five for the fourth

Friday Five from the RevGals ...

1) Do you celebrate 4th of July (or some other holiday representing independence?)
To be honest, the Fourth of July has never been one of my favorite holidays. I always associate it with big groups, extraverts, hot sun, loud noise. I do enjoy the artistry and fantasy of fireworks, though. That's the one part that appeals to my INFP personality!

2) When was the first time you felt independent, if ever?
I can't say for sure. I think I've always felt independent, even if I didn't identify myself that way. I do remember when my sisters and I visited our aunt in California the summer after ninth grade, and one night she told me, in a complimentary way, that I am a very independent person. Maybe that was the first time I applied that perception to myself and found it to fit. I certainly felt independent when I went away to college in New York, but I think I was independent before that, too. (And I have certainly felt dependent at times, too! Especially now, at seven-and-a-half months pregnant.)

3) If you're hosting a cookout, what's on the grill?
We are not hosting a cookout, but maybe we'll grill some hamburgers. Funny ... my family didn't grill when I was growing up, so it's been a totally foreign thing for me. Thank God I am married to a man who grills!

4) Strawberry Shortcake -- biscuit or sponge cake? Discuss.
Sponge cake. Less dry, more moist.

5) Fireworks -- best and worst experience.
Best: The Taste of Minnesota fireworks the year I biked with some friends to the Cathedral, thus avoiding the horrible traffic jams. They were spectacular! But the evening itself was not perfect — Steve and I had been dating for a month, but for some reason we didn't manage to get together that night, and I missed him dreadfully.
Worst: The year Steve and I tried to find a place to watch the fireworks downtown, the year they moved them to Harriet Island. We parked the car over by the Dorothy Day Center and hoofed it up to the Cathedral, but that didn't work anymore, now that they weren't over the Capitol. Plus, it was so buggy. So we walked all over, got huffy with each other, and finally ended up seeing them over the top of the Xcel Center. We drove home in a horrible mood.

staying put

Last night, Steve and I went back over to United on our own and asked to look around at the birth rooms again. This time, they didn't seem so cramped. I think we must have seen an awfully small one during our first hospital tour. The nurse who showed us around, Holly, said there are a couple of tiny ones, and they'd do their best to make sure we don't get one, unless mid-August brings a slew of babies. And maybe my clausterphobic reaction was partly due to all the people from our class who were crowded into it the first time.

Holly also showed us the shower and tub room, and while I wish each birthing room had a private one, at least there's one available. She said it's not used very often, so I'm not too worried about that. And Holly? She was so incredibly nice. She encouraged us to ask all the questions we wanted and reassured us about things like episiotomies ("we really don't like to do those anymore") and their openness to birth plans, which made me feel good about the care we can expect. When we asked why United has such a high c-section rate compared to St. Joseph's, she pointed out that United is where all the preemies and multiples and other high risk babies (who are more likely to be born by c-section) are born, so it's to be expected.

Anyway, I left the hospital feeling so much better about United than I did after our first tour. It was almost exhilarating, the relief I felt as I stood in those rooms and realized they weren't the stuff of nightmares after all. So ... we have a decision: We are staying there and staying with our clinic and our doctor (who sings "Happy Birthday" to all the babies he delivers — I hope he's on call when we're there!). Cross your fingers that we get one of the all-in-one rooms, but if we don't, we'll be fine. It might not be perfect, but I have a feeling a lot of that will depend on how this baby decides to come out. I think the key will be to communicate clearly, have a well-thought-out — but flexible — birth plan, and be happy for the support we have (i.e. our doula). I know Steve feels better, too.

In other exciting decision-making news: We have consultations set up with three pediatricians at two different clinics, all of whom sound wonderful, so we'll have that figured out by mid-July.

And two diaper bags I ordered from Lands' End arrived yesterday — (already!) — and I love them both! The Little Tripper (mine has the fern green front pocket) is for short trips to the store, etc. It's sporty, and I can wear it as a messenger bag and fit it over the stroller handles. And I like that it doesn't scream "diaper bag."

The Triple-Compartment Diaper Pack (in deep claret) is for longer day trips, and the idea was for it to be unisex enough for Steve to use it, too. Both of these are so freakin' organized, with tons of pockets and compartments for baby bottles, wet diapers, cell phone, etc.! I can't wait!

I think I might also look for a cute, colorful backpack for myself that's slightly bigger than the Little Tripper, for longer outings ... I have spent so much time "researching" diaper bags online (a.k.a. reading reviews on obsessive chat boards!) — I think diaper bags could become an addiction if I'm not careful!

middle-class-apolis

Ray, who stays on top of all things related to urban policy, clued me in to this column from Governing.com about the decline of the middle class in cities.

Tidbit: The most middle-class metro area in America is Minneapolis/St. Paul. The least is New York. Here's more:

... The Brookings Institution looked at where poor, middle-class and wealthy families lived in 1970 and 2000 in the 100 largest metro areas and in greater detail in 12 selected regions. Big findings: The middle class (defined as those making between 80 percent and 120 percent of a region’s median income) is shrinking in nearly all these places (as it is in the nation as a whole), but the percentage of neighborhoods that can be considered middle class is shrinking even faster. Significantly, this isn’t just an inner-city problem; it’s happening in the suburbs as well. Bottom line: The likelihood that poor, middle-class and wealthy families share the same block is much less now than 30 years ago. And that may have ominous consequences for social mobility, urban investment and regional politics, the Brookings authors add.

chocolate torte goodbyes

Liz and her husband, Seth, are moving to Albuquerque soon, and some of us got together with her at Cafe Latte tonight for dessert and a little sendoff. We had a good time — such fun people to be with. It's hard to believe this was probably the last time I will see her for quite a while. I will miss you, Liz. I know life is going to hold many new adventures for you, hopefully all good ones. (You deserve that.) Keep on bloggin'!

'are you sure you're not having twins?'

I can't tell you how many times I hear this question. My pat answer is usually something like, "Well, the doctor says I'm measuring exactly like I'm supposed to at this stage."

Except ... at our last appointment on Friday, he said I'm measuring about a centimeter bigger than average. (They measure your fundus, which is the area from the bottom to the top of your uterus.) No big deal ... not much at all. But I've also put on nearly 40 pounds. And as I find myself waddling around, and huffing and puffing up and down the stairs to the office bathroom every day, even I'm starting to wonder ... is this going to be a big baby? Steve's family is known for their big Irish heads, so it wouldn't surprise me.

The things people ask. At least I don't have random strangers reaching out to touch my belly!

Anyway, here I am closing in on seven and a half months — 33 weeks, 1 day. Yes, just seven weeks to go! For those who want to compare, you can see earlier pictures here, here, here and here. And just for fun, I've posted a picture of us at Christmas (below). I was just six or seven weeks pregnant then, and we were still keeping it a secret from nearly everyone. (Ah, the nostalgia I'm feeling for those Levi's!)

And while you're reading ... any suggestions for replacing these dreadful drapes? I have been wanting to do something with them (e.g. burn them!) ever since I moved in! Except I don't think they would burn.

butterfly birth

Steve and I have been babysitting his niece's cocoon while she is away. Sunday morning, when we got home from church, we saw it had hatched. Steve unscrewed the jar. The new butterfly stood for a few seconds on the lid, then tested its wings and flew up into a tree.

We haven't seen it since. But tonight, Steve noticed some of the neighbor kids across the street with a big net, looking at something inside it. We cringed, fearing the worst for our poor butterfly. I hope it is safe and free.

a p married to a j

"You know what?" Steve said this afternoon. "I'm a guy who feels more comfortable making decisions right away and sticking with them, and I'm married to a woman who likes to hold off on decisions until she has examined every angle. You can see how this creates some tension!"

I had to laugh because it hit me that this is a classic Myers-Briggs difference found in many couples. "You're a J, married to a P," I said.

It feels like we are in the midst of a pile of decisions we have to make ...

Which pediatrician will we choose? (The woman in the office in Midway? One of the doctors in the building next to United? Which one there should we try to meet with ahead of time? What issues do we ask about? What's most important to us?)

Will I deliver at United or St. Joseph's? (And when will we make that call? My gut tells me I will be more comfortable and calm in the atmosphere at St. Joseph's, and that says a lot. Our doula loves St. Joe's, too. But that means giving up the familiarity of the clinic where we've been getting our prenatal care. And Roxy said she had a good experience at United, even though she didn't have one of the all-in-one, labor-delivery-recovery rooms.)

If I switch caregivers, how will I go about it? (Cold turkey, or keep up a relationship with both of them until closer to the delivery? At which hospital should we preregister?)

Will we circumcise the baby? (I think I'm going to leave this decision up to Steve.)

Should I spring for one of those cute Fleurville or Bumble Bags diaper bags or go with one of the practical — and highly rated — Lands' End models? (Or both?! Or pick something up at Target?)

Should I get the chest xray now or wait until after the baby is born? (On one hand, there is this nagging, persistent cough that hasn't gone away since I had a bad cold in February. The doctor couldn't hear anything wierd through the stethoscope, yet if it's something else, like mild walking pneumonia, that could be bad. On the other hand, can an xray of this level hurt the baby? The doctor says no, but yet I worry. And is the chance of the xray finding something high enough to warrant the risk? Again, I wonder ...)

Today in the parking lot of the accountant's office, as we stood outside our cars getting ready to drive home, Steve and I revisited the latest developments on the hospital question. I mentioned I'd mailed in the request to have a copy of my prenatal records sent to the midwives' office and have another appointment with the midwife on Friday. I sensed him tensing up. My thought, I told him, is that we can go back and forth between our current clinic and the midwife for a few weeks until we have a clearer idea of how the end of pregnancy is looking and whether any problems crop up.

Steve is a little resistant. It's harder for him to not know now. He likes certainty and finality. And the idea of changing hospitals and caregivers is stressful for him. (It is for me, too, truth be told, but I have more at stake.) It's hard for him to fathom having to get used to another parking ramp, another driving route, when he has timed out the drive from our house to United so well. (Eight minutes in light traffic on 35E. Ten to 12 minutes going up Grand.)

Plus, he likes our doctor, and it's true we've had great care at Allina Parkview. But they only deliver at United, and United gave me the willies on our hospital tour. It turns out we aren't guaranteed one of the all-in-one rooms that initially attracted me to the hospital. We have a three-in-four chance of getting one of those rooms if my pregnancy remains normal. If I develop any problems, or if the seven all-in-one rooms are full, it's labor and delivery in one of the small rooms (which made me feel clausterphobic) without a tub or shower, and recovery in another room. On the other hand, at St. Joseph's, all maternity patients labor, deliver and recover in a comfortable, all-in-one room, with a private tub and shower. They were nice rooms. I got good vibes when Steve and I went to visit them. They felt calmer, and I got the feeling birthing at St. Joe's is not quite so adrenalin-charged as it could be at United. Plus, a midwife would likely deliver the baby. Yes, United has a Level III NICU. But St. Joe's has a Level II, which is not so bad. — and St. Joe's has a much lower c-section rate than United. I put these things on a scale and have to decide: What's more important? The highest-level NICU, or a calm birth environment that might make the delivery easier and less likely to need to interventions that could put the baby at risk or lead to a c-section?

Anyway, I have spelled out these concerns plenty of times in the past month. They are written into my brain and infiltrate my dreams at night. I long for a clear sign from God telling me exactly what to do, but for now, I feel I just need to hold onto the questions and wait until I know more, feel more sure. Who knows? Maybe it will come down to the final hour when I'm in labor. ("You know what? Let's head over to St. Joseph's!") I think I'd be OK with that, but it will drive Steve up the wall if we don't make a decision soon. I feel awful knowing this ongoing discernment causes him stress. And, in fact, it's probably good for me to be married to someone who is good at making decisions — I have been known to dilly-dally (or obsess) too long over things. Yet I cannot let go of this quite yet.

showered with books

My coworkers are the best. Yesterday, they showered me (almost literally) with copies of their favorite childhood books — a complete, but wonderful, surprise! I knew they were throwing me a shower, but I wasn't expecting it to feel so meaningful and personal. Or to go home with a library of reading material for our baby.

My cubicle-neighbor Julie engineered the plan. The thing is, I've always thought a children's book shower would be fun, but I'd never mentioned it to anyone at work. Julie came up with it on her own after hearing me say one day that I look forward to reading to our baby. What a great sense she has for people! Apparently, my coworkers have been coming in and handing her their books right under my nose. They have to pass me to get to her, so people were smuggling them in under their shirts, in nondescript bags, etc. I had no idea. (Julie: "I've been feeling rather sneaky the past two weeks!")

The shower was at The Liffey, an Irish pub-style restaurant in St. Paul, which was a nice touch for a lover of things Irish, even if I was unable to have a Guinness. The books were stacked in a very nice Combi rocker/bouncer, which vibrates when you push one of the buttons. (That's a nice gift, too!) People also wrote down their best parenting advice, which I slid into the pages of a cute photo album and read aloud when they all were collected.

Steve and I had a good time looking at the books last night. There are classics we remember — The Giving Tree, Fun With Dick and Jane, The Lorax, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day — and some I hadn't seen before. Inside the covers, each person had written a note to Steve and me, telling us what the book had meant to them when they were children, or how much they enjoyed reading it to their babies. It was really moving.

I have typically dreaded baby showers for a number of reasons. Silly games, large groups of women sitting around chattering and watching one woman open gifts — not my thing. And for women struggling with infertility, it can be incredibly tough to sit through the seas of baby-themed wrapping paper, decorations, baby talk, etc. But I have to say, the two showers that have given for Steve and me have felt very nice for us — probably because the people throwing them know us and love us enough to tailor them to our tastes. Fairly low-key, no "guess the household product inside this diaper" games, and the dads are as welcome as the moms. What nice ways to celebrate this much-loved, much-wanted baby!

some days

Some days, the idea of giving birth sends excitement and breathless anticipation bubbling around my head: A rite of passage that's spiritual as well as physical. Meeting the challenge. Inner strength and focus. Our wonderful doula. Steve's amazing supportiveness. The moment when they pull the baby out and put him on my chest and we meet him face-to-face for the first time. How I'll probably cry, just like I cry when I see it in the videos in childbirth class.

Other days — like those mornings when my belly aches with hugeness and it's all I can do to roll over in bed — it's mild panic: Is this baby really going to come out of me? How am I possibly going to get through it? Will I be ready, or is it going to come when I'm not expecting it? Can I handle the pain?

I notice that the excitement images are all just images — the feeling of me dealing, handling it, maybe struggling, maybe not having it all together all the time, but getting through it.

And the anxiety images are all in the form of questions. I've never noticed that before, but I think it's true of me: When I'm in panic mode, it's because of the unknowns. When I'm feeling confident and positive, it's drawn from some inner place that seems to know myself, or at least believe in myself and my resources. How very interesting that is ... something to ponder.

the circ wars

We're in the middle of an ongoing conversation about whether to have our son circumcised. It's a tough one. We didn't know how controversial an issue this is until it came up in our childbirth class last week. Now we've been going back and forth about it. I've been looking at Web sites (some of which are VERY biased) and blog discussions, such as this one, this one and this one; and we've been talking about what either decision could mean for our son, his well-being, his locker room reputation and his future sex life. Not something I imagined we'd be talking about two months before he was born.

On one hand, we have learned:

The United States is the only country in the world that routinely circumcises baby boys for non-religious reasons. And rates are going down, although they're highest in the Midwest. Statistics I've read are along these lines: Nationally, about 56 percent of newborn males were circumcised in 2003, down about 7 percent from 2001 and even more from previous decades, according to the National Hospital Discharge Survey. The Midwest led the country with about 78 percent, followed by the Northeast with 65 percent and the South with 58 percent. The West trailed with 31 percent. (In Great Britain, in comparison, it's more like 10 percent.)

There is no medical reason that a baby needs to be circumcised, according to the American Academy of Pediatrics, which does not find enough benefits to recommend it as a routine procedure except for religious reasons.

There can be complications as a result of the procedure — bleeding, infection, damage to the penis.

The foreskin contains some of the most sensitive nerve endings in the body and provides a lot of sexual pleasure. Why cut it off arbitrarily? We don't cut off any other part of the body that way.

It's an incredibly painful experience, and unlike adults, babies don't know that the pain won't last forever, so it could be very traumatic for them. Even when the penis is numbed, it doesn't remove all the pain, and the residual effects can last for days, if not weeks. Some opponents of circumcision say this can interfere with bonding with a new baby and getting him to breastfeed.

On the other hand:

What if he gets teased in the locker room for being "different"? Let's face it — our son is probably going to be a little on the geeky side. Why give him another source of ammunition for the bullies? Especially when it involves the very definition of his manhood? (Maybe that won't even be an issue, though. Maybe he'll even develop a sense of confidence about it: MY parents didn't cut off part of my body. Why did yours?)

Circumcised penises are cleaner, less prone to infections and easier to care for. (Teaching good hygiene virtually eliminates that problem, though.)

Some studies point to a (miniscule) decrease in urinary tract infections, penile cancer and sexually transmitted diseases in males who are circumcised.

Circumcisions are a lot more complicated and painful later in life, and sometimes (thought not often) they are necessary. Wouldn't it be better to get it done when he's a baby?

Will being uncircumcised interfere with his sex life? Will he be rejected or ridiculed by women who prefer their men "cut," or will the right woman love him for who he is? (As his parents, we don't want him sleeping around anyway!!)

Circumcised men supposedly "last" longer in bed because they don't have all that extra sensitivity in the foreskin.

Some uncircumcised men say it's harder to keep a condom on. Does that interfere with safe sex?

Ugh. What to do? Should I leave the decision up to Steve and let go of it? As the Lemmondrop's mother, I don't want him to go through such pain. And I don't want a part of his body cut off for no reason, either. And it's becoming more common to leave babies uncircumcized. ... But not so much in the Midwest. And I don't want to set him up for possible emotional pain, teasing or sexual rejection later in life on account of not being like everyone else.

Whatever we decide, I have a feeling this is just the first of many tough decisions that will inspire our urge to protect him and keep him from harm ... just a glimpse of what motherhood will be like.

yes i will yes

Today is Bloomsday, the day when Dubliners commemorate the events of the novel Ulysses by James Joyce, which takes place all on one day 102 years ago — June 16, 1904. (This year, I hear, some Bloomsday events are being cancelled or cut back due to the state funeral today of the late prime minister, Charles Haughey.) The main character, Leopold Bloom, is an ordinary Dubliner who makes his way, odyssey-like, through a day in the life of his urban landscape. (Funny how Leopold Bloom is also the name of the uptight accountant in The Producers.)

Most people haven't read the whole book if any (present company included), and although it seems obvious from the title, I never realized how much Ulysses parallels Homer's Odyssey until last summer, when we were in Dublin (fittingly). A professor friend of the archbishop (who was our leader on the trip) joined us for a few days, and one morning, he sat with Steve and me for breakfast in our hotel. He teaches philosophy at a college in New York. Brilliant man, the kind of brilliance I want to soak up but know I can never emulate. Who shuts themselves at home to read Oscar Wilde's entire oevre over a weekend, just for fun? Not me — would that I were so scholarly. But I do like to ask questions, so I took the opportunity to talk to him about Ulysses, and it was interesting to hear him break it down over breakfast. Leopold's wife, Molly, is Penelope, and she is being courted by another man. Leopold is Odysseus, and to win her back, he must undertake a series of trials. The funeral of a local man is the descent to Hades. Barmaids and singers serve as the sirens. Stephen Dedalus (a character who loosely resembles James Joyce) represents Odysseus' son, Telemachus.

Ulysses has a famous ending, and even people who haven't read it probably know of those famous last words of the book, culminating in "Yes." It's when Molly Bloom delivers a stream-of-consciousness soliloquy ending with her ardent recollection of her first passionate encounter with Leopold. Last October, while I was taking a poetry class, I happened to run across those pages, and I decided to shape the final words into a cinquain (22 syllables distributed as 2, 4, 6, 8, 2, in five lines) as a practice exercise. The words fell into place perfectly.

I drew
Him down to me
And his heart was going
Like mad and yes I said yes I
Will Yes.

moving to paradise

When I was growing up in Portland, my parents used to take us hiking in the Columbia Gorge. It's a breathtaking drive inland along the Columbia River. Waterfalls — the tall, gushing ones that look like the white tails of unicorns — come crashing down the sides of the gorge, and we would hike behind them under dark, slippery rocks and feel the spray on our faces. Windsurfers dot the river with their colorful sails under the blue sky. The forests are so deep and green with tall pines and moss and ferns that I always imagined elves and magical creatures living in them. Even today, when I go back, I feel as if I'm in a place out of time — kind of like I feel on the North Shore, but this goes further back into my memories. It's my geographical soul.

Now it will be my sister's home. Susanne is moving to Hood River, the windsurfing capital of the world, where lush fruit orchards thrive in the shadow of Mount Hood. It's about an hour's drive from Portland, and I itch to be closer so I can visit her more often. After many grueling years of part-time CPA school at Portland State University — years in which she also worked full-time and underwent open-heart surgery as a complication of cancer — she's got a job as an accountant in Hood River. I'm really proud of her, for all she has gone through. I'm also kind of envious: For all that Steve and I dream of moving to a quieter, more peaceful life on the North Shore, Sue is actually making it happen. She'll be near the river, and there are fruit farms, lavender fields and wineries all around her. She's leaving the bustle of her downtown apartment, but she won't be far. She can always drive in on the weekends if she needs some urban nightlife or wants to visit the family.

Godspeed, Susanne, as you start your new job next week — and this new chapter of your life. I hope you soak in all that the Gorge has to offer. Live fully every day, and let the wind of the river rush through you and make you strong and healthy, like Heidi in the Alps. ;-) And keep a light on at your new place — you know Steve and the Lemmondrop and I will visit every moment we can.

(Photos are from the Web.)

no wal-mart organic for me

From The New York Times Magazine last week: One good reason I'll stick to shopping at our local food co-op.

It seems Wal-Mart is going to start selling organic foods at more affordable prices than people are used to seeing. Sounds good on the surface. However, as author Michael Pollan writes:

"Before you pour yourself a celebratory glass of Wal-Mart organic milk, you might want to ask a few questions about how the company plans to achieve its laudable goals. Assuming that it's possible at all, how exactly would Wal-Mart get the price of organic food down to a level just 10 percent higher than that of its everyday food? To do so would virtually guarantee that Wal-Mart's version of cheap organic food is not sustainable, at least not in any meaningful sense of that word. To index the price of organic to the price of conventional is to give up, right from the start, on the idea, once enshrined in the organic movement, that food should be priced not high or low but responsibly. As the organic movement has long maintained, cheap industrial food is cheap only because the real costs of producing it are not reflected in the price at the checkout. Rather, those costs are charged to the environment ...

To say you can sell organic food for 10 percent more than you sell irresponsibly priced food suggests that you don't really get it — that you plan to bring business-as-usual principles of industrial 'efficiency' and 'economies of scale' to a system of food production that was supposed to mimic the logic of natural systems rather than that of the factory.

We have already seen what happens when the logic of the factory is applied to organic food production. The industrialization of organic agriculture, which Wal-Mart's involvement will only deepen, has already given us 'organic feedlots' — two words that I never thought would find their way into the same clause. To supply the escalating demand for cheap organic milk, agribusiness companies are setting up 5,000-head dairies, often in the desert. These milking cows never touch a blade of grass, instead spending their days standing around a dry-lot 'loafing area' munching organic grain — grain that takes a toll on both the animals' health (these ruminants evolved to eat grass, after all) and the nutritional value of their milk. But this is the sort of milk (deficient in beta-carotene and the 'good fats' — like omega 3's and C.L.A. — that come from grazing cows on grass) we're going to see a lot more of in the supermarket as long as Wal-Mart determines to keep organic milk cheap."

And what about meat? So-called "free-range" animals that make it onto Wal-Mart's shelves are not likely to breathe much fresh air — or eat the foods they normally would:

"Whether produced domestically or not, organic meat will increasingly come not from mixed, polyculture farms growing a variety of species (a practice that makes it possible to recycle nutrients between plants and animals) but from ever-bigger Confined Animal Feeding Operations, or CAFO's, which, apart from using organic feed and abjuring antibiotics, are little different from their conventional counterparts. Yes, the federal organic rules say the animals should have 'access to the outdoors,' but in practice this often means providing them with a tiny exercise yard or, in the case of one organic egg producer in New England, a screened-in concrete 'porch' — a view of the outdoors. Herein lies one of the deeper paradoxes of practicing organic agriculture on an industrial scale: big, single-species CAFO's are even more precarious than their conventional cousins, since they can't use antibiotics to keep the thousands of animals living in close confinement indoors from becoming sick. So organic CAFO-hands (to call them farmhands seems overly generous) keep the free ranging to a minimum and then keep their fingers crossed."

Call me a snob — and I don't think I am — but I would rather give up other luxuries around the house and pay more for food than support the industrialization of organic farming.

our last hurrah

We left Friday morning for the North Shore with city things weighing on our minds: doctor and hospital questions, unfinished articles, deadlines. All that evaporates once you pass Duluth on Highway 61 and head north past Betty's Pies, Two Harbors, several state parks. You're under the spell of glittering Lake Superior, out the window to your right. And once you get to Grand Marais, it feels like you're in a different time and place altogether. They say Grand Marais is one of those places, like Connemara in western Ireland, where the veil between heaven and earth is thinner somehow, and I think it's true — of both places.

It was our last vacation before the baby is born. I couldn't do much hiking, but we had a splendid time, relaxing and reading at the edge of the lake outside our lodge (the Naniboujou Lodge, about 15 miles north of Grand Marais) in big red chairs, eating the most delicious breakfasts I've ever had on the North Shore. (The huge cinnamon rolls at the lodge are not to be missed — nor is the brightly colored dining room, which I am having trouble uploading, but you can see it if you click on the Web site link.)


We have a few rituals in Grand Marais. Every time we are there, for example, I buy a book at Drury Lane Books ...


Often, it's poetry or a book on gardening or whatever strikes my fancy in the moment. This time, I bought The Scent of God by Beryl Singleton Bissell (a new memoir by a local woman who used to be a nun until she fell in love with a priest, and they both left their respective vocations and got married). And because I'd bought my tenth book, I also got a free one, so I chose The Jane Austen Book Club: A Novel by Karen Joy Fowler. But I won't be starting either of them until I finish with the used paperback I picked up at the lodge — Anne of Ingleside, the sixth book in the Green Gables series. I'm loving it! Anne is the mother of six children now, and I love reading about what she's like as a mother. She's good-natured, patient and compassionate; and she encourages laughter and imagination in her big, cozy home. I hope I will be half the wonderful role model she is!

One of Steve's rituals is collecting the grey-blue rocks that are so ubiquitous on the North Shore. Our house is full of them. They sit in boxes in the basement and in glass dishes on shelves. He loves them so much. I myself prefer the colorful rocks, the ones that stand out on the beach, but he is always searching — with great passion — for just the perfect shape, smoothness and shade of grey.


He also loves to skip stones. He can make them go six or seven times along the surface of a good wave. He cannot wait to teach our son to do it!


The moonlight on the water was so breathtaking. All I could capture was a few blurry shots.



Today, we walked out onto Artist's Point at the tip of Grand Marais. It was such a beautiful day.



It has been hard to come home. But I know we'll be back before too long. And next time, we'll be able to share it with the third member of our little family. I can't wait!

good teeth, good life

"I don't know if I told you this at your last visit, but ever since you got married, you've seemed happier and happier," my dentist told me yesterday afternoon, after he was finished probing my teeth and checking my gums. "Life must be good."

"It is good," I agreed. But I was surprised to hear him say it. Not that it isn't true, but how does a dentist who sees me maybe 10 minutes every six months (not counting the cozy couple of hours we spent together when I got a crown) pick up on a vibe like that? It's not like I used to dish to him about my confusing love life or cry on his shoulder about how lonely it was to move to a new city all by myself. He must have picked up on something that didn't need to be said. Maybe it's like the pregnancy glow — people started to notice it before I was really even showing.

He's a 40-something guy with dark brown hair, eyes full of life and a wicked sense of humor. He always manages to make me laugh. I only know bits and pieces about his life, but he seems like a happy person. He doesn't wear a wedding ring, and I don't know if he has anyone significant in his life. I do know he has a cabin on the North Shore that he goes to whenever he can. I'm a little envious — even if it doesn't have indoor plumbing and he has to use an outhouse. He's Lutheran. (These things come up when people ask me about my job.) But he likes the Basilica — he enjoys going to concerts there.

He cracked me up when he first looked into the room where I was about to get my teeth cleaned. He wasn't supposed to see me until after my cleaning, but he happened to glance in as he walked by. And stopped. And stared at my midsection. "I'm sorry to stare," he said gleefully as he walked into the room, "but this is great! When are you due?" It was funny. He makes me giggle.

I got high praise, too, for the good shape of my teeth and gums. Much less bleeding, and much less plaque, said the dental technician, a woman around my age with two sons who works part-time at the clinic. That's because I've been flossing every night for the past month and a half! That's a record— and a new habit I hope I never break.

thirty down, ten to go

Thirty weeks is probably just a number when it comes to pregnancy — it's not a new trimester or a new month — but it feels like a a milestone to me! Kind of like when Steve and I were counting down to our wedding, and we hit the 100-days-to-go mark. Ten weeks until my due date. I'm three-quarters of the way through with this pregnancy.

What was I doing ten weeks ago? It was the last week of March. Still Lent. This blog was just a week old. We'd just gotten back from our trip to New York, and the news that we are having a boy was still fresh in our minds. According to my Filofax, I had an acupucture appointment ten weeks ago Monday — but I completely blanked out on it and forgot to go. Instead, I took some film to be developed at Proex and walked up and down Grand Avenue browsing at Pottery Barn and Cooks of Crocus Hill while I waited. That time of early spring seems kind of distant now, like the freshness has worn off. It feels like we've done a lot since then — gone to Nebraska, prepared the baby's room, shifted into the warm-weather season — but really, it hasn't been very long. In that same amount of time, I will (God willing) be having this baby! August feels like it's just around the corner.

Only ten weeks left to be pregnant. As excited as I am to meet this baby boy in person and for his father to hold him for the first time (I've been "holding" him for almost seven months!), I'm also kind of sad — I will miss being pregnant. I will miss feeling his kicks and watching my tummy surface ripple as he flips and turns. I will miss watching my body change in what seem like miraculous ways. But I have to admit, there are some things I will be glad to have back:

The space to bend over and tie my shoes.

The ability to sleep on my back, free of acid reflux, leg cramps and multiple trips to the bathroom (though of course there will be multiple trips to feed the baby).

The lightness and freedom of my body to run, jump, do ballet.

The ability to sneeze and laugh hard without the risk of major leakage.

Walks free of backaches and groin soreness.

A glass of red wine.

Not that I'm complaining. Pregnancy has its challenges, but I am so grateful to be here that I wouldn't trade the heaviness, soreness, sleep problems and incontinence for anything!

faq about this blog

I know. Sometimes I'm gazing at my pregnancy bump — and sometimes I'm naval-gazing! In case you're still trying to get a handle on what this blog is all about (like I am), here's a handy FAQ.

So who exactly is your audience?
Well, sometimes it's you. And by "you," I mean all of you — the variety of family and friends I have told about this blog, even if I have no idea if you actually read it. You live on both coasts and pretty much every region of the country. I started this blog thinking it would be a good way to keep everyone up to date about my pregnancy and life in general, since a number of you live far away. But sometimes I'm not writing for you as much as I'm writing for me. Those are the days when I just let my head — or heart or gut — spill out, like I'm writing in a journal. How do you know? You might not, though I venture to guess you will. But it doesn't really matter. I write what I want, and you are free to tune in or tune out. That's the beauty of blogging.

Isn't it uncomfortable publishing something so personal you'd normally only write it in your journal?
Trust me, the most private stuff in my life is not likely to make it onto my blog. As for some of the other stuff, I suppose you could say I am trying to be more forthcoming and honest about myself, something I am not always apt to do. It's kind of an experiment, you could say. Besides, many of you live quite a ways from me, and we don't have regular conversations about our lives that friends who see each other all the time do. And even if you live near me, chances are we don't get together so often.

Is it hard to write with a larger audience in mind when so few of the people who know about this blog leave comments? Do you find yourself writing just to the people who comment?
Yes. I continually have to put the non-commenting faces in my head when I'm writing, or else this would turn into a private little chat with the people who do post regular comments. Don't get me wrong, my dear readers-who-comment: I do appreciate your comments and value them highly. Sometimes they assuage my fears that I am writing to a vacuum. But I have to remind myself to operate on the assumption — right or wrong — that more people are reading than I might think. And sometimes my assumption turns out to be correct — I am always surprised (in a good way) when someone mentions one of my blog posts in an e-mail.

Does Steve know you keep a blog?
Yes. And he knows the address. But he doesn't usually read it unless I point something specific out to him. He says he wants to respect my freedom to write whatever's on my mind. I appreciate that, but I don't mind if he reads it, either. Nothing here is secret from him.

How does Steve feel about the fact that you write about him?
Let's put it this way: When I first started writing, I told him what I was doing, and I asked him his comfort level about being part of the blog. He requested that I not write about the really private things in our life together, and that I not use it as a place to vent about him or any conflicts we might have. Those things are between him and me. So I respect that. I can't leave him out altogether because he's such a vital part of my life, and sometimes I might write about issues we're facing at the moment. But deep down, you can see they're my issues, not his.

How about your parents? Do they read this blog?
I have no idea. I did invite them to read it, but I have received no word as to whether they do.

Do you edit yourself based on who you think might read your blog? Whose reactions do you consider the most when you self-edit?
In most cases, I make an effort not to. But there are a few cases where I have. I find myself doing it more lately, now that a couple of people in Steve's immediately family and our circle of mutual friends know about this blog. And my parents. In a few cases, I have edited out sex stuff, and I also don't swear as much on this blog as I am wont to do in the comfort of home. I am still trying to figure out my comfort level here, and to find the courage to write without being too swayed by what other people might think. Always a challenge for me. But a good one.

Is this blog taking energy away from actually connecting with people more personally and individually? Would you e-mail or call your friends more if you weren't putting all your deep thoughts down on your blog?
Yeah, I think it's happened with some people, and that worries me. I'm not sure what to do about it. But let's face it — I'm not always the best correspondent in the world. I am hopelessly behind on some of your lives, and it's my hope that having this blog might inspire you to leave a comment or get in touch with me. I know, I know. It probably sounds one-sided, even selfish, to expect you to come to me if you want to catch up. Why am I not reaching out to you with a more personal letter, phone call or e-mail? But I believe some good comes of this arrangement, too. I can say that there are a few of you with whom I feel happily reconnected — or more connected — because of this blog. I hope that happens more often. Besides, this is not just a communication tool. It's also, for me, a form of expression, a way for me to write stuff that I might not normally just hop onto an e-mail and send to someone out of the blue. This form, for some reason, inspires me to write more. And I like that.

the eighties

A trip-down-memory-lane Friday Five I found on a Livejournal blog ...

1) Favourite movie of the 1980s? The Breakfast Club.

2) Favourite musician/group of the 1980s? U2.

3) Favourite TV show of the 1980s? Cheers.

4) Favourite invention of the 1980s? VCRs.

5) World Event from the 1980s that stands out in your mind? Two came to mind: Charles and Diana's wedding and the explosion of the space shuttle.

That was short and sweet! Feel free to play!

charlotte

Here's something else I shouldn't be reading right now, in my highly emotional pregnant state: articles and theological statements on artificial nutrition and hydration for patients in what they call a "persistent vegetative state." But I'm working on an article, so read them I must, and I've doing it all morning and a good part of the week.

I cannot read about this stuff without imagining what it would be like if Steve or I were faced with such a situation. This morning, my mind spins a scene where I am caring for my husband at home. He's hooked up to feeding tubes but no longer able to communicate with the outside world. (He does not want this. He has told me. Yet and still, the scenario remains ...) How would I make his life the best it could be? Maybe we'd watch movies together. I'd make sure he doesn't miss an episode of Washington Week each Friday night and reruns of The Office. I'd take him outdoors for walks in his wheelchair, if he's able to sit up, just so he can feel the sun on his face. I'd surround him with Monterey cypress trees and the rocks from the North Shore that he loves to collect, in hopes he's aware of their presence. I'd kiss him every day and remind him of times we've shared. I'd sing him songs and play his favorite music: Maybe he can still hear through his iPod.

Would these things make him happy? Would he be relieved to be alive, grateful for the life force he still has? Or would he stew about his condition, resenting shows like Washington Week because politics mean nothing to him now? Would he hate me for keeping him going when he'd rather go meet his maker? (Would I be strong or sure enough to honor his wish, if that's what he wants? Would it be the right thing to do?) Would he even register what's happening on the outside? What about me? Would I be strong enough to care for him? Would I be able to do these things without crying all the time? Would I be angry and have trouble accepting this lot in life, or would I be grateful to have any part of him still with me? Would caring for him make me a better person, teach me important lessons about dignity and humility and humanity? Just thinking about it puts me close to tears. I have to shake my head and refocus on the white page in front of me, the red pen in my hand. It's just work. It's just an assignment. It's not likely to happen to us.

My parents are friends with a couple who live on the Oregon coast and have two daughters. One of them, Charlotte, is my age. We both loved reading and writing as kids, and I remember her as serious and quiet. One Christmas vacation during college, when our family was visiting, we sat on her bedroom floor in front of her tall bookcase and talked about becoming writers someday. She was interested in journalism. She loaned me a couple of her favorite writing books, including one by Natalie Goldberg, which I still go to sometimes when I need a creative jolt. Not long after that, she was coasting down a hill on her bike and was hit by a truck. She has been in a coma ever since. Now I am the journalist, and I still have her books.

She lives near her parents in a home that gives her special care, and her parents still visit her regularly. I don't think she can communicate with them, but who knows? Maybe she has mastered some slight movement that enables her to get through to the outside world. I don't really know what her life is like now, but I'd like to know how her parents do it — how they make her life special, what they talk about when they visit her, how they cope. Something makes me want to go see her the next time I'm there, if it wouldn't be upsetting for her parents or for her. I don't know what I'd tell her, but I wish she could know that I think about her and remember the time we spent together as kids. Does she remember me? I wonder if she writes stories in her head. I wonder, if she ever were to come out of her coma, what words would tumble out of her onto a sheet of paper or a computer screen. I wonder if she feels grateful to be alive.

and this tells me what, exactly?

I've seen this on a couple of blogs, so I will follow suit ...