A few of my favorite things

“Reindeer in poses and Fiskars and mittens…”

An eclectic little list, to make merry:

“Santa’s Rockin’,” by The Wiggles – My favorite non-classic Christmas show, followed closely by “Christmas at Plum Creek” (from Little House on the Prairie, Season 1) and “A Keaton Christmas Carol” (from Family Ties, not sure what season – it’s on a “Holiday Treats” DVD I bought for myself last December). Not only do I love the Reindeer Dance (“dancing in Christmas pants”), but also the spiritual aspects of the program are surprisingly stirring.

Panda Licorice Bars – These remind me of a truly lovely person named Edna, with whom I used to work. She left one of these bars on my desk with one of her signature pick-you-up sticky notes a long time ago, and I’ve enjoyed them ever since. Edna passed away six years ago, so eating the Panda bars also keeps her memory kindled for me. Oh, and as a bonus, licorice root apparently helps stave off depression, according to this cool book:

Make Your Place: Affordable, Sustainable Nesting Skills, by Raleigh Briggs. One hundred and twenty-four handwritten pages of home-making, earth-living tips and tricks. The tree-hugger in me loves this little pretty, plucky little volume. (I admire pluck.)

Paraclete Press – I ordered a couple of CDs from them over the summer, and they’ve been sending cool downloads ever since (along with promos for more stuff to buy, natch).

A small shout-out to Duluth Trading Co. I received a catalog from them a few weeks ago and decided to order some stuff – Christmas presents. But when I finally found a few quiet moments to do so, I couldn’t find my catalog and thus the “free shipping” code that came with it. Well, “Ask and you shall receive!” I called up Duluth and they happily waived the fee, sans code. Here’s to affable customer service!

Love in Saran Wrap

Will always puts away the pizza. Whenever we're too tired, too busy, too "whatever" to deal with dinner and we let Uncle Sal do the cooking, a few slices get left in the box on the dining room table. We ride out the evening and I go to bed the same time as the kids, too tuckered even to change into my pajamas.

Per usual, I awake before everyone else, make my coffee, open the 'frig to retrieve the creamer, and there it is: The plate of leftover pizza, dutifully Saran-wrapped and put away for the next day's lunch. This is one of 10,264 reasons I love my husband.

Botched potatoes and Black Friday magic

Thanksgiving was fine, but I badly botched the mashed potatoes. Ironic, seeing as how: a) I insisted on making them because Will’s are typically butterless and bland; and b) I had actually taken the time to read an article online yesterday morning about how not to botch the mashed potatoes. As my 14-year-old niece would say, “Fail!” Ah, well—we consumed our obligatory feast anyhow, in the company of several beloved family members, plus one quirky guest. I really should focus on the togetherness rather than the excess—it would make me much less Grinch-like on these over-the-top occasions.

I’ve blogged before about why holidays tend to make me twitchy, but yesterday, a new idea arrived: The Magic of Ordinary Days. It’s the title of one of my favorite movies, one that hardly anyone seems to know about. It’s a Hallmark flick, starring Keri Russell and Skeet Ulrich, an unlikely couple who end up enjoying much love and contentment together, in a wholly wholesome way. While I definitely recommend the film, it’s the title that struck me as the reason I resist the merriment most everyone else embraces.

I simply prefer ordinary days to prescribed “special” ones. I really do revel in routine. It’s not that I abhor surprises, like some friends I know. And I don’t think I’m a dull sort of person, who doesn’t know how to have fun. I like to enjoy the good stuff of life in the midst of it, not necessarily in a time set aside. I don’t want my “special moments” to be pressured or forced. In fact, rather than resisting surprises, I regularly seek them out and delight in them. Give me one serendipitous bout of laughter over a boatload of sappy greeting cards.

The moral of my Black Friday reflection? Hallmark cards, no; Hallmark movies, yes. But seriously, I’m spending my day doing laundry—and loving its magical ordinary-ness (once I tear myself away from this magnetic black hole called the “internets”).

Nat'l Un-Friend Day: Digging deep for shallow relationships

Today was, supposedly, "National Un-Friend Day" on Facebook. My own "collection" of 826 people, with whom I enjoy enormously erratic levels of interpersonal connection, does sometimes cause me pause. And for a few minutes, I thought about dropping perhaps a dozen distant acquaintances from my list--people I might or might not recognize if I encountered them at Wegmans.

But then I remembered Doug Newton's recent editorial in Light & Life magazine, and I thought, "Would B.T. Roberts really have amassed 2,000+ friends by now? And, if so, should I strive for that level of connectivity? Or, would B.T. (whom I consider a hero in the faith, and myself his direct descendant in the Free Methodist denomination)--would this spiritual giant have chosen to "hang out" online, or would he have invested himself in other ventures, reaching out to people and promoting his passion for justice, redemption, and purity of heart in ways that surpassed this oft-times superficial venue for human interaction? Or would B.T. Roberts' own maturation and the development of his ideals have been thwarted by too many games of Bejeweled Blitz?

And by the time I'd considered all that and become thoroughly baffled by my own confusing set of questions, I got distracted by some other urgent electronic plea for my attention, and I didn't care to attempt the tedious and taxing task of paring down my list.

(Do you suppose this resistance to friend sorting has anything to do with my propensity for clutter? Blech! Forget I asked that! These are people, not Post-It Notes! Does anyone else find this Facebook phenomenon, this culture-altering tidal wave of cacophonous communication, more than a little unsettling...?)

Bibbidi - Bobbidi - Boo-yeah!

I, Grace, have a very exciting announcement: I made pumpkin soup today! From an actual pumpkin (spherical orange object so popular this time of year). Plus half an onion, 2 cloves of garlic, 2 cans of chicken broth, a dollop of whole milk, and a few sprinkles of dried parsley flakes that might have been in the cupboard forever, but who cares?! I made something from (almost) scratch! Hurrah for moi!

Two out of 2 grown-ups in the household have deemed it yummy. The one kid to try the soup so far didn't fancy it, but she adored the (store-bought) bread and butter I served on the side. My other 2 solid food eater offspring are off gallivanting at Tuesday evening activities (Scouts for Ben, dance classes for Vi). The fourth child will surely enjoy the soup, since it will be specially processed and formulated just for her.

Ironically, I didn't even have to cook tonight. A very thoughtful woman from our church called this morning to say she would be dropping off something for us. I didn't have long to wonder what it could be when she showed up at my side door, handed me a half-full plastic grocery bag, and flitted away. I thanked her very much, stepped back inside, and opened the bag to find another bag--of salad--plus a pizza coupon, a 20-dollar-bill and a handwritten note saying, in sum: "Congratulations on your darling 3-month-old! Enjoy some supper, on me."

I am convinced there would be more converts to Christianity if everyone could experience the kindness of our particular congregation. "I Stand Amazed in Their Presence."

So, even though I didn't have to make soup tonight, I could, and so I did. Pizza will be perfect some other evening, I'm sure, and we will be grateful to that dear lady. We already are.

Mysterious change in the air

The crows are causing quite a cacophony in my neighborhood this morning—making a mighty racket! They’re clustered, as if for a coffee klatch, in the treetops about a block from my house.

When I first heard their honking, I thought romantically, “Oh—the geese! They’re singing their song of change!” In my mind, I began waxing poetic about the changes I need to make in my own life, drawing inspiration from the chorus of migratory creatures outside my window.

But then I noticed that the stream of sound was not leaving. Either there were gobs of geese steadily streaming southward in my sky (something I surely needed to see), or there was something else afoot in the air. I slipped outside to investigate.

I looked up, and saw nothing—nothing except a thick cover of light gray clouds. I walked a bit, toward the source of the noise, and there they were: Dozens of black birds, most perched, some coming and going from the uppermost bare parts of two or three trees bearing the colors of autumn. “What on earth, do you suppose, can they be crowing about?!”

At first, I thought: “I will have to go ask an ornithological expert: my sister!” But then my misty-eyed tendencies reconsidered, and I again pondered the prospect that these chatter-beaks might be signaling something from which I could draw magical meaning: “It’s change that’s coming—oh, yes—only not the sort I might have guessed. Something different, something mysterious…and loud!”

“What could it be?” I wonder. (Oh, how good it is to wonder!)

Blathering blogette in a pink pok-a-dot jumpsuit

Now that I know you’re listening (via comments and stats), you won’t be able to shut me up—I’ll be a blathering blogette!* I’ll be “incorrigible,” a la Kurt, from The Sound of Music. 

Speaking of TSOM, my friend Mary tells me that the whole cast will be on The Oprah Winfrey Show tomorrow. I hardly ever watch TV, but the prospect of a few moments with Captain von Trapp might just motivate me to turn on the tube.

I met him once, you know—not the real CVT, but the actor, Christopher Plummer. It was 1994 and I wore a pink pok-a-dot jumpsuit for the occasion. My sister “Beulah” works for a radio station. Capt. Dreamy was set to visit, so B shamelessly abused her position as a peon and smuggled me in. We waited outside the studio and accosted our all-time favorite actor with eyes like saucers and breathy exclamations of respect and admiration. He put up with us for a whole 30 seconds before saying, “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye.”

*OK, so the Wiktionary defines “blogette” as a small blog. But I’m using it here as a feminine form of blogger. (I like to make up words, especially when alliterative opportunities arise.)

P.S. The fact that Plummer is now an octogenarian does not diminish his beauty—and Get! This! When looking up his age on imdb.com just now (not that it matters), I found out we share a birthday! Well, “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens!”

Our sloppy, earnest selves

I’ve been having a lot of “What Not to Wear” days lately, a consequence of rapid weight gain (via pregnancy), accompanied by my scale’s unprecedented stubbornness. Despite my halfhearted efforts to shed postnatal poundage, the needle refuses to budge. If I sound like a broken record, it’s because my Sunbeam analog weight measuring machine looks like one!

(I’m also experiencing an unprecedented case of blog inertia. It’s been so long since I’ve posted here that I now hesitate to disturb the peace. But I don’t think I’m ready to let A-Town die, so I’m shouting this “HELLO!-Hello!-hello-hello…” to echo in the blogosphere. It doesn’t matter if anyone is listening.  Sometimes the sole purpose of throwing a stone is to witness the ripple, a reminder to oneself: “I am alive. Here I am. Hello.”)

Getting back to the bad outfits, I’ve been cobbling together pitiful combinations of thrift store finds, not-too-huge maternity clothes, and the few faithful pieces of my year-ago wardrobe that still will accommodate my considerably expanded girth. The results ain’t pretty. The selection problem, paired with the schedule problem (getting the kids ready, myself ready, and the house ready to meet the challenges of our daily life, all before noon), gives rise to a clumsy tango of doing what needs doing, and being who we are: Our sloppy, earnest selves.

We’re facing the music with as much grace as we can muster. This is where God comes in. Where we are inadequate, God carries. Some days I feel perfectly capable and confident. Other days I relate heartily to the helpless infant in my lap. And God carries us both – God carries us all.

Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved,

clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.

Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances
you may have against one another.
Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

And over all these virtues put on love,
which binds them all together in perfect unity.

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts,
since as members of one body you were called to peace.

And be thankful.

—Colossians 3:12-15

Santa Claus Coming from A-Town

I’ve been neglecting this blog in favor of the baby (good choice, right?), but since she’s asleep and the other kids are happily occupied, I am sitting down to write in the same way I started Life in A-Town: A Saturday morning, a cup of coffee, and no idea what I’m going to say.

Today is Charles W. Howard Day in A-Town, a celebration of the original Santa Claus School and its founder, a native son. It’s also Homecoming at my alma mater 30 miles away. The Waters Family took a “divide and conquer” approach to this dilemma: Will and Vi went to the college, specifically to run the annual 5k race held in memory of one of our classmates. Ben, Pearl, Lia and I dressed up in Christmas-y clothes and strolled up the street for the Santa festivities, which turned out to be a bit boring for the kids, but fun for me. Stuff like that makes me feel all fuzzy about our little village, and reinforces my doubts that I could ever leave for good. Providentially, I married a man with an even greater aversion to moving than my own, and whose affection for A-Town also runs deep and wide.

Today is also my mother-in-law’s birthday. (Happy Birthday, Mom—across the miles.) I often see sweet little houses here and wonder if she could ever be persuaded to move. Maybe someday, but I suspect she feels as strongly about her roots as I do about mine—possibly stronger, since she’s had a few more years to grow them.

Lately I’ve been thinking (again) about revealing the identity of A-Town in this blog (more blatantly than I have in the past … even in this very post, there’s an embedded give-away). Part of me thinks, “Who really cares, one way or the other?” Part of me thinks, “No—continue to protect your young family’s privacy.” But then I wonder if the blog might be more meaningful to more people (translate: more widely read) if it were, more decidedly, an A-Town blog. (And ultimately, wouldn’t it be great if someone wanted to pay me to write it? How much do people make when they “Monetize” with Google Ads anyhow?)

I recently watched the movie Julie and Julia, in which “Julie” cooked and blogged her way through “Julia (Child)’s” Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I relate to Julie, the frustrated writer (but not so much to Julie, the lover of cooking). Do I want to write simply for the enjoyment of it? Yes, but that’s not all. I want my writing to make a difference to someone other than myself. I also see the appeal (for writer and readers alike) of a blog like Julie’s, with a goal and a deadline. I tend to be a “go with the flow” kind of gal (except for some things, like recycling at the office—ask my co-workers). Goals and deadlines are for Type A’s, of which I am not one. But I do long for some structure in my life—certainly more than I’ve had these past 9 weeks, since Lia’s arrival. Maybe my return to part-time work in 9 days will scratch that itch, and I can go on blathering aimlessly here on this amorphous sliver of the blogosphere.

We shall see… (Leave it to me to remain “undecided.”)

"This is the day"

• First day of fall
• Garbage day
• ’70s day at Vi’s school
• Ear surgery for one of our cats
• A job interview for a dear friend
• Gonna try to upload Will’s book for “Search Inside” mode on Amazon
• Dance classes for both girls
• Leftovers for dinner?
• Still wearing my reindeer pajamas
• Better get a move on

Update, mid-morning:

• Found out at the vet's that it's not the first day of fall--tomorrow is
• Also found out that I need to clear a space for the cat--she's coming home this afternoon, and she won't be happy

Self-editing, self-loathing and other (mostly) shallow stuff

This is how my brain works: I edit myself in my sleep. Yesterday I wrote a Facebook status update saying I am “the sister of an Iron Man.” (My brother did one of those super-duper-crazy swim-bike-run triathlons...and did it very, very well!) But this morning I woke up thinking, “No—I am A sister of an Iron Man, not THE sister.” Because, of course, my brother has two sisters, and to say I am “the” sister implies I am the only one. Is this what is meant by the phrase “mincing words”? Splicing, dicing, dissecting, obsessing. I am a bona fide word nerd—it’s true. (But I try not to be pedantic about it.)

Other stuff, stream-of-consciousness style:

Pearl turned on some Southern gospel tunes for Baby Lia. (Grandpa B would not approve. Great-Grandpa B would have loved it, big Hee Haw fan that he was. I admit I inherited some of his Southern-ness—I rather enjoy a bit-o-twang wunst inna wahhle.) So I’ve got banjos in the background, accompanied by Star Wars Wii sounds—light sabers buzzing and whooshing, occasional explosions, robots…I mean droids…blipping and squeaking, all serenaded by John Williams-inspired horn fanfares. Quite a cacophony!

* * * * *

Lia is 5 weeks old, and I’m pretty sure I’m busted. (Yes, I mean busted, not busty, although thanks to an ample milk supply, I’m that too…for me anyway.) Busted, as in: My extra pounds are not going to magically melt away this time, like they did after previous pregnancies. I have hard evidence: 1) My scale has not budged since about 3 days following the baby’s birth; 2) My mother-in-law visited us yesterday, snapped a family photo, and emailed it to us this morning. (I really look like that?? So-not-svelte!!) Third bit (and bite) of reality: I logged onto SparkPeople.com a couple days ago and discovered that my last weigh-in, July 12, 2009, found me 37 pounds lighter than my current density. Sigh…followed by deep, emboldening breath—It’s time to buck up and work out! Traditionally, writing has helped too, as advised/coached by Julia Cameron in her book The Writing Diet (weight-loss version of Cameron’s Artist’s Way). I considered rising early today to write the Morning Pages Cameron recommends, but the pillow won. Maybe if I make my intentions public, I’ll be more likely to resist the Snooze. (P.S. If any A-Town readers want to check out SparkPeople, be sure to tell them DeepBreath33 sent you—I am pathetically motivated by point systems such as SP’s.)

* * * * *

Three more tidbits:

1) The ants are back. Time for some more Terro.

2) Our cat’s ear polyp is acting up again, which means she’ll need surgery soon. We simply can’t let the infection run rampant. It’s a bummer of an expense, but I don’t see any way around it.

3) Vi and I are joining our church’s Bible Quizzing team this year—she as a competitor and I as a coach. We’re studying the Book of John, which I never learned as quizzer. I’m stoked! (Click here to see why.)

Time is like labor

This summer is slipping away—

not like the hourglass sands, though—

not effortlessly, not so quickly I barely perceive its passing.

No, time is like labor:

It is difficult, it is painful, it is work.

It is natural, worthwhile, yielding life and love and beauty,

but—good heavens!—it often hurts, and I certainly notice.

Mothers who say, “Where did the time go?”

must have tapped into a cosmic epidural

of which I am unaware.

My small, small world

It’s Wednesday, right? No, Thursday…

I have entered the time warp that is my post-partum, been-out-of-the-house-only-4-times-in-the-past-12-days (and 1 of those times was a trip to the clothesline!), currently small, small world. I want to write, but I can barely think about anything but baby, and I’ve got a baby blog for sharing those thoughts (however incoherent). (And I reissue the invitation to write me at iluvalbion-at-yahoo-dot-com for the baby blog URL—I would broadcast it here, but I’m using our real names and therefore inclined to guard it more closely than this one.)

So, Life in A-Town suffers. In lieu of an official guest blogger (because I’m not that sophisticated, and certainly not organized enough to arrange such a thing), I direct my readers to Holly Goes Lightly, where the author recently penned a prescient post about the elusive milieu of contentment.

(See? My brain’s not all Mommy Mush—I just finessed the words “prescient” and “milieu” into the same sentence…although C. Harold Hurley would surely disapprove my lavish language. Sigh. Enough! Go read Holly. Should she get a dog, or not? I suspect it’s already been decided.)

She's here!

Baby Lia has arrived.

Message Grace at iluvalbion-at-yahoo-dot-com if you want to see the baby blog but don't know where to find it.

12 Days & Counting (it's like Christmas in July...or August)

I think I would like it if the baby decided to arrive early. Is that stating the obvious? Does every woman feel this way in the last month of pregnancy (12 days before her due date, to be more specific)? It’s not rational. I possess ample experience-based understanding of the intense workload that awaits me following this new person’s birth (not to mention the intense “workload” of labor and delivery). I do enjoy sleep and clean clothes and leisure time, and yet, by now, I’m willing to trade—to exchange my ever-expanding girth and increasing physical and psychological discomforts for the countless inconveniences caused by a demanding infant. A beautiful baby. A miraculous creature to care for, marvel over, love.

Before Birth: A Waiting Prayer

“Here, Lord,
We await your gift of life.
Grown in secret
Now in ripeness
Full fruited
Ready to be received.

Lord, we long for our child,
Borne out of covenant love,
Nurtured in love, hope, forgiveness,
Received as gift, blessing, joy.

Release in her abundant grace,
Enjoyment of all that earth affords,
Gentleness to those whose way has been hard,
Patience, kindliness and faith.

We receive, nurture and set free your gift,
Not only our child, but yours,
Yours to enjoy and delight in,
Ours to marvel at your generosity.

Lord of all the living
God of the uncreated and yet to be
Create in us community
As we await your gift.”

—Barrowby

Things to read while I wait

Since summer began, I’ve been trying to read more. I tend to be rather sporadic about reading. I have good intentions. And I have many good books. But sometimes my focus is elsewhere, such as putting on a fundraiser for work, or preparing the house for a baby, and I just don’t seem to want to read…even though, theoretically, I want to read (if that makes sense).

In the past 2-3 weeks, I have started and finished two lovely, well-written books: Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy and “Women’s Work,” by Kathleen Norris, and Surprise Child, by Leslie Leyland Fields.

QM is about how God is accessible and transformation possible even in—maybe especially in—the most mundane parts of life. (That summary doesn’t do the book justice. It’s short; just read it.)

CS is the account of a happily married mom of 4 who, in her 40s, finds herself unexpectedly expecting…twice. While writing candidly about her 5^th and 6^th pregnancies, including the rise and fall of her ugly feelings, she also shares interviews with several other women, adolescents through middle age, who coped with this “problem,” too.

Last night I picked up a third book, one that has been recommended to me many times, by an author I have enjoyed in the past. About 60 pages in, I’m quitting. I just can’t seem to stomach Anne Lamott right now. Normally I can tolerate her whininess and occasional F-bombs because, underneath her edgy exterior, I find her funny, insightful and sincere in the Christian faith we share. However, her Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year is making me anxious and grumpy, and my already-hormonal state of being doesn’t need that kind of encouragement.

Moving on, I think I’ll try He Shines in All That’s Fair: Culture and Common Grace, by Richard J. Mouw. An author shift, for sure, from hippie to academic. But at this point in time, Grace needs all the grace she can get!

In Praise of Will (and clean cat litter)

Will might as well have brought me roses. That’s how excited I was to spot the box of Raisin Nut Bran on the kitchen cart where we keep our cereal. (And actually, I don’t really care for roses all that much. Years ago, I had a mean boyfriend who often brought me roses after behaving badly, as if the flowers’ sweetness would somehow compensate for his jerkiness. Not.)

Will is good. He buys groceries. He does dishes. He puts children to bed. He works hard. He sells books. (This is my rendition of Laura’s essay about Ma in Little House on the Prairie, from Season One…I think.)

In these last difficult days of gestation, while Will quietly helps in so many wonderful ways, there is one thing he doesn’t do well: Smell the cat litter. I never thought I’d say so, but I’m actually looking forward to reuniting with that task! (In case you are unfamiliar with this particular pregnancy “plight,” click here to be enlightened.)

—

A short-lived fascination with another person may be exciting—I think we’ve all seen people aglow, in a state of being “in love with love”—but such an attraction is not sustainable over the long run. Paradoxically, human love is sanctified not in the height of attraction and enthusiasm, but in the everyday struggles of living with another person. It is not in romance but in routine that the possibilities for transformation are made manifest. And that requires commitment. — Kathleen Norris, “The Quotidian Mysteries”

3 Sunday Sighs

Delivered Vi to camp today. Felt sentimental and strange because next time I see her, she might have a new baby brother or sister. Or not. (The waiting game—sigh…)

Crickets are “cricking” like mad. Reminds of summer eves in Michigan, where we visited my paternal grandparents during the “dog days.” (I had the front door open and was enjoying the nice breeze until a minute ago, when a nearby neighbor decided to start mowing his lawn. Really? At 8:42 p.m. on a Sunday? Sigh...)

One last little observation: I genuinely like the new yellow-orange license plates issued by our state. Based on complaints I’ve heard and read, mine is the minority opinion. Yes, they’re a lot like the ones I remember from 3 decades ago, and maybe that’s one of the reasons I like them—sentimentality. But I also like the “pop” of color they give to the roadways. The white ones with subtle blue graphics always seemed rather bland to me. And I’m not the sort of person who thinks it’s important that my license plate match my car. (Actually, I’m not the sort of person who places much value on the appearance of a car at all…but I do prefer color to bland. Do I contradict myself? Sigh…)

My latest craving: Invisibility!

There comes a point in every pregnancy when I just want to withdraw from the world. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want to waddle anywhere to be gawked at, cooed about, patted, patronized, or even genuinely nurtured by well-meaning, good-hearted friends. I have reached that point in this pregnancy. I just want to be home.

Of course, I won’t get my wish. I still have to work. My blessedly good health contraindicates an early maternity leave. I probably will need to make a few more trips to the grocery store before my labor day. And I do want to go to church to worship God, my Creator and Creator of this baby who causes me to waddle. So I will carry on. I will go about the business of everyday life, even self-consciously, and hope that I can bear some light in this world, even as I prepare to bear this new child.

(But I do long for an invisibility cloak at such a time as this!)

Sports psychology in pregnancy

When I used to be a runner (oh, how I long to be, intend to be a runner again, if I can), I would talk myself through difficult moments of training and races.

First and foremost, of course: Getting out the door. “Just go, Grace—just go!”

On long runs, when I’d find myself getting tired and losing form (straining forward or slouching), I’d say: “Straight up and down, straight up and down…” and I’d picture myself as a marionette being held up by strings, like my runner-dad taught me.

The example that comes to mind these days, as a very, very pregnant woman—37 ½ weeks along—is hills. I’m not talking about the Adirondack peak growing out of my middle, I mean the gumption and perseverance it takes to run up a hill—a long, gradual hill with a steep incline at the top. My self-talk for that situation, as a runner, is two-fold:

1) Psych up: “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it...” Or, “I own this hill; it’s mine.” And,

2) Think beyond: “The body will recover, the body will recover—just get there, just get there—the body will recover.” And I looked forward to the relief of the other side.

As now.

Sleep tight, wet towels

I just hung a load of wet wash on the line. At night. Is there anything wrong with that? Bats flitted through the dark sky above me. I wondered whether it would rain while we slept, and whether the rain would be bad for the clothes. I doubted it. (Not that that it would rain—it might. But my laundry will fare just fine, I’m sure.)

It’s been hot here. And humid. So hot and humid that most days, when I’m not at work or holed up in my bedroom with our only source of cool air in the house, I’m basting in my own sweat. It’s hard to stay hydrated under these circumstances, but I am motivated. As I might have mentioned in a previous post, I was psyched out by a day-long bout with Braxton Hicks contractions. Those are the kind that don’t lead to labor. I was only 35 weeks then—baby semi-safe for birthing, but better left baking. Not having experienced any such pre-term symptoms in past pregnancies, I felt suspicious of the pains that visited me 3-4 times each hour from Sunday ’til Monday evening. “Dehydration,” deemed my midwife. I think she was right. So now I am drinking, drinking, drinking. Mostly ice water. (And peeing, peeing, peeing…3-4 times each hour.)

In other weather-related news, we had a furnace installed in this tropical spell. Will’s idea. His Facebook “About Me” declaration comes to mind: “I’m happy being a bit of an oddball.” I mean, really! Who buys a major household heating device when it’s 90+ Fahrenheit outside…and inside?! My dear husband. But I think it’s probably a paternal protective instinct. We have this new baby coming. Our 25-year-old furnace was giving us trouble at the end of last winter. And why not take care of these things well before they’re needed, right? (WELL before!) Plus, we had some help. A hearty “Thanks!” to our generous benefactor, who may or may not ever see this post. I’ll be sure to thank the person in-person.

That’s all for tonight. (I hope my laundry’s all right.)

Thinkin' About Drinkin'

(Not that kinda drinkin'...)

On the tails of my Tim Hortons iced mocha cappuccino confession the other day, my midwife (who, as far as I know, does not read this blog and did not know about my developing habit) gave me an earnest talking-to about avoiding sweet drinks this final few weeks of pregnancy. Basically, she said, sugar is only going to bulk up the baby, making delivery more difficult for both of us. (sigh) I know she's right. But...but... (sigh) So much for iced mocha capps for now.

When it's 90+ degrees and horrendously humid, though, it's hard to think of much else besides hydrating. I'm trying to be good, sticking to ice water for the most part. But then I happened across this yummy-sounding recipe in my daily Runner's World email message, so I thought I'd share it with those of you who are free to indulge:

Coconut Shake
Protein, carbs, and electrolytes make this an ideal drink to add to your post-run nutrition routine.

1 11-ounce container coconut water
1 cup cherry juice
1 scoop unflavored or vanilla protein powder
1/2 cup strawberries, frozen
1 banana

Add all the ingredients to a blender and whirl until smooth. Serves one.

Calories: 440
Carbs: 70 g
Protein: 27 g
Fat: 2 g

For more runner-friendly post-run beverage suggestions, here's the link. I'm looking forward to drinking and running not long from now.

Some mundane musings just to keep the blog rolling

I’ve been nesting like mad. A friend of mine is hosting a wedding reception at her house (mainly in the yard) next weekend. She’s “nesting,” too, in a different sense. “Don’t you wonder why you put off doing this stuff for so long?” she asked as we compared notes. My answer was a resounding “No!” I have no trouble finding things to do—things other than the little projects that pile up around the house. I read, I Facebook, I fart around, I blog. (Did I just write “fart around”? Yes, yes, I did. I’m pregnant and punchy—what can I say?) But now that the baby’s arrival is pending—and especially after experiencing about 24 hours of contractions last week—I’m motivated to wrap up what loose ends I can before my schedule gets swallowed up indefinitely by this new small person.

I won’t bore you with the details of my doings. But I will mention that I’ve had help, for which I am truly grateful. Some friends kindly offered to “shower” me with whatever baby things I might still need. Offers of baby stuff are rare for fourth-time moms, which is ironic in my case, since I had given away and therefore needed almost everything. However, over the past few months I have acquired baby gear galore via hand-me-downs and eBay. Therefore, I declined the shower and suggested manual labor instead. My friends (“with a capital ‘F,’” my mother says) have painted my porches, sorted my socks, and another one is coming tomorrow to scrub my kitchen floor! Thank you, friends!

My latest eBay find (and, Will hopes, my last for awhile) was a set of vintage birth announcements, like I sent last time for Pearl. I find the retro designs quaint and I like the idea of reusing something that’s already made and might otherwise go to waste. I do realize that it’s not wholly “green” to disperse the news via U.S. Mail, not to mention the fact that I’m having said vintage announcements shipped here from Richardson, Texas. But it was the Richardson that clinched it for me, after thoroughly scoping out the eBay options in this category. I ruled out any that were obviously “boy” or “girl” cards, since we don’t know which s/he is. Then I ruled out cards that were offensive to me in other ways—either by design or implication. And then I settled on the ones with the clothesline theme. I’ll let you wait and see what they look like. The clothesline reminds me of a spot-on essay I’ve been pondering lately, Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy and “Women’s Work,” by Kathleen Norris. The Richardson reference is to my late paternal grandmother, who was certainly not spot-on in so many ways, but we are who we are because of those who went before us…even in the most marvelous families, it’s by the grace of God.

Lastly, a recipe. I’ve indulged in a few fancy iced coffee drinks from Tim Hortons and McDonalds recently. At Tim Hortons, if you ask for your small iced capp to be made with milk not cream, it cuts the calories by more than a third! When I asked for this substitution at the McDonalds drive-thru, the guy on the other side of the intercom actually said to me: “Yeah, it’s just a pre-packaged bag of stuff, so it won’t make a difference.” Here’s a homemade solution I found on Facebook (where else?) from a fellow pregnant lady—I’m gonna try it!

Crystal Z’s Iced Mocha Latte

Combine 2/3 cup sugar (or 2/3 cup Splenda), 2 Tbl. baking cocoa, and 2 Tbl. instant coffee with 2 cups boiling water. (Or, substitute 2 cups of hot brewed coffee for the instant coffee and water.) Whisk until well blended. Stir in 1 cup half and half (evaporated milk, fat free half and half, or even milk work well, too). Pour into 2 ice cube trays and freeze 8 hours.

Pour 1 cup half and half (again, fat free half and half – even skim milk works well, but, of course won’t taste as rich) into a blender. Gradually add frozen mocha cubes; blend until smooth. One tray makes about 2 tall glasses.

Just don’t let the kids taste it or you won’t get any.

Snuggle-Nesting

One of the perks of having kids 11 years apart is getting to try all the new baby gear that’s come out in the interim. For example, Snappis. I don’t think I gave cloth diapers a moment’s consideration back in 1999, when Vi joined us. But with all the cool covers (bearing clever names like Bummis, Bum Genius, Happy Heineys and Fuzzi Bunz) and the invention of these non-pricking pin replacements, ditching disposables seems more do-able (in addition to being more financially feasible and ecologically conscionable).

Another must-have infant item new-to-me as a mom: The Baby Delight Snuggle Nest. It’s basically a mini-mattress with an alcove attached to enclose and protect the baby’s head while sleeping between Mom and Dad. It’s seems like a super-sensible product for parents like us who have found that keeping baby in our bed facilitates better rest, but whose snoozing has been somewhat unsettled because of mixed messages about our little one’s safety in such situations.

So, I have invested in both a set of Snappis and a Snuggle Nest for our forthcoming bundle of joy. And yes, I admit, marketing had some sway. After all, who wouldn’t want to own a “Snuggle Nest”?! When I mentioned this brilliant little bed to my older sister she immediately inquired: “Do they come in grown-up sizes?”

Grace Likes Rain

This morning I found myself Googling “pre-partum depression.” Is there such a thing? Because some days—days like today—I think I’ve got it. My thoughts are largely negative and admittedly irrational—BUT I DON’T CARE! My nerves feel like I’m wearing them on the wrong side of my skin. Little things are bothering me much more than they should…things like cars that drive by my house—and don’t get me started about motorcycles!!!

Normally, I love living in the village. I relish the comings and goings of all manner of people. But today I want to shut out the village and the whole world. Go away! Stop making noise! Leave me alone!

I take a deep breath. I try to pray. I muster a meager plea: “Help…”

The words of a century-old hymn interrupt my glum stupor:

When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,
When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,
Count your many blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

I try it:

I’m grateful for the new life growing inside me.

I’m grateful that my children woke up this morning in good health and got themselves ready for school with minimal assistance. (Nevermind that one of them was not very nice to me in the process.)

I’m grateful that my husband is such a diligent worker. I’m also grateful that he thought to empty the dehumidifier in basement before he left the house (because, like so many other things, I cannot lift the full water bin out of the machine).

A garbage truck rumbles by. Instead of appreciating the blessing of curb-side pick-up, I bristle at the racket.

Count your blessings, name them one by one,
Count your blessings, see what God hath done!
Count your blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

WHY does that tune have to be so…so…perky?! Clearly, it is not meant for people in my state of mind. It is a theoretical song meant to be sung while one is feeling fairly good, then applied when one is feeling really wretched. Like me. Like now.

Nature interrupts with a sound infinitely more soothing than a diesel engine…

Ah, yesssss! Here comes the rain! Thank You, God, for the rain! It mirrors my mood and somehow validates my madness…or extinguishes its flames.

Is it madness? Or just a bad mood? I don’t know. Self-analysis can be so complicated! “The unexamined life is not worth living.” So said Socrates. But the overly examined one will drive you nuts! So ponder, consider, think…but not too hard. You might hurt yourself in the process.

I’m going to revel in the rain today. My soul is thirsty.

Hallelujah, grace like rain falls down on me
Hallelujah, all my stains are washed away, washed away

(From “Grace Like Rain,” by Todd Agnew)

On Pests and Gawkers

It’s the first day of summer, and I’m adopting a sunny attitude! I’ll start with a brief blog post to halt my hiatus from this place called Life in A-Town.

I’m 34 weeks pregnant today. It’s not a comfortable state of being, but it is, in many ways, truly glorious. I don’t want to write too many pregnancy musings. In fact, I think that’s why I haven’t written much at all—because it’s difficult to think of other things whilst hefting a 20-pound sac of miracle around all the time. The other 20 pounds (so far) are padding my extremities, including my neck, which seems frog-like to me in the moments I allow myself to look in the mirror.

I will say that while I do remember, in past pregnancies, swelling to the size of Violet Beauregarde, I don’t recall feeling as self-conscious about it as I do now. When I walk to work or lead hymns at church or simply waddle into the grocery store, I feel like a bit of a spectacle. People gawk—most of them subtly, but many do double-take my appearance. It’s part of the discomfort of the third trimester experience. (One friend attributes these last 3 months to the Genesis curse.)

OK, I’ve said I’d keep this brief, and I must. Will is now awake and will be hovering for his chance at the computer in just a couple minutes. So, time for a quick non-pregnancy-related tidbit from our Life in A-Town—it’s a product endorsement:

We had a seemingly serious ant problem in our house up until a couple weeks ago. I casually mentioned our infestation to my brother-in-law, knowing that he and my sister had successfully battled the bugs in the past. What I feared was that he would confess to chemical warfare. In my “delicate” condition, I didn’t want to employ any potentially poisonous pesticides in the ant-elimination process. What Don recommended was perfect: Poisonous only to the ants! Got ants? Get Terro! A little bottle, a few drops on a half-dozen tiny cardboard target cards, a few refills—about 2 days later, the ants were outta here!

One less annoyance is a special kind of blessing these days.

Dear Dad: Wit & Wisdom & Gatorade—Part 2

The thing about suffering through a cold while pregnant is that medications masking the symptoms are off limits. So I turned to some of my many maternal media sources for coping advice. One of them, a recent acquisition called Mothering magazine, recommends ginger tea as a natural remedy for coughs and colds. Not ginger tea from a bag—pre-packaged dried leaves you simply steep in hot water—but fresh ginger root, thinly sliced, boiled in water and strained before drinking. Surely going to all that trouble should yield some powerful results.

So, feeling desperate for relief (I was somewhere between “Head hurt so badly I thought perhaps I should be hospitalized” and “Sleep is impossible; life is a fog”), last night I called my dad at his part-time grocery gig. I asked him to drop off some ginger root on his way home from work. Dad’s been stocking shelves at a nearby W store since retiring as a music teacher 14 years ago. Would you believe that, in all that time, no one had ever asked him to help them find some ginger root?

As I tried to brainstorm with him by cell phone (foggy brain and all) about where the ginger root might be found in the grocery store, my mind flashed back to 11^th grade, one hazy afternoon in late May at the Seneca Falls Pageant of Bands. I was a drum major, one of the kids flailing her arms in front of the uniformed marching musicians (pretending to be conducting, when really it was the bass drummer running the show). Shortly before the pageant parade, my pantyhose ripped. I urgently needed a new pair. My munificent father, known for bending over backwards to help his children (then and now), offered to go to the store for some stockings. I needed white—plain white pantyhose, size B. He jogged off to the nearest retailer of such goods in a small town. (This story pre-dates the Walmart boom, so it was probably a drugstore he sought out.)

Not long later, Dad dutifully returned, bearing an ice-cold beverage (I’m sure I’ve mentioned how important our hydration is to him) and a bulging plastic sack. He looked harangued. Shaking his head, he explained apologetically: “I couldn’t find plain white. There was ivory, off-white, something called bare bisque…?” He proffered the bag sheepishly. He had done his best.

Looking back, I realize how unreasonable it was for me to expect the poor man to know what to buy under such circumstances: Too many options, unfamiliar circumstances, time crunch. What a hassle! So he bought 3 pairs, hoping 1 would suit my need, and he stuck to something he knew: Gatorade. In retrospect, I also realize I probably hadn’t needed the stockings at all. My skirt was long and full; maybe 3 inches of calf showed between the bottom of the skirt and the top of my boots; and I am “the fairest of them all” in my family—fair, as in pale.

But Dad came through with the pantyhose. And 2 decades later, he came through with the ginger root. He’s a good and generous father. Happy Birthday, Dad. And thanks.

Dear Dad: Wit & Wisdom & Gatorade—Part 1

My dad has a saying—well, many sayings…and this one, like many of them, is more like a dry-humored adage:

When dealing with the common cold, you can rest up, drink plenty of fluids, and maybe even pop a few extra vitamin Cs—the cold will last about a week.

Or, when you get a cold, you can go about your business, tending to life as usual to the best of your ability while putting up with the irksome symptoms associated with the ailment—the cold will stick around for about 7 days.

In other words: A cold is a cold is a cold, and it simply has to run its course.

I tend to think Dad is right. For the average, otherwise healthy person, the body will fight the cold in a natural, steady progression of stages. For me, currently 4 days into my 7-day “sentence,” the illness has looked like this:

Day 1: Ominously sore throat

Day 1 ½: Excruciatingly sore throat

Day 2: Very sore throat (but not so excruciating), joined by stuffy nose

Day 2 ½: Hello, sinus congestion!

Day 3: Head hurt so badly I thought perhaps I should be hospitalized

Day 3 ½: Sleep is impossible; life is a fog

Day 4: Head clear, chest stuffed—coughing commences

My prediction for the next 2-3 days: More coughing, graduating from dry yip to hoarse bark; cough accompanied by increased phlegm production, followed by 1-2 days of major drainage (likely to be seen toting a roll of toilet tissue, in lieu of Kleenex box). The drainage could go on for many days after that, but the cold itself will be gone, like Dad says, after about a week.

Hot Flashes: Pregnancy Edition (Bonus video: Future American Idol contestant)

Lest my title mislead you, I’m not here to complain about the sweltering weather this past week. I could, mind you, but I’ve whined vicariously through Facebook friends who apparently hate the heat much more than I do. (Truth be told, I prefer it to the bitter cold of winter…yes, even in my current condition.)

No, the “Hot Flashes” I’m experiencing aren’t really hot at all. But they’re no doubt due to similar surges of womanly hormones. That’s my best theory/analogy for the sudden onset, almost daily—sometimes 3-4 times in 24 hours—of an overwhelming urge to cry. It’s irrational and unattributable to anything going on in my life…well, other than the human-making chemical laboratory that is my very pregnant body.

It’s caused me to wonder whether there’s such a thing as pre-partum depression—although, having experienced clinical depression in the past, it doesn’t seem the same. It’s unlike the constant heaviness I associate with that state of being. (Granted, I am constantly heavy these days…heavier and heavier by the minute!) It’s less like a gathering cloud of darkness that won’t go away; it’s more like a black cloud that passes overhead, pummeling my spirit with an unexpected rainstorm—brief, but unpleasant. It does pass. Sunny skies return, and all seems right with the world (at least in my immediate surroundings, to say nothing of the oil gushing into the Gulf of Mexico, or the floodwaters filling the west coast of Sri Lanka, or the ongoing mayhem in Haiti, among many other things wrong with the world).

When the sadness surges (kind of like labor pains, come to think of it), I think: “Huh! Ugh. Oh, dear, oh, no…How weird! I really want to weep.” Sometimes I do actually cry, and sometimes I take a deep breath and steel myself until it goes away. The word “weep” that comes to mind each time triggers thoughts of this song, especially as sung by a local teen talent on our A-Town main stage about a year ago. Having grown up “under a rock,” as my first colleagues accused me (finding me woefully unaware of popular American culture prior to 1986), I was unfamiliar with this Beatles tune until Sebastian’s YouTube version showed up in my Facebook news feed. It’s a good one.



Sebastian turned 17 yesterday. Word has it that he’s planning to audition for American Idol next season. Oh, to be young and optimistic (heck, to be any age and optimistic)—it’s a beautiful thing. I hope Sebastian goes far. And I hope my “hot flashes” go away. I’m optimistic about both.

Image: “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” by Alan Aldridge, as found on http://www.mrmusichead.com/artists/aldridge10.html.

Para-normal

"I suppose parasols are out of fashion," I mused to myself while walking .8 miles to work under the blazing-hot sun.

"How much do you really care about fashion?" I replied, glancing down at my missionary/Mennonite-ish make-shift maternity outfit: A short-sleeved textured shirt I bought about a week ago at the Goodwill thrift store; a long stretchy sage-green skirt borrowed ages ago from my mother (I'll return it eventually, I promise, Mom); and periwinkle blue cotton socks, rolled down to the tops of my Saucony running shoes (which haven't been used for running in about 7 months).

"Not much, obviously."

[long pause, during which I imagined myself punching "parasol" into the eBay search bar]

"At least the socks are matching," I consoled.

(I wonder if a plain-old umbrella would do the trick.)

‘Manic Monday’ yields to contemplation of calling

It’s Monday, my day off. (There really is no such thing, is there?)

I work part time for a nonprofit agency, and I used to enjoy my Mondays—they were great for puttering around the house, doing laundry, paying bills, catching up on friends’ blogs…that kind of stuff (in addition to my everyday Mom duties of feeding, dressing, reading, coloring, breaking up fights and enforcing Wii restrictions). Lately, though—“lately,” as in the past 2-3 months—I have felt restless on these days off, unable to relax at home, wanting to be at the office where I can get going on my seemingly urgent To-Do List. Staying away from work on Mondays feels like sitting out the first 2 innings of a major league baseball game. (Or something like that.)

On the other hand, there’s part of me that just wants to be home alllll the time! Could it be the nesting instinct kicking in already?

“To work or not to work”—outside the home, as well as in it (the in-home work is a given)—is the much-ballyhooed debate of the past century among mothers. I’m not going to get into it here, except to share something from my favorite devotional book, A Guide to Prayer, by Rueben P. Job and Norman Shawchuck. In a section entitled “The Call to Ministry,” the editors share this passage from Evelyn Underhill’s The Spiritual Life (complete text at link):

So those who imagine that they are called to contemplation because they are attracted by contemplation, when the common duties of existence steadily block this path, do well to realise that our own feelings and preferences are very poor guides when it comes to the robust realities and stern demands of the Spirit.

St. Paul did not want to be an apostle to the Gentiles. He wanted to be a clever and appreciated young Jewish scholar, and kicked against the pricks. St. Ambrose and St. Augustine did not want to be overworked and worried bishops. Nothing was farther from their intention. St. Cuthbert wanted the solitude and freedom of his hermitage on the Farne; but he did not often get there. St. Francis Xavier’s preference was for an ordered life close to his beloved master, St. Ignatius. At a few hours’ notice he was sent out to be the Apostle of the Indies and never returned to Europe again. Henry Martyn, the fragile and exquisite scholar, was compelled to sacrifice the intellectual life to which he was so perfectly fitted for the missionary life to which he felt he was decisively called. In all these, a power beyond themselves decided the direction of life. Yet in all we recognise not frustration, but the highest of all types of achievement. Things like this—and they are constantly happening—gradually convince us that the over-ruling reality of life is the Will and Choice of a Spirit acting not in a mechanical but in a living and personal way; and that the spiritual life of man does not consist in mere individual betterment, or assiduous attention to his own soul, but in a free and unconditional response to that Spirit’s pressure and call, whatever the cost may be.

Say what?? We’re not meant to do what we want, what feels comfortable, what we prefer? Sounds counter-cultural…like Christ.

So here’s a question for my readers: You know the so-common-it’s-cliché prayer, “Lord, I’ll do anything for You, but please don’t make me a pastor’s wife”? Or how about, “Lord, I’ll go wherever you lead me, but please don’t send me to Africa”? What’s your limit? What prospective Spirit-led assignment makes you cringe? Personally, I would be reluctant to leave A-Town, for any reason (on a permanent basis, I mean—I love to travel). As for occupational resistance, I would wish to avoid the office of college president. Perhaps I could elaborate on the reasons why in a future blog. Or perhaps I would be wiser to keep my mouth shut. Not that it matters, since I’m not qualified. Then again, to evoke another evangelical adage: “God doesn’t call the qualified; He qualifies the called.” (Following the Spirit is dangerous, dangerous business!)

Craigslist betrayal and other small stuff we won’t sweat

I’m feeling neither inspired nor inclined to write a full-fledged blog post today, but here are a few thoughts swirling about in my brain:

I’m nearly 30 weeks pregnant, and I feel pretty darn good. I’m grateful for that; I really am. Sure, I feel big. Well, I am big! But my body seems to be accommodating the extra weight gracefully. My best indication? I’m still sleeping well, a blessing I do not take for granted.

* * * * *

Little Pearl’s personality is a delightful mix of sweet and sassy. Almost daily, she makes me melt and/or guffaw. A few small examples:

1) Although I think she possesses a fairly extensive vocabulary for a 4-year-old, she still words like fomembo (remember), betuz (because), and lello (yellow).

2) After playing out in the yard for a few minutes recently, she burst back inside, feigning shortness of breath, and exclaimed dramatically: “Mommy! I just saw a bee drinking nectar from a flower!”

3) She is very enthusiastic about becoming a big sister in a couple of months. The other day, I overheard her reflecting to Ben: “Ben, were you so excited to be a big brother?”

Ben ignored her and continued playing with his guys in semi-silence, punctuating the air with laser hisses and battle grunts.

She asked him again, rephrasing: “Ben, were you so happy when you got a baby sister?”

Ben responded this time, indicating slight bewilderment: “What baby sister?”

Pearl paused and smacked her lips, exasperated, then uttered the obvious answer: “Meeeee!”

But Ben did not reply. The truth is that he probably does not 'fomembo' life before Pearl. He was only 19 months old when she joined the family. So, for her, this new baby will be a much more memorable, momentous occasion.

* * * * *

We have a new couch! This is fabulous, much-needed news. Our previous couch, which I obtained off eBay about 2 years ago, had become hopelessly stained and stinky, written on by a few too many markers and peed on by a few too many napping toddlers. Two years might seem like a short “shelf life” for a piece of furniture, but since we invest so little in these items, I feel comfortable viewing the cost as a rental fee for comfort.

The “new” couch came from a nearby thrift store, following this failed attempt to purchase one off Craigslist: Will had made arrangements to meet the seller at her deceased mother-in-law’s house, but—alas—she called about 10 minutes after he had left for the hour-long trip to collect the couch. She said had sold the sofa to a more expeditious buyer. Since Will lives a cellphone-less life, we had no way of reaching him. He arrived at the house, found no one there, and dutifully waited in the driveway for 45 minutes before giving up on the woman who had betrayed him. He drove the hour home and received the irksome information with characteristic nonchalance: “Oh, really? Well, that’s too bad.” He came home with the couch from the thrift store the very next day. Happy Mother’s Month to me!

(OK, so I lied: This did turn into a full-fledged blog post. I hope you’re not disappointed by my lack of brevity.)

“Who cares what you have to say?” and a couple other under-developed ideas

1) On writing and reverence

A couple weeks ago I mentioned that a “talking heads” program on PBS had drawn me in. Part of what they were saying—“they” being Bill Moyers and Barry Lopez—resonated with some thoughts I had at the Festival of Faith & Writing last month. I had/have good intentions about further developing that notion, but for now, here’s the snippet of that interview that made me say, “Yes! I know what you mean!”

BARRY LOPEZ: People think that if you've written a book and somebody's given you a pat on the back then, you know, it's all—you're all settled, you know? You're going to be fine. I know that if I'm not confused, and really afraid, my work isn't going to be any good.

When I sit at that typewriter, I have to be frightened of what I'm trying to do. I'm frightened by my own, belief that I can actually get a story down on paper. I still have that thing in my mind from childhood, "Who cares what you have to say?" So, my path is the same path. It's still a path through confusion and lack of self confidence, and struggle and embarrassment over all of my imperfection. But I would tell you at the same time, I have seen things that have dropped me to my knees in a state of awe, and when I know that that too is there, if I can find a way to build with language a bridge between a failure to believe and a witness to what is incomprehensible. If I can build that bridge and then do it again and then do it again. I would hope that at the end of my life, somebody would say, "Well, his life was useful. He helped." A key for me, in recent years, has been coming to a better understanding of the virtue of reverence than I have ever had before, and here I'm borrowing from an American philosopher named Paul Woodruff—

BILL MOYERS: Friend of mine. University of Texas.

BARRY LOPEZ: Yes, that's right. I read this book. I think it's called "Reverence: Renewing a Forgotten Virtue." And he says in there that the virtue of reverence is rooted in the understanding that there is a world beyond human control, human invention, and human understanding.

And that that world will always be there, no matter how sophisticated our technologies of probing reality become. The great mystery will be there forever. And it's the sense that it's not yours to solve. And the issue of a solution to a mystery is perhaps not a sign of wisdom. I am perfectly comfortable being in a state of ignorance before something incomprehensible. And it's in that moment that you're driven to your knees and you believe. I wouldn't call it religious. It's just what happens when you open up again to the extraordinary circumstances of being alive.

And when you can open up to it and come out of your own little small tiny place in the world and say—if you try, you know, with typewriter rewriting, rewriting, and rewriting, rewriting. And you get something on paper. And you give it to somebody. And you say, "Well, what do you think?" And if it really works, they read it and they say, "I think I'm going to be okay."

2) Christian radio, classical music, and context

Will likes to listen to classical music CDs at our house. Especially mid-morning. For him, at that time of day, the initial “rush” is over. He’s filed a story or two (or more) in time for his newspaper’s deadline, and he takes a break to do some dishes, load some laundry, or pick up the kids’ toys off the living room floor. Pavarotti helps Will chill, apparently. But for me—although I truly love the genre and couldn’t figure out why, until very recently—the music makes me edgy. I want to turn it off, immediately! Or else escape, out of earshot, to a different part of the house.

I have a similar reaction to television or radio evangelism. (Here’s where I know I’ll have a major audience split: Some A-Town readers love their Christian radio; others would consider it appropriate torture chamber listening.) I genuinely appreciate good preaching—the art, the intent, and the theology. However—and here’s where the analogy comes in—when it’s out of context, I can’t stand it! When I want to listen—really listen—to good music or good preaching, I want to be in a concert hall or a sanctuary, not wrist-deep in soap suds with 10 other things on my mind and 6 other sounds vying for my attention.

An exception is the car: If I’m driving, especially alone, the vehicle can “become” a concert hall or sanctuary for me, and I can hear—really hear—truth and beauty.

3) Sure thing, sugar

Recent sugar limit guidelines issued by the American Heart Association seem so extremely restrictive that I’m tempted to throw up my hands and quit trying to behave. No more than 100 daily calories from any kind of sugar, including honey?? Puh-leeze!!

Proverbial medical advice to self: It is better to indulge in books than in sugar

Twenty-eight weeks today! The beginning of my third trimester. I am really starting to brace myself for the months ahead. I know from experience that these last 3 months of pregnancy become increasingly difficult and uncomfortable, and I also know that it gets even harder when the baby arrives. There is joy amid the stress, but there is, no doubt, stress.

Last week I picked up the latest edition of Sheila Kitzinger’s classic, The Complete Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth. The copy I pored over prior to Pearl’s arrival in 2005 was dated 1987, I think, so I felt justified in securing more up-to-date information.

I also bought a batch of books for Vi, anticipating the unwritten pages of summer vacation. I found a 3-for-4 deal on four books that had been recommended to me at the Festival of Faith & Writing:

Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell—This was one of A-Town faithful Auntie Jean’s favorites as an avid young reader. We actually have Auntie Jean’s copy in our possession, which I think Vi will come to cherish. However, for now, I hope she’ll be enticed by the slick new paperback version.

The Silver Crown (Aladdin Fantasy) by Robert C. O’Brien—Recommended by FFW author Sara Zarr. This one seems like the fantastical sort of subject Vi would enjoy, given her past faves.

Shug by Jenny Han—I can’t recall who suggested this one (was it you, Leena?), but I scribbled a note on my Festival notes: “Shug, Han, Vi.” Looks like an appropriately melodramatic pick for the summer before starting middle school.

Summer of My German Soldier (Puffin Modern Classics) by Bette Green—Another Zarr selection, which I remember reading as a girl, but barely recall its contents. I enjoy a good juvenile lit pick every now and again, so maybe I’ll relive this tale myself.

* * * * *

Since writing the above this morning, I have had a full day of work- and pregnancy-related transactions. Things really start to pick up as birthing day draws near. Last Monday I went for my gestational diabetes test. I “passed”—meaning my body is processing sugar appropriately and I don’t have to restrict my diet for the next 3 months to spinach salads and hard-boiled eggs. (Whew!)

This week I had to go for my Rhogam injection. As a woman with Rh-negative blood married to a man with Rh-positive blood, I have to get this shot during and after each pregnancy to make sure my blood does not attack my babies’ blood. This is a very oversimplified explanation. If you want to understand it better, Google it, but be warned: Googling medical information can be very scary and confusing (if you haven’t already figured that out). I have been through this Rhogam drill 3 times before with no ill effects (at least, none evident so far—3 healthy kids, ages 10, 6 and 4), but I looked it up again over the weekend. By the time I got to the midwife’s office, I was warily certain I would accept the shot, but not without qualms—and not without making sure it was mercury-free. (The brand my midwife used was—I personally read the specs.)

Still, I wonder if I made the right decision. So many health-related decisions are so daunting. There doesn’t seem to be a “right answer.” Doctors often disagree with one another, as do alternative health care practitioners. My chiropractor and my massage therapist, for example, are not philosophically “in sync,” as I assumed they would be. So what’s an Average Jane to do? Research some, pray a lot, and hope for the best, I suppose. If only life could be as clear-cut as Strunk & White’s.

One thing’s for sure—and I don’t need an expert to confirm what I already know: I gotta stop eating so many sweets! I’ve done it before; I can do it again. Now that Ben’s Star Wars cake is consumed, I am resolved to lay off the refined sugar. On that count, today’s check-up was painfully clear-cut: Up 7.5 pounds in the past 2 weeks—zoinks! Headline to avoid: “A-Town woman births 16-pound baby.”