I don’t yet know what my reaction will be as I look into his confused eyes in the delivery room and try to comfort him or what it’s going to be like to feed him or clothe him or hear his first cry. I don’t yet understand the weight of having created someone, guiding him through so many firsts, watching him grow and become able to live on his own, without me. I cannot even begin to know the breadth of this experience called parenting or what it will entail.

But soon, all those things I don’t know will become part of daily life and all those firsts that I have not yet experienced will be happening in real time. My baby and Danny and I will be seeing the world together as an ever evolving family unit. Through the years, all of those first moments will collide into a web of memory for Danny and I, memories filed away until we need to draw them back to us, and hopefully relay them one day to a young man who may have no recollection of how life altering those moments were. Unless we tell him, he’ll never know how much his life meant to us, who we were before him and how his very existence not only changed our vision of life but transformed us as well.  So, I’ve decided that I need to write him a letter to tell him the kind of parent I wish to be, to tell him how much he is wanted, how much he has surprised us already, and how much we want for him in this life.  Most of all, I want something of myself to leave him with, should anything every happen to me.

In an ever increasing technology-laden society, a hand written letter may seem outdated, even old fashioned, which is all the more reason I need to put my pen to the page. I know how important the paper greeting cards are that my father once gave me, the most meaningful part being his signature – his Love, Papa signature that I can trace my finger over again and again, knowing his hand touched that page; his cursive words, unique to only him, give me a piece of him back.   Now, if I can only give that and more to my son, something tangible for him to hold onto, something that cannot be lost on a hard drive, deleted by accident or disappear out in cyberspace.  Though I spend most of my days on the computer now, I as a young girl became someone through the physical act of writing, through the comfort of seeing my hand drawn words try to make sense of things and move me toward understanding myself a little better. As Joan Didion, one of my most favorite authors, so eloquently penned: “I write to know what I think.” And so, writing and creating something on the page is a part of who I was, a part of who I’ve become, and is something I can hand down as witness that I was here, loving this little known entity growing inside me and wishing for his healthy arrival.

I’m having difficulty getting into the right frame of mind to take on such an important endeavor. I’m thirty eight weeks pregnant and flooded with emotion. The impending changes in our lives are coming at us head on like bright lights on a dark highway. My mind is in prepare mode: buy this, wash that, pack this, make that appointment; must have all this stuff done before baby arrives. In order to write this letter, I need to turn off all the horns sounding off in my head, I have to stop all the running to do lists, the fury of worry and manic preparations long enough to sit back and look far into the future, toward a time possibly twenty, forty or fifty years forward, when I may be just a memory for the son we will soon meet.  That thought gives me sadness, and at the same time awe, that if all goes as planned, our boy’s life will remain beyond us. This is where the danger of being an older mom truly emerges. For I know, as a younger woman, the thought of my own mortality would not creep in this early. I myself am a product of older parents. My mother was thirty nine when I was born, and my father forty seven. My father passed away almost ten years ago. I feel the pain of living without him, every single day. And I know by having my son this late, he could lose his mother or his father earlier than most. I’m lucky enough to still have my mother who is eighty years old and probably more active than I am.  I can only hope that Danny and I live healthily into our eighties and nineties with all of the spirit and zeal that my mother has, and maybe we will. But also, maybe we won’t. Life is strength and fragility wrapped in a big bag of not knowing when it will all end. Life is always a risk, a tight rope walk from which at any moment, we may fall.

I’d previously thought that writing this letter would come easy, would be an exercise to further my elation for my new boy’s arrival; that writing to him would make me feel all warm inside, would give me this rush of joy at the anticipation of meeting him. I’m quickly finding though that this writing conjures up some not so pleasant thoughts: a vision of my son in a world where I no longer exist, a tremendous sense of responsibility to see to it that he is taken care of, a sense of purpose that goes beyond my presence in this world. We don’t have much money or security or material items that at this point we could leave to him. So in writing this letter, I must give my son all I have which amounts to only this: a small amount of wisdom and life experience, a sampling of wishes for his future, and our love. My words will need to express what a touch or a smile or an embrace no longer can.

Words post mortem hold such tremendous weight and power. So what can I say that will allow the breadth of what I feel and wish for him to be known for all time? I suppose I can only start by searching for the words that convey truth as it stands now. I can relay the strength of those that came before him, his grandfather and his aunt who he will never get to meet but whose same blood and resilience is passed to him. I can tell him the story of Danny and I, who we were before he got here and how the very idea of him changed us forever, bonded us to him for all time. I’ll tell him how hard we are going to try to be good parents without smothering him, how we are excited to be his guides for whatever path he may choose. I will tell him about all the places we will take him, all the beauty we will show him, and how if for some reason, circumstances do not allow us to show him everything he needs to see, he should seek it out himself, go out there and discover the many cultures and exotic lands of his imagination. If he sees a need to create something, he should create it. If he sees a need to invent something, he should invent it. He should never feel bound or held back. He holds the power of his own destiny. I want to tell him to never stop learning about himself and others, to read and seek knowledge but to also have faith in his intuition and find his own truth. I want to remind him to be kind, considerate and patient and to never feel entitled but to command respect and show it to all others. I will try to reinforce to him that he is capable as long as he has the will and the drive, and that even when the hard blows of life knock him down, he can always pick himself up and start again, for he is loved, adored, cared for.  We are always rooting him on.

So it is from a tightrope walk between ignorance and anticipation of what is to be that I must sit down and write to my son now. I don’t know what will occur on this journey to bring him into being. I don’t know who he is or who he will become. I only know that he is mine, he is ours, he is his own. This place I write to him from is the strangest, scariest, most wonderful place to be. It is life on the brink of losing. It is the realization of being a parent.

Up until this time, I haven’t thought too much about labor.  We’ve been too preoccupied with fun things like baby showers and car seats and a little boy’s first overalls.  I’ve been concentrating on the time when our boy would enter our home, not exit my body.  Labor was not something I wanted to think too much about.  Besides, I’d always known I was pro-epidural, pro-pain relief.  I’d be asking for that long needle to be inserted upon arrival in labor and delivery.  Why would I go through the pain when there was a readily available medication designed to take it away and make birth a perfectly pleasurable experience for me and those around me?   But then I started to read about the birth process, listen to and read birth stories gone awry and about the medical conditions that can arise when the epidural is given too early.  I started to think about how I as an individual handle any other type of pain, how I won’t even take a Tylenol for a headache most of the time, how I’ve never had a surgery or been hospitalized.  I’ve always been the kind of person that wants to feel a little bit of pain now and then, a little pressure so that the really good parts of life are that much sweeter and appreciated.  I started to think about the process of birth and how I don’t see it as a medical procedure but as a naturally occurring event that happens every day, all over the world.  And I started to rethink my position on that great pain reliever I was so looking forward to.  I began to consider what a natural labor would be like, what contractions might feel like, and how I really wanted to know what happens to a woman’s body, to my body, when that baby is fully cooked and ready to face the world.

The unknown part is most aggravating as there’s so much information out there on what happens in labor, and yet, no one can really narrow down what these dreaded contractions feels like.  I’ve read that labor pains are like the great great great grandmother of menstrual cramps.  This still tells me nothing.  Sure, I’ve had menstrual cramps before but they are more of a dull ache that make me want to curl up in a ball on the couch and hug myself.   By this analogy then, I should be able to handle four times that feeling, right?  I’ll just hug tighter.  Another description I found was to imagine a blood pressure cuff inside you around your uterus, it gets tighter and tighter and tighter.   Descriptive words like a tightening, squeezing, cramping don’t seem to frighten me for some reason.  I’d always imagined labor to be sharp, stabbing pains by the way women labor and writhe on TV, how they seem to react like someone is trying to kill them.   If the sensation is that painful, why then do the descriptions of contractions generally not match the reality?  I’ve read a contraction is just another one of those things you can’t really describe, like an orgasm, you’ll know it when you feel it.  Though in the case of an orgasm, you’re grateful for the knowledge.  Not quite sure if that is so with contractions. 

There is one part of labor for which I have found an appropriate description (excuse the graphic visual here), and that is what it feels like when the baby’s head comes out of the vagina, crowning I believe it is called.  In the “Big Book of Birth” by Erica Lyon, a gift from my husband (thanks Babe), they call this stretching and burning sensation “the ring of fire.”  To try to imagine it, the book tells you to open your mouth as wide as you can and pull on either side with your fingers.  Feel that burning?  OK, now imagine a cantaloupe trying to squeeze through there at the same time.  Pretty apt (and frightening) description, right?  You were warned. 

Still, no matter how frightening, thousands of women give birth every day in hospitals, birth centers, in the back of cars, in the bush, in the tub and at home.  No matter where they are, women are capable of dealing with the pain.  They may have their preferred method of pain management, they may do whatever their doctor tells them, or choose to labor naturally and find ways to cope and just get through it.   As tentative as I am about even writing this down, I think I am now in the camp of the latter group.  I can’t help but remember Katherine Heigl in the movie “Knocked Up” screaming this during labor:  “My God, I feel everything.”  For some insane reason, that ‘feeling everything’ part is strangely appealing to me.

It appears then that I need to prepare to “feel everything.”  From what I can determine, preparation for labor is both physical and mental.  It’s an endurance thing, which is likely why the analogy for labor used most often is the marathon, a long and grueling ordeal that has many moments of natural highs and devastating moments of body break down.  I’ve run a marathon before, fifteen years ago mind you, and I can tell you that at the end I was so happy and proud of myself for completing this feat, and I swore I would never do it again, and I haven’t.  But crossing that finish line is still one of my life’s biggest accomplishments, and I can see how labor is like a marathon.  Both involve months of training, eating right, and testing your mental and physical strength.  If you take care of yourself and train appropriately, you believe you will ready yourself for whatever happens along that route.  A marathan is long and tedious most of the time, but then there is a moment many experience (myself included) called hitting the wall – a hazy moment in time where everything inside you screams.  Hitting this wall typically occurs around mile 20 or 21 when your body may have depleted its glycogen levels.  Prior to this time, you as the trained athlete may have been fueled with energy and good mojo, when all of a sudden every muscle starts screaming, your legs are concrete poles each time you lift them up, and the air, the grass and the pavement fall away and you feel as though you may collapse.  Your body has reached a breaking point, and unless you can find another focus, somewhere else for your mind to go, you will fall down.  What gets you through is no longer physical or even rational, it is something else entirely.  The body itself is a wall separating your intentions from your capabilities.  In order to engage the body, to move it forward, you have to give in and let nature take its course.  You are present but in another state of being, foreign to you.  You need to retreat into that other world to maintain a temporary place of self imposed solace.  At that moment, that place is all you’ve got. 

Maybe that wall is what I imagine the most active part of labor feels like, just like that one time where I felt everything and I wanted to stop, I wanted to curl up and cry, I wanted someone to make it all go away, but I kept on, because that’s what you do when you commit to a marathon, you find another place in your psyche and just keep going.   And if you’re lucky, just as you feel like you can’t take it anymore, a familiar face will appear on the sidelines, rooting you on and giving you that support you need to make it the rest of the way.  In my Big Book of Birth, Lyon states that “labor is not a rational process.  It is a body function that is experienced as a gradually intensifying event.  You do not think your way through it, you do it.”  She refers to a time in active labor where you hit that same kind of wall as in a marathon, you’ll feel as though you’re “losing it.” If you can trust in your body to take you the rest of the way, you can make it through the pain, and a sweet relief will await you on the other side. 

I’ve been told there are no medals for making it through labor without pain meds, there’s no trophy or monetary reward waiting for you at the end.  But my desire to have a natural birth is not to win any kind of contest or even get a pat on the back.  This is a life experience I’m looking for, a once in a lifetime experience.   I didn’t run a marathon to win it, I ran it as a test of my own endurance.  I ran it to see if my body was capable, I ran it to know what the pain felt like, to see if I could overcome and get to that finish line, and when I did, I was soaring.  But the stakes are higher this time, for at the end there is not a line to cross, but a baby to hold, the sweetest reward after nine months of training.  I wonder now though, will I be able to get there?      

During labor conflicting things are happening.  To assist the body oxytocin and endorphins, those feel good hormones, are released to counteract the pain.  So apparently, we do feel everything at once, even two people at once for there are two people being squeezed and pushed to the brink.  For as much as I think this is my experience, it is not mine alone.  I am not one person, one body, I (we) are two people one body, about to be separated from the comfort of one another.  We will experience this event separately, and simultaneously, with a number of dualities and emotions converging.  It’s been said that when you give birth, you birth yourself, you re-create a part of you.  That version of you had always been there, it just needed to be realized.  It is my wish to experience that realization, to be alert for that once in a lifetime moment where that part of me appears.

 I cannot say for certain what I will do once in labor.  I realize the need to be flexible as so many things can go wrong.   But I’ve trained and prepared with birth classes, coping mechanisms and rhythmic breathing.  I have my favorite memory to retreat to when the going gets rough and I have Danny, my fiercest advocate, to root me on.  But labor and birth are still an unknown for me, and even with my best of intentions I could find myself begging for that epidural.  In the end, a friend of mine put things in perspective for me:  “It’s one day out of your life,” she said.  “One day of pain and discomfort, and at the end, you have a baby.”  I’ve always thought that I can take anything as long as it doesn’t last forever, especially if there is a finish line I can see in the distance.   It’s just one day.  I can do it.  I can lose it for a little while.  I hope.  

Though as Danny has relayed to me:  “”No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.”  My first reaction to that quote is “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”  No matter how the battle plays out, someone will have to surrender.

 I find myself more self conscience than ever as I waddle from place to place and though I know my condition should not embarrass me or stop me from doing what I want to do, I have started to feel out of place in certain public situations.  For instance, when I was home in Florida over Christmas, Danny and I went for a swim one day in the hotel pool.  It was the first warm day in a week so the adult pool was crowded with tourists soaking in the heat and sipping on frothy beverages.  I hit the scene in a tankini bathing suit that used to look ok when my uterus was the size of a grapefruit, but since  it has expanded to the size of a watermelon, the top part of the suit could barely contain me.  I felt like an Oompa Loompa in beige that day and from that perspective, I felt the weight of stares coming my way from those carefree people lounging about for their mid-day party.  Two women in particular were watching me as they waded their feet in the deep end of the pool.  I could feel their eyes and see that they were whispering to one another and I imagined that they were thinking that a pregnant woman shouldn’t be out in the sun (as I’d read that somewhere too).  But the warmth on my shoulders and the lightness of being I felt while floating around that pool with Danny was worth the risk and any disapproving stares.  We all need a little vitamin D after all. 

After floating around for a while, Danny and I started to swim laps slowly back and forth and suddenly I heard a voice from the sidelines say “You look great.”  I turned and saw the two women looking right at me.  “Huh?” I said with what must have been a confused look on my face.  They couldn’t possibly have been speaking to me, the buoy bobbing around in the pool.  The women looked embarrassed for a moment, “Did I say something wrong?   One of them asked.  “You do have a belly under there don’t you?”  Umm, yes.” I replied.  “I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”  She smiled and said “you do look great,” I smiled back and said ‘thank you so much’ and kept on swimming, gliding away a little lighter and more at ease.  She really made my day and gave me reason to think about the many strangers who have shared a smile or a quick congratulations to some self-conscience pregnant lady like me, and how those small kindnesses make such an impact.       

It’s strange how the pregnant belly alone will initiate a conversation.  My sister remarked this past Christmas that seeing a pregnant woman often brings back memories for people, of their own pregnancy, or of the wonder of their kids’ entry into the world.  Before I was with child, seeing a pregnant woman out in public never phased me one way or another, and I don’t recall ever asking questions of a pregnant stranger or telling a pregnant woman how great she looked, though now I wish I had.  I suppose I thought recognizing someone else’s condition in such an open way would be an intrusion into their personal space.  Maybe for some it is.  For me though, I’m enthralled by the interest and the well wishes of strangers.  Talking about my fears and expectations openly is therapeutic for me, and helps me to feel so not alone in this endeavor.  Pregnancy itself can be isolating, even with a supportive partner, as so much changes so fast; so much seems out of your control.  What I love most about this communication with strangers is the assurance that I’m not all alone in this, that an unlikely camaraderie exists in the universe of people who do not know us but wish us well, and send hope that this new life will grow and thrive.  I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the spontaneous joy the thought of a baby brings on.  Surely not for everyone, but for many, and it makes me feel a part of some secret club that I’ve never been privy to before, a club I never thought I’d be eligible to join.   

Of course, there are the downsides.  Some people take on the role as advisors or purveyors of doom.  They’ll tell you not to eat seafood or soft serve ice cream, they’ll tell you they almost died while giving birth, they’ll make a sour face at the baby names you selected, they’ll tell you to take Lamaze or not to take Lamaze and not to fly on a plane or jump on a trampoline or breathe.   Inevitably, they’ll warn about an activity I had previously felt quite secure taking part in during pregnancy until they put that seed of doubt in my head – drinking a cup of coffee a day for instance – a lot of people frown on that.  Danny can’t stand when a stranger tries to give us advice.  He hates the scare tactics most of all because of course he has to deal with the repercussions of me then armed with more “what ifs.”  The latest was from a waitress at a Thai restaurant who questioned my order of spicy Panang Curry.  “Will spicy be ok for the baby?” she asked with her head cocked sideways.  Ok, so what, now I’m supposed to take spicy food off my list of acceptable foods while pregnant?  Now, that I’ve already been eating all kinds of scrumptious spicy foods for months?  I held back a reaction though and told her it should be fine.  I could sense Danny’s annoyance across from me.  I get the feeling that the only reason he doesn’t lash out at this kind of unsolicited doubt is because I happen to be sitting there.  Instead, he politely nods his head and waits it out, maybe kicks me under the table when it gets to be too much.  He’d much rather nip it in the bud right there and let them know that their advice and doubt are not welcome here.    Because of course when you do not, the conversation keeps going and soon we’ve heard a stranger’s entire birth story, how the epidural didn’t work, how the nurses were bullies, how her husband didn’t make it in time and it was a horrible experience but at the end there was a baby so all of it was fine.  A story like this only makes a woman more nervous, more afraid, more of a basket case when contemplating her own soon to be birth story.

I try to be patient with these strangers who choose in some way to take an active part in my pregnancy.  I know their intentions are good and that by listening to their stories, I become part of an ongoing conversation.  I gain a little something as much from their ‘you can do it’ expressions as from their tales of woe, and I enjoy watching the range of emotion that crosses their eyes when they speak of their birth experience, no matter how many years ago it occurred.  It seems an unlikely gift to share in the magic of another’s once in a lifetime moment, a gift that connects us through the inexplicable and astounding creation of life.  

I want all the stories and scenarios for birth and child raising –the good, the bad and the ugly –for as much as I don’t like to admit it, issues surrounding babies and parenting are my obsession right now.  Each time I try to concentrate on something else, the little guy under my shirt gives me a swift kick, amazing me, that he is already so much like his father.

Then I turned on the news and began listening to all the new developments in the shooting at a Safeway in Tucson and everything became grim once again.  The world was definitely not safe outside of my bedroom.   

I’ve begun to fear bringing a new life into a world with so much violence and animosity.  Danny and I joke that our first words to baby will be:  “Welcome to the World little man.  You made it here just as it’s all falling apart.”  We are barraged with reasons to be angry at strangers, particularly those who take innocent lives because of their own ridiculous (and typically not well thought out) convictions.  The recent shooting in Tucson is just one more incident to be concerned about and disgusted over and begs the question:  where is our society headed?  And for me, I can’t help but question, how do I explain something as pointless as this to a little boy who I would prefer to view the world as a place of great wonder and discovery, not a place to be feared? 

Bad things happen every day.  No doubt.  They may not be political or highly publicized, but every day someone takes another life, demeans someone else, and/or is outright cruel for no reason.  I suppose before I try to explain anything to my son, I first need to explore how I feel about the countless forms of violence and hatred in the world.  I suppose I must be able to articulate that there is no real explanation that would suffice.  I’ll need to convey to him that he can’t control the actions of others, he can only control himself, that crazy and hurtful exist to give us a better understanding and appreciation for all the goodness that is out there, and that goodness – if you hold it dear and continue to recognize it in your daily life is the best way to manifest that positive force in your life and in others.  Do I know this to be true?  No.  Can I prove it?  No.  But I can explain how it has helped me remain committed to the idea that goodness and generosity will outweigh the hatred and violence, that by being kind and patient with others, we typically  receive the same gifts in return, by showing others respect – regardless of differing viewpoints or stations in life, we receive it right back.  And by recognizing that more people go out of their way to be kind than those who go out of their way to do harm, these tragic events can be learned from, absorbed and fought against.  I can only hope that my son will grow to see that more beauty exists in the world than ugliness, and perhaps in this very recognition we increasingly make it so. 

On New Years day, I read an essay written by a man whose sister kept a journal of all the things and people that made her angry.  She had explained to him that this list helped to keep her from lashing out in public.  She stashed away all those frustrations in her private notebook apparently to keep her anger intact.  On the surface, this may seem like a good idea but I think this type of coveted anger could have exactly the opposite effect.  By keeping that madness locked up in a notebook, do you really let it go?  It seems more likely that it will expand and grow stronger, like hot air filling up a giant balloon until one day, it just bursts.  Again, do I know this to be true?  No.  But I suspect Jared Loughner, the shooter in Tucson, also kept a running list of all the things that made him angry, a list that one day became so overwhelming he decided to fight back against people who were innocent, who wished him no harm.    His anger became a descent into madness, to the detriment of all of us.

Maybe someone who was not deranged or mentally ill could start a ‘mad’ list to divert their anger, and it would work, remaining simply a harmless rant on the page.  So, who am I to criticize this anger management method?  Instead I need to examine what would work best for me when I’m disillusioned and even angry.  For me, just the idea of creating an ongoing list establishes a sort of mantra, a sanskrit term translated to mean “”by the repetition of which the mind becomes free of external experiences.”  So, if my mad list is my mantra than mad is my focus, and mad is exactly what I will be.  This woman’s ‘mad’ list made me remember another list I had encountered many years ago that had the opposite effect.  It was a list that Tom Rhodes, a comic friend of Danny’s, had been keeping.  Tom called that list “Happiness” and he has a link to it on his website.  I looked it up after Danny had told me about it back in 2002.  When I first viewed it and read down every single one of his then couple hundred entries of the things in his life that made him happy, I couldn’t help but feel somehow rejuvenated by its simple focus.  It made me smile then, and when I looked it up recently, some eight years later, and saw that he is now at over 1200 entries, it made me smile all the more.  His entries span the range of his experiences and his individual sensiblities, from “hanging with my best friend Lou,” to “Finally getting over my high school flame” from “ice cream trucks” to “old dutch cheese on seeded bread with a Heineken.”  From the phrase “Heavens to Betsy,” to “Knowing  that there is no wrong way to do anything,”   What I truly love about his list is that it is a testament to the curious joys in his life, a list he can look upon again and again that will make him happy to have lived, that will give him reason to quell his own anger and work to add to his happy list instead.  That is what I want most for my boy, to recognize those things that make him happy, to be happy he has lived, and continue spreading that happiness by giving credence to beauty in all forms.   

In the spirit of teaching from experience, I’ve decided to start my own ‘Happy List.’   For me, this list is more than just happiness, it’s gratitude, a way to count my blessings.  I think it will make a positive impact on my outlook, maybe even make me a better mother.  I can refer to this list when the baby is screaming at 3a.m. or has just peed in my face .  If I keep my mantra and focus my mind on the people, places and experiences that have made life worth living, how bad can the tough times really be?  I’m sure once I get that baby out here in the world, he too will provide me with more happy entries than mad ones.  He already has.  Thank you Tom Rhodes for the inspiration and the happiness.  Keep spreading the laughter and the love.

Happiness 2011 – just a start…

1. Holding out for the perfect man, and finding him
2. Friends who step in and support you, just when you need it most
3. Henry’s Tacos
4. Bellys with babies in yoga class (even past due)
5. Realizing that tomorrow is another day of opportunity
6. The Week
7. Witnessing a layer of thick fog overtake the San Francisco Bay Bridge
8. Danny’s Big Brown Eyes
9. The Kindness of Strangers
10. Dancing on a bridge in Paris at Midnight (with no money left)
11. Red, Red Wine (The song and the beverage)
12. The Beat Poets

For the male perspective of this pregnancy, check out my husbands podcast “Little Help”  with Danny Bevins where his road to fatherhood is paved with outrageous advice and hilarious encounters with his comedian friends.

Wandering through the aisles of the baby superstore was a humbling experience.  How did we get to our forties without even a basic understanding of what all these things were?  I’d never been so perplexed.  The items were sectioned off by category (infant care, baby gear, nursery, diapers, toys, clothing ) which would seem a simple enough system to browse through but each section contained these foreign objects, other worldly types of gadgets that only served to confuse us.  Apparently the “us” in Babies R Us did not account for Danny and I, the incoming ignorant parents to be or maybe we are in fact their target audience.  We must have been quite a sight squinting at the products on the shelves, trying to figure out what sucking device fits on what bottle, what the heck is a front snap or a crotch snap, and the difference between a receiving blanket and a burp cloth.  We weren’t prepared to select from 50 different car seats for varied ages and weights with the boatload of accessories that can attach to them.  We couldn’t quite figure out what kind of tub to lay the baby in or which one would be easiest to store.  And I sure wasn’t ready to face the varied apparatus designed to latch onto my breast.  Isn’t the baby supposed to do that?   We got to the point where we just started aiming that scanner gun in all directions and firing away.  Correction: Danny fired away after informing me that shooting was the man’s job.  “We’ll just take back what doesn’t work,” I told him.  I had a feeling that would be most of it since all these products and uses were seemingly too complex for me to handle.  I envisioned a lot of experimentation and failure before determining what products we could use effectively, and which would be totally lost on us.     

I had foolishly thought that registering for baby gifts would be similar to our wedding registry experience when we ran around Macys and Target with that same type of laser gun, zapping up all the cool things on our wish list.  It didn’t take long to realize that registering for baby is nothing like that.  Our glee turned to dread as soon as it became apparent how very little we knew about this modern world of baby needs, and how quickly we were expected to hand over our hard earned cash (and that of our kind friends and family) to those who apparently do.  The list of “essentials” the store gave us was staggering.  Listed on their “must haves” registry checklist are 284 items.  284 items for a six to eleven pound infant?  Hmm.  We had definitely entered a new group of suckers, I mean consumers.  It’s especially surprising that in addition to personal items like breast pumps and sanitary pads, these “must haves” included wall borders and window valances, bath toys  and a blanket chest, stroller netting and a high chair cover, and the most appalling item on the list:  thank you notes.  Do they really expect someone to buy us thank you cards so we can send them one right back.   Their idea of “must have” for a newborn, vastly differs from ours.  At the risk of sounding like I might be denying our new child something really essential, I still have to ask the question:  Do we really need all this stuff? 

Given that I don’t quite trust Babies R Us to tell me what we “must have,” I myst decipher what a newborn baby really needs.  I mean people raised kids for centuries before without all this crap right?  Here’s my narrowed down list based on the main areas of care and my own common sense (what little of that is left).  Feel free to add or tell me I’m crazy for not getting that oh so durable solid wood changing table or the safety bumpers for a crib.  I am admittedly no expert in this area and could sure use the input.  So, here goes: 

A Car Seat (The first purchase since they won’t let you take the baby home without it)

A Pack n Play (a nifty item I discovered that serves as a playpen, a bassinette and a crib – all portable for parents on the go – it’s not fancy but extremely versatile and easy to take along)

Bassinette sheets (waterproof)

Newborn Diapers and a diaper bag

A diaper pail for the stinkies

Changing pad (the kind that wraps up and you can take it with you – conveniently lies on any surface )

Toiletry kit (similar to what an adult use but in miniature with tiny nail clippers, brush, baby shampoo)

A selection of easy fit (and easily removable) attire for night and day – including those oh so adorable Onesies

Since I’ve crossed this threshold of being able to conceal my growing insides and feel the heft of this hidden treasure every time I have to get up from my seat, it’s becoming near impossible to carry on with my reckless ways of barreling through life. Being careful is not something that comes easy to me, though ‘careful’ is a word I have to repeat to myself several times, make that hundreds of times a day just to ensure I take it easy. It starts first thing in the morning as I struggle to pull myself up out of the bed and my belly yanks me back in.  It continues throughout the day when I walk too fast and run out of breath, or feel a sharp pain in my side if I yank my laptop on my shoulder. I’m reminded by every kick, bubble and hick up pulsing through my gut that I am more than just me now. I have to tell myself to hold the handrail on the stairs, to get my iron and folic acid, and to put away the blouse I fit in perfectly a month ago and try not to be upset about it. It seems I’m constantly reminded that I am in no way the woman I once was. Strangest of all is the realization that I’m half the person and twice the person all at once. I don’t really know what to do with that.

I used to stride casually through life, darting from task to task, never worrying about exhaustion or the impact of too much caffeine or if the trash was too heavy for me to take out. I used to be a weight lifter, a fast walker, the queen of I can handle anything as long as it doesn’t last forever. I used to be so free. Now as I struggle to not fall asleep mid day, I wonder if there are other women out there who like me are just a little bit peeved at the physical limitations of pregnancy and motherhood, of not being able to perform the necessary duties of life as required. I mean I can’t even bend down to tie my own shoes. It’s getting to the point where I need a spotter. And if that weren’t embarrassing enough, three times now I’ve tripped on a step and fallen flat on my face, in public of course. Two times the falls came after yoga class when I was supposed to be feeling balanced. Maybe falling while pregnant is yet another wake up call, a reminder that balance is something I have to work at. Falling also gives me the immediate and ultimate realization that it’s no longer just me who comes tumbling down. Each time I head full force toward the ground, I apologize to my insides, I promise to be more careful, I remember that I am a mother and I am reminded that being a mother scares the hell out of me.

It seems most places I go, I’m the only person busting out of her shirt (at least unintentionally) and though I enjoy the belly love by strangers, I am finding it increasingly awkward to be around the able bodied enthusiasts that act as I used to. Though I’m fully aware that comparing my protruding body to others without one is an exercise in mania, I can’t help but feel out of place with all of these young hip things in L.A. jaunting about their day, hiking the canyon trails, and reveling in their lives of carefree social activity. It wasn’t so long ago that I was one of them. Now I try to ignore their unapologetic glee, and have taken to watching other mothers to see if I can possibly handle their manner of being, if I will actually fit in among their species. I observe them like a scientist examining her test subjects for signs of contentment, for signs of assurance, for signs of similarity between them and me. I watch them out at restaurants feeding their munchkins and trying to eat at the same time, at the park with one eye on the jungle gym and the other on a magazine, while pushing a stroller and talking on the phone setting up a play date or a doctor visit. I gawk at how professional they appear while performing a double duty life; how they appear to have mastered the art of calm when their minds must be whirling to keep track of it all. Will I ever be comfortable with the dual role of the carefree me and the protective one who is not naturally me, all at once?

The other day I bought a frozen yogurt and sat in front of a fountain while two mother subjects sat with their young boys (maybe 2 or 3 years old, young enough to fall apart) having lunch. While one of the mothers ate a sandwich, her son ran back and forth to the water spouts while his mom beckoned him back for a bite of chicken finger every couple of laps. Her main concern was that he eat a little but I wondered if each time he ran away from her, she feared him falling down. She didn’t seem concerned, seemed more to trust his abilities while recognizing her own need for sustenance. I hoped at that moment that I could be that type of mother. As I studied them, I thought about how soon enough someone else out there would be observing me in my new world as a mother, watching my actions and reactions and wondering if they are suitable to be responsible for another human being. Though I’ve always been a fan of examining others in their natural habitat and learning from that observation, I instinctively know that a woman could never learn to be a mother through mere observation. The job requires hands on training.

Still I am intent on seeking out advice and learning from others experiences. Danny and I listened to some tapes recently by Dr. Spock, author of the Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care, published in 1946. His suggestions were met with huge controversy at the time but his advice seems sensible and timeless to me listening in some 65 years later. The theme of his message is “Trust your instincts,” when it comes to feeding, clothing and caring for your child. He had also encouraged parents to be “more flexible and affectionate with their children,” as opposed to following a strict one size fits all regimen that was popular at the time. I liked that idea as I’m naturally more of a flexible person who hugs and kisses a lot, much to the dismay of my two cats. As Spock spoke of how we begin to learn to be parents as children ourselves playing house and imitating other adults, I could see that I was still trying to be in that mode of imitation, not realizing that maybe we all carry the breadth of experience within if we allow it to surface.  We are sure to make mistakes but we will learn from them. We will fall down and we’ll pick ourselves back up, promising to do better next time. And if we can always strive to learn and grow, and to be flexible with our children and ourselves, maybe child raising doesnt have to be so daunting after all. 

Realistically as a mother I expect to have times when I stand strong and times when I wobble a lot. Pregnancy ensures you get used to feeling unsteady. So in an attempt to stay upright, I’ll continue to observe other parents, read others ideas on child rearing and pay attention to the whispered advice Mother Nature gives me. I’ll remind myself to take what is needed and discard the rest. I suspect in the end that I’ll need  the child in me combined with the adult in me to realize that I am instinctively capable after all. If I can simply trust my own judgment, learn from my mistakes and  take challenges moment by moment, I just may be able to mother and still be the woman I once was, and then some, even when I fall flat on my face.

For the past two and a half years, we’ve lived in a one bedroom house that I had affectionately started to call the Love Shack.  Love for what we shared in that small space and shack because the place was literally falling apart around us.  When we’d first spotted that house with the generic “For Rent” sign out front, I was skeptical.  The set back shack was sandwiched in between an apartment building and a newer duplex, had paint chipping off the shingles, and some rust on the white window bars.   Perhaps it was the pristine million dollar homes on the rest of the block and up the hill that made it look so shabby, but I couldn’t imagine that we’d want to live in a home that resembled a college crash pad.  We made an appointment to see it anyway.  It was two blocks from the beach after all and having found nothing appealing in our price range, it couldn’t hurt to look.  When we were escorted inside, I immediately began to consider the possibilities.  Sure it was small but it had a great deal of charm with its breakfast bar, arched entryways into each room, and a huge backyard for entertaining.  Outside appearances can be so deceiving.  Judging from the fine condition on the inside, we thought with enough creativity and flair we could transform it into a little love hut.   Besides we had a phrase that had become our mantra as of late, like that of stump political speeches, WE NEED CHANGE.

This 1950s house in an oft forgotten beach town called Playa del Rey would be just that – a change.  When we initially stumbled upon this hidden community, I was taken back to my home, the Florida beach community where I was raised and where Danny and I had met.  Like my home, life in Playa beckoned as a place where things would be simpler, uncomplicated, a place of re-discovery perhaps.  At the time, we were looking to escape an area of Los Angeles called “the valley,” known for its dreadful heat and surrounding fire zones.  Life in the valley was not by any means difficult, it was just sort of mundane.   We were moving from a quaint courtyard apartment with a balcony and a sparking pool in the middle (very Melrose Place) and though we were tucked safely in our secure building with hawkish apartment managers, every morning had begun to feel hum drum with the same box stores surrounding us, the same traffic lights and suburban woes.   We yearned for something different, a slower pace, a small town feel and Playa del Rey fit the bill.  I loved the fact that in Playa you could walk the length of downtown in a few minutes and cross paths with a post office, a coffee shop, a wine shop, a burger joint, a juice bar, a French, a Mexican, and an Italian restaurant within two blocks of one another (all owned and run by locals).  Strolling in Playa, you’d be sure to see several friendly strangers on bikes or casually strolling with a beach chair hiked over their shoulders.   Playa del Rey, the town L.A. forgot to develop, was starting to look like a potential Shangri La.

The decision to move there was made like many of our important life changes, over beers.   As per usual, Danny was sure and I was hesitant.  He convinced me as we sat in The Prince of Whales, a casual Playa beach bar with baby blue accent paint on the walls and a huge smiling whale as its mascot.  “Please say yes,” he said to me with the enthusiasm of a fifteen year old boy anticipating his first sexual encounter.  I briefly thought about all the practical matters, the fact that we’d be condensing down from two bedrooms to one, that we would be paying $500 more a month, that we’d be more or less escaping the L.A. we had originally sought out, the L.A. that was demanding and busy and productive.  This town where we sat wanted none of it.  This town just wanted to be left alone to a carefree lifestyle.  Maybe that was what we wanted too.  

“Romantic year,” Danny said.  “That’s what we’ll call it.” And with these two little words served to me over the gleam of a pitcher of foam, I was sold.  Danny had found that twinge of desire that inspired me.  I pictured us living where everything and everyone slowed down, where the wide open skies would clear my mind and give me space to write, where the sound of the Pacific Ocean pounding the shore would transport us to a new level of intimacy.  This would be the perfect place to procreate.  If it could happen anywhere, it could happen there in this prodigal paradise where nagging voices and snap judgments are carried off to sea, where ocean breezes give way to a myriad of possibilities.  As Lord Byron, the infamous British romance poet, once penned:

There is rapture on the lonely shore,

There is a society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar.

We roared toward this opportunity and soon started our romantic year.  This is where it might be more compelling to say that living in this shack by the sea was disastrous and nothing like we’d imagined, but in the end, it was everything we intended.  Sure we were on top of one another in that house but that was kind of the point.  As Danny put it, we thought we were on a permanent honeymoon while we lived there.   We played like children, we dreamed like dreamers do, we acted like the normal rules did not apply to us.  We didn’t make much headway in our careers but we kept working, and managed to make rent.  We were joyfully unconventional married folk inching into our forties, escaping the conventional world and free of parental responsibility and care.  After two years we were beginning to accept that this would be our life, the kind of life where we nurtured one another and not our offspring.  We were cautiously ok with that, accepting that our life was in the middle of the murky second act and we’d get to the third act one day, just not yet.  After a couple of years with all this freedom came a little disillusion though, a lack of direction, until that fateful day I saw the word “pregnant” appear on a stick in my hand.  Suddenly, we had a direction, a timeline and a purpose.

The house itself was sending us messages and like the Eddie Murphy bit goes:  “house tells you to get out, you get the fuck out.”   The dryer broke, the oven started leaking gas, mold was taking over the bathroom, the rickety stairs leading to the backyard had chipped away to the verge of splitting, and a giant spider made a home on the porch.  We still really wanted to stay in the area with the cool ocean breezes and laissez fair attitudes, where we walked to sing bad Karaoke at our beloved Prince of Whales and where it always smelled like meat grilling on the barbecue.  But we were really starting to feel the mayhem of our current lifestyle and when given the choice of staying in our current residence that we treasured and moving to a larger and safer alternative, we chose the latter.  Yes, in these initial steps toward preparing to go from two people to three in our household, we had decided that our beloved little beach house we were renting would need to be the first casualty.       

Living back in the valley had become very appealing, even if we felt like sell outs, running back to the safety of our old neighborhood as soon as I got knocked up.  We’d made the decision with a clear head, nary a beer in sight.  We knew we needed cleaner and bigger and safer.  We wanted to be next to friends who also are parents.  We wanted a more mature dwelling.  And so we chose to settle back in that valley from whence we came.  Our place now is very “adult” and even has an upstairs with a view of those iconic skinny too high California Palm Trees, a different kind of Shangri La.  We have a secure garage and a secure door and all the modern conveniences we gave up to enjoy our rustic beach life.  

On the move over, Danny was Superman as far as I was concerned, taking load after load of boxes over to our new place daily by himself so only large furniture would have to be moved over by the moving company.  I, as the preggo wife, was not allowed to lift anything apparently, and so I’d tried to participate in this process by pulling linens out of closets and cabinets, bubble wrapping photos and dishes, organizing and cleaning, but I was fairly helpless in getting our stuff from here to there.  I felt especially guilty when Danny came back from one trip and told me that he’d been hauling one particularly heavy box I had packed and when he looked inside he saw a bag full of stones.  “I can’t believe you’re having me move rocks,” he said laughing.  The stones were parts of the earth I’d collected on California beaches over the years.  They are forming a collection of found things I’ve been saving to someday use in a décor project.  I love to find them scattered all over the seashore as remnants of the past, solid and individual and refusing to go away.  These stones have become something I need to take along, their presence forming a shape of the earth’s past I could never draw but feel the need to keep with me as a sort of homage to the past.  I had to laugh along with Danny though at the ridiculousness of him moving a box of rocks on my behalf when he was already breaking his back to move all the real necessities of our life. 

The line of what is necessary and what is optional is starting to blur for me.  Even though some decisions may feel as though we’re giving up a piece of our former selves, I’m realizing that those pieces and places I still hold onto never need to go away; they may find themselves in a box of memories or on a distant shore being carried from here to there, but as long as I know they are with me somewhere, I’ll never have to let them go.

On each of my first four visits to my ObGyn, she mentioned the Amniocentesis test as an option.  She said I should consider Amnio due to my advanced maternal age.  For anyone who isn’t familiar with this test, it involves a really long needle inserted into the uterus to extract a small amount of amniotic fluid from the fetus area to test for certain birth defects, primarily Downs Syndrome, neural tube defects (Spina bifida), and a few other chromosomal disorders like Fragile X, Trisomy 13 and Trisomy 18 which have never been explained to me, and to be honest, I didn’t want to know unless I had to.  I caved in and did look them up.  As suspected, these disorders come with all kinds of possible various malfunction of body parts and organs – specifically the nervous system, skeletal system, kidney failure, heart defects – and so many more that will scare the goodness out of you.   Does it really matter since the amnio cannot with any accuracy measure the severity of the birth defects, only tell you if a defect is present leaving you to wonder and generally worry yourself into an insomniac?  The real irony is, the test itself can cause complications for the baby including infection in the uterus and even miscarriage (statistics vary on that too:  1 in 200 or 1 in 400 or 1 in 600 depending on the day I suppose).  This uncertainty and the outcomes of the test itself weighed heavily on my decision to say NO.  I’m not just scared of a really big needle.  Sure, many women do it and it comes out fine, but why risk it if I didn’t need to?  Though the doctor kept telling me that the decision to do Amnio was entirely up to me, she kept bringing it up as an option every chance she got.  She either a. is extremely forgetful or b. is trying to push me to make a decision she deems is the right one.  I’d ruled out the option, and told her so on several occasions.  Could we move on please?  Apparently not. 

Each time I told her no she looked at me dumbfounded as to why I’d decline such a test at my age as I cited my reasons to her once again. 

1.  There is a risk of miscarriage and other harm to the baby.

2.  I would not terminate my pregnancy after 16 weeks when the Amnio would be administered, no matter what the results were. 

3.  Though the test is 98 – 99 percent effective in detecting Downs Syndrome, spinal abnormality or other defect, there is nothing that can be done to fix said defect or tell you how severe the defect would be. 

4.  Neither Danny or I have a family history of babies born with any birth defect whatsoever.  Why would we assume or suspect that our child would be the first?  Apparently, it’s the age thing again. 

Though the number of women having healthy babies after age 35, and over 40 has quadrupled in the last century, and over 95 % of these women have healthy babies, statistically speaking it would make more sense to consider myself in the low risk category and thereby assume my baby is healthy and growing unless a simple non-invasive test like an ultrasound showed something different.  My doctor is right about one thing, only I can make the decision of what I put myself and my baby through.  And I have.  I am going to consider my baby healthy unless I have reason to suspect otherwise and I don’t want no stinking Amnio! 

Just when I’d begun to feel confident about my decision, and gotten my pre-natal emotional baggage in check, I got some disturbing news.  I received a voice message from my doctor to let me know that they received the results from my recent blood work and to please call back to discuss.  I knew this was a problem as they only call if something comes back abnormal.  I wailed to Danny that “this is bad,” and before he could calm me down I dialed the number to the doctor’s office.  The nurse confirmed that I received a screen positive result from the Quad Marker Screening.  Note:  In this case, positive is bad.  According to the California Pre-natal Screening program:  “A screen positive result means that there is an increased chance for certain birth defects.”  Okay, frightening information that leaves a pregnant lady paralyzed by the possibilities, and what she could have done wrong, and what she should have done to prevent this from happening.  Then she reads on.  “Most of the time however, the reason for the screen positive result is NOT a birth defect (yes, they typed NOT in all caps).  The most common reason for this type of result is normal variation.  In other words, the amounts of the substances are different than average but normal for your baby.”   So how was this once again worried, slightly crazy pregnant lady supposed to take mixed messages like that?

The Quad Marker is a blood test where they evaluate four protein levels, both the mother’s and the baby’s.   The test comes back either positive or negative, and if positive, the mother is highly encouraged (almost forced) by her doctor to follow up with additional testing in the form of the ever dreaded Amniocentesis (Again!).   However, there is another option that my doc had mentioned, and the state of California approved, as an alternative to Amnio.  The option is what I like to call the INTENSE Ultrasound that is done in a special office, in my case, a California state approved pre-natal diagnosis center.    This Ultrasound would be performed with a specialist who would measure every organ and body part, check all four chambers of the heart, examine the spine and look at the overall growth pattern of the little one.  Basically, they look to see that he or she is on track.  This was the type of test I could get on board with, one where we could at least see what was going on in there, rather than depend on some fluid test that may or may not be accurate.

The results of the blood test alone were enough to keep me squirming around while I imagined that something was terribly wrong.  Though Danny kept insisting the test came back positive because of my age, I was still uneasy.  So, I did what any modern woman would do when faced with this unease, I inquired with Google, the know it all.  “Quad Marker Screening False Positive” was the first search phrase I typed; wanting to see how often these tests were wrong.  What was revealed instead were message boards with postings from women who were frightened like me, asking what others outcomes were to follow up testing and whether or not they should be nervous.   I followed all the comments of mothers and mothers to be and in not one reply to these inquiries (and there were many) did someone’s follow up find a birth defect.  That was the kind of statistic I yearned for.    All of the messages coming at me were those of reassurance and calm.  You have no reason to believe there is something wrong.

The first thing you have to do when going to the pre-natal diagnosis center is sit with a genetic counselor.  From what I had learned on the message boards, it is the job of this counselor to scare you to death by spiraling down the list of possible defects and why they may apply to your baby.  So I went to my appointment prepared for this person to be a monster of epic proportions.  I pictured this grizzly beast with nasty teeth holding that very large needle while growling ‘listen here lady – you’re old and you should be very afraid that your old eggs produced a defective outcome.   You must turn yourself over to us now. ‘    As I fidgeted next to Danny in the waiting room, I prepped myself for battle.  I would be ready to defend myself from the monster and tune out the growling list of what ifs.  I would then get my intense ultrasound, see my baby for myself and then run for the hills.

A petite blonde woman with a clip board called us back and into her office we went.  She was not grizzly at all, though I thought it a very clever disguise, the pert and prepared professional who I was supposed to trust.  We took a seat across from her desk and she started her spiel.    I had begun to tune her out when I realized that what she was saying made sense.  She said that my blood test did reveal a tad higher protein level in what would be an indicator for Downs Syndrome but not so much that they would actually be concerned.  She said most of the women that come through her door are there because of their age, that the test results factor in the age of the mother with the protein levels, and bingo, I’d hit that marker for automatic high risk.  She said that the test is precautionary and that we should NOT believe there is anything wrong with the baby and since my screening came back positive, the state of California pays for the test.  Bonus as the test can cost over $1,000 which may or may not be covered by insurance (by mine it is not).  The majority of people who come in for follow up testing leave with baby pictures in hand, and all the expectations of a healthy outcome.  Phewwwww.  Who knew grizzly lady would be so damn reassuring.  Danny sat next to me nodding and said “I knew it.”  Yeah, yeah, he was right.  The age thing again.  But now it was time for Operation Intense Look to occur and across the hall we went to lay back and see this being that was cause for so much concern.  While the technician showed images that according to Danny looked more like weather patterns on the Doppler 3000 than my lowly little uterus, we searched for signs of a growing baby.

I’m happy to report that I am in with the majority of other women in my age bracket who enter those clinic doors and leave with a positive (yes the good positive) outcome.  Our baby received an A+ for development and we the proud parents were able to smile watching arms and legs flailing about and hearing the technician report that all organs looked good and measured normal for this stage.  And we did get to see one very important organ that had formed without a doubt.  Yes, baby Bevins is a boy!  A strong boy.  A loved boy.  Now, the intense ultrasound is not conclusive, does not guarantee anything, just like the very essence of life itself.  We can only take this pregnancy and this boy with all that comes with him, one obstacle at a time; one joyous moment at a time, knowing that we will continue to believe in the strength and resilience of our son no matter what the statistics say.

And on what I hope is a final prognosis on this genetic testing for this baby boy, the doctor at this clinic said he would recommend no further testing and would never mention Amnio again.  Amen.

My initial worries came to a head at my twelve week doctor’s visit.  For weeks, I’d been excited that we’d get to see the baby on the sonogram again, maybe even hear the heartbeat.   I was still in the sickly and miserable phase of my first trimester and so this event was the prize I craved, the one beam of glowing light I’d been anticipating to get me through the first trimester blues.   I looked most forward to sharing the experience with Danny and I imagined us glowing and cooing at one another as we saw this thing we’d created together.   As luck, or misfortune, would have it, we were completely out of synch that morning.  While we rushed around to get out the door and on our way, we grunted at each other rather than cooed.   Maybe he was tired of being around miserable me, or maybe his lack of excitement at what we were about to experience was ticking me off.  Regardless, we weren’t of the same mindset that day.  On the drive, he was preoccupied making work calls while I was squirming and fretting that we’d be late and lose our appointment.  After telling me not to worry three times, we arrived at the office and Danny dropped me at the front of the building so I could make it up to the receptionist desk only five minutes late instead of ten. 

Danny breezed into the waiting room and plopped down next to me, immediately becoming engrossed in a magazine article.  Soon, a woman poked her head out of the back and called us in, not to meet the doctor, but to discuss some insurance issues.  She wanted pre-payment of $5000 up front before the birth of our baby.  “Blue Shield only covers $2,000 for a C-section and the doctor charges $4,000 so we need to collect this amount from you up front plus additional to cover other costs,” she announced so the entire waiting room could hear.  Danny standing behind me bucked up, ready for a fight.  “What are you talking about?  You can’t do that.” he said, voice raised and ready to rumble.  I immediately wanted to shush him so not to make a scene but instead just jumped in and said to the lady: “I’m not having a C-section.  I want a natural birth,” surprising myself that I was already insisting on this, and hoping this would solve the immediate problem. 

“Doesn’t matter,” she quipped.  “Still the same price.”  “Wait a minute,” Danny started in behind me.  “It’s ok, I got it.” I whispered back to him, thinking that I knew more about our insurance matters than he (which is true) and hoping he would calm down.  Though I was feeling his anger, I wanted to remain composed and handle this quietly, gracefully.  Meanwhile Danny’s face was gushing red and his shoulders started lunging forward ready to fight.  I’d seen that posturing before, usually right after someone cuts him off on the 405 freeway and he turns into road rage guy.   “Look we have to check with our insurance on this,” I told the lady who was now bug-eyed glaring at Danny.  “Fine, fine,” she relented.  “Do that and let me know.” 

We sat back down in the waiting room for a minute while we both seethed in silence.  Within just a minute, we were called in to a room but it wasn’t the room I was expecting.  This room had no sonogram machine, no heart rate monitor.  Just a plain white room with a flat white crepe paper covered panel where I was told to sit.  I was immediately deflated.  No heart beat today, no images on a screen.  The one thing I needed wasn’t going to happen in here.  Danny and I started to fight about the insurance thing.   I told him I didn’t like his confrontational style.  He told me he wasn’t going to let us get railroaded by this lady who didn’t know what she was talking about.  “I just think there’s a better way to handle it is all. Let me call the insurance and find out what are rights are here and we’ll go from there.”  “Fine,” he said.  “Fine,” I replied and we waited again.

The nurse came in and took my blood pressure which I assumed would be high given how I was burning up inside.  But it was normal.  Then she had me step on the scale.  Hmm.  You lost ten pounds,” she said.  “That’s not good.”  I couldn’t figure it out.  I’d been eating, maybe not a lot because I’d been so nauseous but I had been eating.  And all the right things too – yogurt, fruit, cereal, salads.  Given my healthy menu, I’d have thought even the surgeon general would have been proud.  What was strange is that I’d never lost ten pounds in my life and believe me I’ve tried.  Losing just 2 pounds for me generally takes weeks of starvation.  Who knew all I had to do to drop that stubborn ten pounds was get pregnant?   

When the doctor came back in and looked at my file, she gasped at my listed weight, shook her head and said I had to eat more.  “Try protein shakes,” she said.  “Eat big meals.  You need to gain not lose.”  Suddenly it felt like all voices were scolding and shaking their index fingers at me, while Danny began insisting that the scale was off balance because it was on carpet and I should weigh myself again.  The doctor shrugged and we headed back out to the scale.  This time I kept my shoes on, only nine pound loss that time.  Danny told me I wasn’t standing on it right and re-positioned me.  I’d never worked this hard to weigh more before.  Danny kept moving me and sighing so I shoved him away.  I was sick of being told what to do, and told that I was doing everything wrong.  My ears were ringing and I really wanted to punch someone.  So much for composure. 

I had started trembling by this time.  What happened to level headed me?   Danny asked the doctor if we could do an ultrasound.  Maybe we were in synch somehow or maybe he just didn’t want me to start hyperventilating.  The doc agreed and off we went to another room and waited for her yet again to come back.  The build-up of aggravation and anger and fear started mixing up, a mixture of poisonous gases about to explode.  As I sat at the edge of another crepe paper covered table staring at a wall poster of fetus stages, I held my breath, tried to hold the poison in to no avail.  Soon I could not stop the tears drizzling down each cheek, off my chin.  I could faintly hear my father’s voice “Here come the water works again.”  Then I heard Danny’s voice behind me: “You’re not crying are you?” with the same exasperated sigh my father would have had.  All I could muster up was “Stop being mean to me.  I’m scared.”  I see myself now in that cold room – not a 40 year old woman with all the maturity and sensibility that entails, but as a child carrying a child, and being treated like one.  I didn’t know what I’d done wrong or how I could fix things.  The only thing I knew at that moment was how urgently I needed this stranger inside me to live.  And in my off kilter state, Danny was only exacerbating the problem by attempting to control everything including me, and in so doing not sharing in my fear, my worry, my grief.  Couldn’t he see what was going on here? 

Next thing I knew Danny’s arms were around me.  His tone turned from disappointed parent to caring friend.  The switch in him only made me cry more.   At the height of my blubbering, the doctor walked in, shocked to see me in such a state.   “Why you cry?” she asked.  I wanted to say ‘look lady, you all are freaking out that I lost ten pounds, shaking your head at my apparent incapability to eat for my child so I can only conclude that I am starving my baby.’ But I couldn’t muster up the words, just the sobs.   “She’s afraid,” Danny said explaining me as I shrunk deeper into myself.

“Oh, it’s ok.  We see this all the time in first trimester.  Nothing to be concerned.” she said nonchalant.  I raised my head and squinted at her.  Why didn’t you say that in the first place?  As she tilted her head in my direction, her face softened for just a moment as she looked at my blotchy face.  “This is what it is to be a Mother.  You worry.  You’ll get used to it.”  I didn’t know how one could get used to feeling vulnerable and helpless.  Wasn’t that the child’s job after all?  As a mother wasn’t control the one thing I should have?  Control was nowhere to be found in that room and I needed it bad.

“Now, lay back.  Let’s look at your baby.”  Next thing I knew, quick little flickers showed on the screen – the heartbeat, then through the gray matter of what I’d come to know as my uterus, the profile of an infant appeared, with arms and legs and a little nose too.  The baby’s arm jutted up and down as we gawked.  The doctor said he was waving but I think he was more likely motioning to turn off the light.          

“See, all ok.  Baby is fine.  Mama will be fine too.  All this is normal.”

As I breathed a huge sigh of relief, I was shocked at how quickly my emotions could turn.  None of this felt normal.  My insides were the gray matter of the past mixed with forming of the future.   This person forming inside of me controlled me now and seeing him move had become a necessity rather than an option.   The fact that I was an older mom did not make me more sane, more capable or more at ease. I was still entering that unchartered territory of motherhood, and my head would never be level again. 

On the drive home, Danny and I were in synch.  We both wanted to go eat.  We both blamed the doctor for scaring me.  We both knew that life was changing fast, inside and out.   “I still think that scale was off,” he said.  Maybe the scale was off , but it had tipped back in our favor.  I suspected that being off balance and out of control would be something we’d have to get used to.

Let the long-day sun
Shine upon you
All love surround you.
And the pure light
Within you
Guide your way on.

I always look around at these women all peacefully singing to the unborn, likely envisioning this new life taking shape.  But I don’t think of new life when I hear these sung words.  I think just the opposite.  I think of passing on.  I think of my father and my sister now gone.  I think of a tunnel and a light and a place that I do not know.  I think of hope that someone or something guides their way on.  And that is why I cry, because I want them here with me, because I miss their eyes, their voices, and their pure light. 

A post on birth and death is not an easy one to write.  I immediately ask myself:  Am I a horrible person for even equating the two?  Possibly, though I must confront this issue as I’ve long felt that a death and a birth have a great deal in common, namely the intense emotion these events instill in a person.   I’ve not yet experienced a birth myself, but in the past decade I have lost both my father and my sister to death or the afterlife, or the abyss, and I have lost many a friend to motherhood.   It may not seem that the loss of a physical life and the loss of a friend to a child is comparable, and in many literal ways it is not, but hear me out.

This is a passage from my book that I wrote after my father passed away, a thought I wrote down after thinking about a phone conversation with one of my very best friends who had become a mother of two:

“The birth and death of a person are so close together it seems, all encompassing, completely unfathomable, both a miracle and a tragedy in their own way.   I didn’t like to say that a baby was a tragedy but in some way he or she is.  A baby is the beginning of a new life which almost always means the end to an old one.  The mother, once only responsible for her own life, would now be responsible, almost wholly, for the survival of another.  Her life would no longer be simply her own.  One life begins and another life, or the life that was known, ends.”

When I came upon this passage recently, I realized how applicable this feeling had been to the fact that I put off entering into the realm of motherhood until late into my thirties.  Calling a baby a tragedy is pretty harsh, and not really what I meant but at the time I kept receiving Christmas photo cards from friends that donned sweet little faces of their offspring, though the friends who had sent them were noticeably absent.  It wasn’t that they didn’t matter anymore, they were just excited to show their new family, and a moving on from one life to the next.  But I didn’t view it that way.  In fact, I may have even resented it a little.  At the time, I was still coping with the absence of my father who had died.  That was the only absence, and the only life change I was willing to examine and try to accept.  Perhaps I was also afraid of losing that part of me that was a daughter, a Daddy’s little girl myself, or I had simply lost the urgency to have a child since he’d no longer be alive to meet him or her.  Maybe I just wanted to remain a free- wheeling chick that travelled light.  All I know for sure is that I definitely thought of motherhood as an end to life as I had known it, much as my father’s life had ended.  I didn’t see a beginning in either. 

 It’s been almost nine years since my father passed and though I’ve come to some form of acceptance in the past decade, the pain has resurfaced as I consider the fact that he’ll never hold this child inside of me, he’ll never adore him or her as he did me, he’ll never have the best gift I could ever give him and I will never see the joy on his face acknowledging that gift.  But even with that knowing of what will not be I think I’ve come to terms with his passing since I find myself smiling most of the time when I think of him or look at his photo.  It is another event, another passing with which I have some unfinished business. 

I lost my sister Margie to breast cancer less than seven months ago.  She was only fifty six years old and I haven’t really been able to accept her as gone.  I actually refuse to think of her life in the past tense.   I haven’t been able to comfort my mother when she cries.  I haven’t written about it or talked much about it to anyone.  It’s been easier to not speak of it, to pretend it didn’t happen.  But pretending her death did not occur means I can’t think of her too much and that is becoming near impossible now. 

The longest discussion I’ve had about Margie was with the doctor who confirmed I was pregnant.  I blurted out to her, a stranger in a lab coat, all about my sister, about her curiosity for life, her many college degrees, her science, her art, her yoga, her anger, her joy, how she had been an atheist, moved on to agnostic at some point and in recent years, much to the surprise of my Irish Catholic family, started practicing Sikhism (a religion originating in the Punjab region of India).  I told my doctor how Margie was a seeker as was present in the way she lived and wandered, and that I always saw her as unfinished somehow.  My doctor, who is Indian, listened intently and afterward began to explain the variations on Indian religions, how each of them have a distinct set of rules but what joins them is a letting go of the tangible to get to a higher plane.  She also told me that sometimes when a pregnancy comes after a death, we feel that person is finding us again somehow, a thought I had the minute I saw “pregnant” on that little blue stick.  No, I don’t think my baby is my sister reincarnate.  And I don’t find myself following a new religion.  But maybe, just maybe, Margie is present in me still.  Maybe, she as the intangible remains as that ever-seeking force, not unfinished but a continuance, like this new life that came to us so unexpectedly. 

Death and birth:  the two don’t seem to equate, but the very idea of new life intimates the knowing of death, an end and a beginning that are perhaps interchangeable somewhere on this great circle of life.   I have one big circle that I put my arms around in yoga class, but that phrase “guide your way on” encompasses new life and old, sadness and joy, and a reason to continue.  In the end, as in the beginning, do we really have any choice?