A weird way to want to celebrate

It's Mother's Day Eve, and what are my dearest wishes for the 'morrow? Cleaning, of course! Strange, but true.

Star Wars according to a 3 year old.

Listening to the grown-ups

I could hear the droning discussion coming from the other room. I was fiddling around on Facebook, as usual, and Will was nestled, with newspaper, into his favorite nook of the couch. On nights when I stay awake past the kids’ bedtime, this is our typical wind-down routine.

The talking heads on the tube sounded dreadfully boring from where I sat, so it didn’t surprise me that Will was able to divide his attention between the TV and the Wall Street Journal. With resolve, I clicked my way out of the mesmerizing maze of the Web and turned off the computer. I waddled into the living room and approached the television. “You can turn it,” Will offered. “Or turn it off, if you want.”

I was about to stifle the conversation, eager for the “Golden Silence” my mother always raved about when she was my age, but then, to my surprise, I got sucked in. Or, phrased more eloquently, I became engaged in the scintillating dialogue.

It was the Bill Moyers Journal--the very last episode, apparently. Mr. Moyers’ guest was author Barry Lopez. Until last night, I had never heard of either of them. Within 90 seconds of listening, I was thoroughly engrossed in their exchange of ideas, and so I point you in their direction: http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/04302010/profile.html.

Watching the Moyers-Lopez tête-à-tête felt a bit like college again, in the best sense; an intriguing, intellectual breath of fresh air. I should stay up late more often, sans Facebook. (By the way, here’s my brother-in-law’s solution to FB addiction. I’m not that smart yet.)

Image: "Silence is Golden," by Carl Brenders

Pregnancy reflections trump ruffled feathers

I am bristling at someone’s churlish behavior toward me tonight and trying to let it go…let it go…let it go. (deeeeeep breath) “Churlish” was the best antonym I could come up with for “gracious.” I admire graciousness in a person. I disdain its opposite, whether directed toward me or others. What causes a person to behave tactlessly? Insecurity? Ignorance? Arrogance? Jerkiness? (Let it go…let it go…let it go…)

What I was going to write about—no, what I am going to write about—is a few observations about my pregnant state of being:

1) The baby moves around a lot. I seem to notice it more during this pregnancy than I did during the previous 3. I think maybe it’s because: a) I think this will be my last pregnancy, or b) This pregnancy took me somewhat by surprise. (Festival Note: I saw a book there, Surprise Child, that I’d like to read in the next few months.)

While I am very conscious of the baby’s movements, no one else seems to be—at least, not yet. Will sometimes holds his hand over my abdomen, hoping to feel the movements. But so far he’s only experienced a few “Oh, I think maybe I just felt something” moments with this baby. S/he seems un-inclined to “perform” on demand.

As I feel the baby moving inside me, I realize this is something that cannot be captured on film or audio file. Part of my packrat problem is that I feel driven to catalogue my life, for myself and for future generations. When it comes to throwing away fifth grade essays I wrote, for example, I think: “No, because someday my great-grandchildren might want to see how talented a 10-year-old I was.” So I save stuff—too much stuff. But this baby movement sensation is something I can only experience—and treasure in my heart.

2) I am about to enter my third trimester. (It officially starts at 28 weeks—12 days from now, but who’s counting?) In the past week or so, my body is reverting to first-trimester nap needs. As in, “I must get some sleep—30 minutes minimum—sometime between 3 and 6 p.m. Or else I might die.” The physiological demand is that strong. So I do my best to accommodate the urge. And when I can’t, I’m practically passing out by 7:30.

I am obviously pregnant to everyone I meet these days. There seems to be no question about the source of my added girth. Which is somewhat of a relief because for the few months leading up to now, I got the impression that some people thought I’d simply gorged myself on cookies all winter long. Not true. I only did that the first month of this pregnancy, before I even knew about this pregnancy. Thus, while the midwife’s office thinks I have put on just 18 pounds so far, I know it’s more like 28. Oh, well. Why should I think I’ll get by gaining less than 50 this time?

3) I am grateful to be sleeping well, still—7-9 hours a night, no problem. Usually only one bathroom break, and I’m able to fall back asleep right away. I am grateful that my bladder will allow me this much, because I know by the end I will be up at least once every other hour, as body, mind and soul prepare for the frequent feedings required by the small wriggly creature soon to effect a huge ripple in the peaceful pond that is our collective lives.

Passing it on

A good friend and fellow believer sent me this prayer today, and I share it with you:

O Holy Spirit of God,
abide with us;
inspire all our thoughts;
pervade our imaginations;
suggest all our decisions;
order all our doings.
Be with us in our silence
and in our speech,
in our haste and in our leisure,
in company and in solitude,
in the freshness of the morning and
in the weariness of the evening;
And give us grace at all times humbly
to rejoice in Thy mysterious companionship.

Amen.

John Baillie

My Untended Garden

I love things like this—lovely things that grow in spite of my inattention.

Things like these purple tulips that I bought from a friend’s daughter’s marching band fundraiser. (I felt somewhat obligated, in a “I loved marching band, so I should support this girl’s marching band” kind of way.) I bought them, I planted them (again, somewhat obligingly—I didn’t want to waste the money I’d invested in the overpriced band tulips), and then they bloomed. A miracle!

And then fall came, and withered leaves covered the tiny garden by the corner of my front porch. I didn’t rake them up in time. Snow fell, and I forgot about the tulips. And the leaves. And then spring came, more than a month ago—early this year. Not just by the solstice date, but by the temperatures. Mid-80s by late March is anomalous in A-Town.

I’ve had plenty of weeks to clean up the little flower bed, but I haven’t yet. “I’m too busy.” “I’m pregnant.” “We had a house guest coming.” All sorts of excuses. And guilt—always the guilt.

It didn’t matter. They came up anyway. Good, gracious tulips. (Thanks, God.)

How Do I Look?

Here it is: My long-procrastinated blog makeover! I spent the better part of this Sunday afternoon searching for and installing the just-right free Blogger template.

The "Photo of the Week" feature on the right--a gap-toothed smiling Ben with Pearl peeking from behind him (a shot I "cartoonized" at BeFunky.com)--was the most taxing part of the blog transition. I had to try about 8 different methods to make the photo appear there. And even now, it's missing the frame that's supposed to accompany it, but I'm deeming it "good enough" for the time being.

The paper-clipped menu to the left of the "Welcome" section has yet to be tackled. For now, I'm leaving the links blank. (I've spent more hours than I intended on the project for today. It's birthday party time!)

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