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.”

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