon and evening are worse, which we found out when I decided to get sick in the middle of dinner Saturday night. Not to worry, though, because your dad is the best at dealing with sick people. Me, I'd shut the bathroom door and try to get as far away from the person making that noise as possible, especially if I'd been right in the middle of eating my own dinner, but he's right there, rubbing and patting, producing ponytail holders and cold washcloths and ice water. You're going to want to keep him around....

Nostril Day

Yesterday was Nostril Day. Just in case you were wondering. Your father has been very interested in reading up on your development, thinking about what you might be doing in there while we can't see you, and this week, apparently, you'll get nostrils. For some reason, he had a feeling that that might be yesterday. He also waves at you, but I've explained you'll not be waving back until at least next week, when you get hands. He'll just have to wait.

Waiting is what this process is all about, it seems. This must be the start of parenting, subverting your will to someone else's. I want to know what you're doing, what you're thinking, what you're up to in there, but I won't, and in reality, even once you're out here, I'll probably spend a lot of time wondering about those same things. I'm learning patience already, or trying to.

So far, you've been a very good baby. No morning sickness, despite some vague feelings of nausea at random things. (Your father had to go trim his cuticles somewhere else this past weekend. I don't know.) Going to the bathroom all the time, but that's in part because I'm doing my best to keep us both hydrated. Apologies if you're awash in there already. And a few times a day, I suddenly become so incredibly tired that I just have to lie down for a few minutes. But then I only manage to rest for 20 minutes before I have to pee or some small noise wakes me up and I start thinking about all the things you'll need, and all the questions I have for the doctor, and all the outlets you might stick your finger in. (When you get fingers.) And then I'm wide awake again. I imagine that's also something I should start getting used to.

So much to show you when you get here! There's snow to learn about, of course - I used to collect snow in jelly jars, bring it in and watch it melt, and we'll have to have the whole discussion about liquids, gases and solids and how interesting water is that way. And the birdfeeders are crowded because it's been 25 or below for days, so there are all the birds to learn about. Have to dig around and find the bird book I had when I was small so I can read it to you when you get here. So many things to do before you arrive, so stay warm and toasty in there while we're getting things ready for you!