Some Enchanted Evening

I have a son.

Wow...that's an amazing sentence to type. Well I do and he is just the best thing ever. Seriously, sliced bread has nothing on this little guy. Childbirth is a deeply personal experience, so I wont be posting the thousands of little details that made it so extraordinary for me. But strangely enough, the song that comes to my head when I think of those first few moments my baby was drawing breath is "Some Enchanted Evening" from the musical "South Pacific."

You see, our little bundle was born in the early evening hours. Labor was long and the moment they set his slippery body on my belly is a bit of a blur (the last part happens very fast, as you mothers can attest to). But after they took him away to the far corner of the room to clean him up and check his vitals, I looked over in his direction and strained to sneak a peak between all the nurses' bodies.

And suddenly, like I was part of some old romantic story, everything around me went dark -- except the path of my sight to his, in which there was a glow. He was looking at me as I was looking at him.

I know, I know. Say what you will about infants not being able to focus their eyes that far in front of them. But we looked at each each other. His eyes were so wide, so gorgeous, so intense. I can't imagine ever forgetting that moment.

Some enchanted evening
You may see a stranger,
you may see a stranger
Across a crowded room
And somehow you know,
You know even then
That somewhere you'll see [him]
Again and again.

Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughin',
You may hear [him] laughin'
Across a crowded room
And night after night,
As strange as it seems
The sound of [his] laughter
Will sing in your dreams.

Who can explain it?
Who can tell you why?
Fools give you reasons,
Wise men never try.

Morning has broken...

I will miss feeling the tiny tidal wave inside my belly

I won't miss singing into the ears of someone I can't see

I will miss (believe it or not) my belly as community property

I won't miss end-of-term doctor "exams"

I will miss unsolicited back and foot rubs

I won't miss feeling like a watched pot

And I can't wait

A Brave, Un-Special World

I saw a TV ad for the Special Olympics a few weeks back and it really made an impression on me -- partly because it was a great commercial and partly because I'm pregnant.

You see, I heard about a statistic, which was verified in this New York Times article. According to the May 2007 story, 90% of women who are told their child has Down syndrome choose to terminate their pregnancies.

It's honestly hard for me to think of anything I've read recently that's more disturbing and utterly horrendous than that. I don't like abortion as it is, but throwing away a human life over Down syndrome? Really? In this age of conservationism, there is nothing more wasteful.

I know everyone is different and has a different world view, but as a mother in waiting it's difficult to imagine what on earth I could find out about my unborn child that would make me not want him or her. That statistic makes me want to grab these women by the collar and say, "This is your child! THIS IS YOUR CHILD. If you're willing and ready to have one, does it matter how well it fits your idea of perfection? Exactly how conditional is your love?"

I defy these women to look someone else's Down child in the eyes and tell him he's taken away from, not added to, his parents' quality of life.

Some years down the road, there will be no more need for a Special Olympics -- not because we've eradicated birth defects, but because we in our infinite wisdom have decided these lives aren't worth living. God have mercy on us.

I know this post is super far on the serious side and emotionally charged, but you're dealing with a very pregnant lady, so I make no apologies. By the way, here's the ad:

Hint, hint

I hope that by adding a link (below) to his burgeoning blog, Superman will be inspired to keep up the great writing.

Grabbing life by the horns

The terms "grab life by the horns" and "jump right in" always conjure images of risk and reward in my mind -- positive images.

I'm not a thrill seeker in the bungee-jumping sense. But I believe in taking not-so-calculated risks in the way I live my life. Without them, afterall, I'd be seriously lacking in some grand rewards, none the least of which is my ab-fab husband.

Admittedly, I have little to no understanding or empathy for people who don't share my thinking in this area. The words "playing it safe" send unwelcome shivers down my spine. Why? What's the point? Especially when one's current circumstances leave so much to be desired. If you're unhappy at Point A and a happier Point B is attainable, why the heck aren't you moving in that direction?

I should have more patience for people who aren't like me; Lord knows all the long-suffering folks who have to put up with my own weird quirks. But it's just so difficult to grasp, this refusal to take chances and change one's situation. Sure, after talking to individuals like this, I find out they have taken risks in their lives -- who hasn't? But their years on this planet are better characterized by often unhealthy decisions that seemed safer at the time.

I think it must be closely related to the Martyrdom Syndrome: As you watch a good opportunity approach, it does so slowly, like a float in a parade. You have all the time you need to think up reasons for not jumping onboard. By the time it's right in front of you, your only choice (or so you think) is to wave and breathe a sigh of relief when it's passed. "Well, too late now."

That's no way to live.

Who am I to say what's the right way to live? No one, really. I only say it from experience, limited as it is. I've really screwed up a few times when I took a leap before looking. On the other hand, I can "safely" say some of the greatest parts of my life wouldn't be there if I didn't pursue the unknown wholeheartedly like a belly-flop off a cliff.

So jump on in -- the water is fine. But why take my word for it?

Year of the Underdog

What an intriguing year it's been thus far...

Last day

Last Thursday was my last day at a couple of things: Babysitting The Little Smiler and working out at Gold's Gym (at least for the next few months). I said goodbye to TLS without any tears...most likely because I'd gotten them all out in bed the night before. I miss my little daytime companion; three and a half months was a good run and I can only pray his next caretaker loves on him even better than I did!

As with most things in life, the timing on both of these changes was divinely providential. No sooner had the first day after the holiday weekend dawned than pregnancy began to soundly kick my butt. The details aren't important, but I suddenly find myself the kind of immobile that prevents me from being either a great babysitter or a great gym rat. So here I stand--or sit, rather--on the home stretch and feeling fairly worthless. But I know the time that remains will fly, and that's just fine by me.

In the meantime, a little something to commemorate the things that helped occupy my spring and early summer.

Things I will miss about The Little Smiler:
• That face--how could anyone not miss that face?
• The way his mouth would contort into a "Wallace and Gromet"-style smile when he was overly excited.
• That he could just sit on my lap for an hour as long as sound effects were involved.
• His crazy cowlicks.
• Hearing him attempt to use our door knocker every morning.
• The unpredictable and instantaneous switch from minor meltdown to burst of laughter.
• Touching foreheads and giggling.
• Spontaneous, unsolicited cuddles.
Godspeed, little man!

Things I won't miss about Gold's for the next few months:
• Seeing just how much stomach my favorite showoff can display without giving away the farm.
• The old guy who sits at a reclining bike watching sports without moving a pedal the entire time I'm there.
• Being a captive audience to whatever VH1 crap "reality" show is playing on the single TV set in the lady's weight room.
• Spotting my husband lifting some obscene amount of weight--ouch!
• Not being able to break much of a sweat or burn too many calories because I'm pregnant--just seems unnatural at a gym.

If you like sports and breastfeeding...

...you'll appreciate this blog. Finally Superman has flown into the blogosphere!

For the love of piles

I am not a dirty person. I like spills cleaned up immediately, and I think it's gross when leftover food gets the corners of the sink or counter crusty.

But just because I am a clean person does not mean I am a "neat" person. I appreciate a nice file folder as much as the next guy. Over the course of my life, however, I have discovered that piles hold a special place in my heart.

I really, really like piles.

Exhibit A

This was SUPPOSED to be a box exclusively for the maternity clothes JEB graciously loaned me, so as not to mix them up with my own wardrobe. It has instead become a dumping ground for clothes that have been worn briefly but aren't dirty enough to wash. I have emptied and reorganized this box no fewer than five times because of my love of piles.

Exhibit B

This is how I generally keep my shoes. I know: ridiculous. In my defense, most of my shoes come from Payless or Goodwill, so I'm not overly obsessed with keeping them in pristine condition. Still, it's messy and, I admit, childish. But I really, really like piles.

Exhibit C

Even my papers get a pile, or "stack" to use a nicer word. Though my old desk at the office looked like chaos to passersby, I knew what was in every stack and how to find a particular piece of paper in no time flat. I much prefer this to folders and a hanging file.

I used to think it was just laziness. But it's not. There is something in my psyche that prefers this method of storage. Is it the lifting and sifting? Is it the illusion of more "stuff" than is actually there? Is it just the chaos, plain and simple? I'm not sure. But the love is there, all the same. This is my ode to piles, which drive my husband crazy and which I've tried in vain to control.

A few off-season giggles

Q & A with child

Being pregnant is not unlike being engaged. It garners you a lot of attention and a lot of questions. I'm a middle child, so the additional limelight is welcome! Though in pregnancy, one does get asked a handful of questions over and over again (When are you due? Do you know if it's a boy or a girl? Have you picked out a name yet?). Not that there's anything wrong with that; there are only so many topics that arise naturally. But just to spice things up, I thought of a new set of questions for the expectant moms out there.

• So...when did you conceive?

• If your baby is born a hermaphrodite, how will you decide its sex?

• Do you want the baby to get your husband's bone structure since you're a little on the husky side?

• Is whoever's taping the birth going to be positioned at your head or your feet?

• Is there a theme to these nursery decorations, or did you just pick whatever was left on the shelves?

• Any hemorrhoids yet?

• Did the doctor miscalculate your due date, or are all women as big as you at this stage?

• Am I invited to the shower?

I'm doing something I haven't done in years:

I'm watching the NBA finals. Neither my husband nor I have a horse in the race, but it's been fun seeing the so-far-successful efforts of the Celtics to topple the Lakers (we feel about the same way for the Lakers as we do for the Yankees or Cowboys -- which is not affectionately, to say the least).

One thing that's been getting to me during the series so far is this inexplicable expression Kobe Bryant gets on his face. It's kind of like a grimace but also kind of like constipation. What are we to make of this look? Are you mad, Kobe? Happy? Incredulous? Confused? Arrogant (ha!)? Or maybe you really are just constipated? Help us out.


I have no idea. At any rate, judge for yourself. I know it shouldn't affect the way I feel about him as a player...but it kinda does.

Happiest Baby on da Block

Needless to say, Superman and I will not be utilizing this soothing method (nor do I condone it -- but this is pretty funny).

Things they won't say about Lois when she's gone

She rarely copied other bloggers' posts.

She got a handle on her boy-craziness early in life.

She was extremely disciplined.

She was a tough-as-nails, outgoing child who thought sensitivity was for pansies.

She preferred outside friends to the company of her family.

She didn't have a clear idea of whom she wanted to marry before she met Superman—and even then, because of her cautious nature, it took her a long while to figure out he was "the one."

She lacked the tenacity to set her sights on something and really go for it.

She took sides quickly and rarely tried to see things from another perspective.

She knew how to hold onto every friend she made.

She much preferred the idea of a career to motherhood.

She never tried to milk the negative aspects of her middle position in the birth order.

She refused to judge people by their driving abilities.

She had phenomenal self-control with no hint of an addictive personality.

She married right out of college because she figured her husband was as good as anyone.

She didn't put much stock in religious faith and avoided any discussion of the issue.

"I know both how to be abased and I know how to abound..."

...both to be full and to be hungry."

These are the powerful words of Paul the apostle. Have I learned these lessons? Not entirely. But Sunday at church, my eyes welled up with tears as we sang the song "Blessed Be Your Name," and I remembered a very specific time I sang the words two-and-a-half years ago:

Blessed be your name / when the sun's shining down on me
when the world's all as it should be / blessed be your name
Blessed be your name / on the road marked with suffering
though there's pain in the offering / blessed be your name

You give and take away / you give and take away
still my heart will choose to say / blessed be your name

In December of 2005, Superman and I were still newlyweds and $2,500 had been stolen from us. It was just before Christmas. Living in a modest apartment on journalists' salary, having months before dropped $2,000 on a surprise transmission repair for our newly purchased car, it was quite a blow.

The Sunday after we lost the money, our church music leader picked that song for the congregation. I knew I had to sing it, even though they were some of the hardest words I've ever uttered in a song. Warm tears rolled down my face as my voice cracked: "You give and take away / you give and take away / still my heart will choose to say / Lord blessed be your name."

Fastforward to June 2008. My husband has just accepted a new job with a better salary and better benefits. He at last gets to leave "the temple of doom" and, hopefully, for the first time in years, enjoy his job. My heart overflows with gratitude when I think of his hard work being rewarded and when I touch my belly to feel a strong, healthy baby: "Blessed be your name...when the world's all as it should be."

Once we learn to both abound and to suffer need, to be full and to be hungry, the real challenge is never changing the song in our hearts. "Every blessing you pour out I'll turn back to praise / and when the darkness closes in Lord still I will say / Blessed be the name of the Lord."