benjamin's birth day

Before I tell this story, I want to say what I've been thinking about with great gratitude all week, which is that I am proof that a woman can have a natural, medication-free birth without taking a special class (like a Bradley method class) and without being in particularly good physical shape. (And after a prior c-section, at that.) It's true I read a lot about what to expect during labor and techniques for how to cope, and that did help prepare me a bit. But God knows, after having major abdominal surgery just seven months earlier and getting very little exercise over the winter, I was worried about whether I had enough muscle tone and stamina to labor and push out a baby. Well, I did. And that gives me hope for all women who want the same type of birth experience.

So here's how Ben's VBAC birth went down ...

I started having contractions Monday afternoon while Daniel and I were napping, but they were start-and-stop and light, nothing to call the midwife about — which was just how things got going with Daniel. This was frustrating and discouraging; I envisioned day after day of off-on contractions, possibly due to a poorly positioned baby, as Daniel was. The fact that I was feeling them in my back — another sign of a baby being in an less-than-ideal position — made it all the more frustrating. The contractions tapered off in the evening, and that night, I was awakened about every half-hour by one.

They continued like this for most of Tuesday. Steve went to work, and I never felt the need to call him to come home. I was coping OK. Then, after dinner, I started coping less OK. We were watching American Idol, and I realized that I was really peevish about the fact that Steve could not help rub my back and coach me in breathing through the contractions because he was so busy chasing Daniel. I was feeling really, really helpless and needful of some one-on-one attention. I took a hot bath, hoping that would help slow the contractions for the night, but it didn't. So I called our doula and asked her to come over: "I don't know if there's much to these contractions yet, but I need you to be here with me." Then I called the midwife, who later told me I sounded so calm over the phone that she doubted I was really in labor. But she said I could come to the hospital if I wanted to get my cervix checked and maybe take home a muscle relaxant to help me sleep. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go in, though — it meant getting one of Steve's sisters over to babysit, plus a 20-minute drive to the hospital. A lot of effort just to see if I was in labor.

The doula got to our house sometime around 9:00 and came into the bedroom, where I was lying on the bed trying to relax and breathe. My contractions were only nine minutes apart or so, but they were more intense, and they got closer together when I turned onto my opposite side. By about 10:00, I decided we'd go into the hospital, so we called Steve's closest sister, who said she'd come over. Meanwhile, Steve tried to get Daniel down to sleep. Daniel wasn't the least bit interested in sleeping, though; he was watching the doula and me and then (Steve tells me) lying down on a pillow and imitating me by rubbing his lower back and saying, "Oh, oh, oh." How I wish I had seen that!

By about 11 or 11:30, we were finally ready to go to the hospital. I tried to go the bathroom before we left. I remember doubling over as I got off the toilet and getting on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor, grunting and growling like a bear. Where this came from I had no idea. It just felt like what I needed to do at the time. I said to the doula, "What if we don't make it to the hospital on time?" At this point, she said later, she began to realize that things had just changed very quickly. I didn't realize it at the time, but I had just entered the pushing stage.

I had a couple of intense contractions on the way out of the house, and then, in the middle of our front walk, my water broke and gushed down my legs, soaking my pants. Brrrrr!!!! There was no time to change, though. I just got into the doula's back seat (where there are no car seats) and lay there with my wet pants, grunting through contraction after contraction, all the way to the hospital. Steve followed us in his car. Little did I know at the time that the doula was weaving through traffic at high speeds, wondering all the while what would happen if she had to call 911 and pull over on the side of the highway.

But we made it, and Steve and the doula pushed me into the maternity ward in a wheelchair. They took one look at me and got me into a room, where they checked me. Fully dilated, no surprise there. The midwife on call hadn't arrived yet, so I kept on with the grunting and light pushes until she did. Then, the nurse started coaching me on how to really bear down through contractions, so I started doing that. I did most of it on my hands and knees, leaning against the raised back of the bed, and then turned around and got in a half-reclined sitting position for the last couple of pushes so I could see what was going on. I don't know how long I pushed, but it seemed like only about 15 or 20 minutes after the midwife arrived before I felt the stinging, burning sensation of Ben's head coming through. I didn't care that it hurt. It was a good pain, and then his little body slithered out, and there he was, letting out a big, healthy cry! I had a moment of sheer amazement and wonder and emotion — realizing I had given birth, that I had done it the way I wanted to, that this little guy had made it into the world. All of it, just amazing.

Steve, who had gotten pretty choked up, cut the cord, even though he'd always said he didn't want to, and then they put Ben on my chest and covered him with a blanket. I had a first-degree tear, so the midwife stitched it up. I wish I could say I was so swept up in the moment that I didn't notice what was going on at my other end, but I was fully aware of it. (Ouch!) I was glad when Steve and I were finally left alone to enjoy our new son.

And that's how it went. In retrospect, I think the laboring itself wasn't how I'd envisioned it — no beautiful music, no low lights, etc. — but it was wonderful that I was able to do it at home instead of being monitored in a hospital. It worked out perfectly that I made it to the hospital in time to deliver Ben — although I realize now that we could have come very close to having him at home if we'd dilly-dallied about calling people and not gotten our sh$% together in the end. But it did work out, and maybe that's because a woman's body just knows what to do, and you have to let go and follow its cues. Anyway, I'm happy! Sore, tired, and still limping around with my cane, but happy.

first photos

The first three were taken at the hospital, and the last one was taken at home. So far, Benjamin sleeps a lot, so I tried to find some of him with his eyes open.




Daniel is saying, "Nose." We're trying to teach him to be gentle!

welcome to baby benjamin!

Just a short note to let everyone know that Benjamin Charles was born in the wee hours of March 26 ... completely naturally (a successful VBAC) and completely perfect (in our humble opinions)! Vitals: 12:46 a.m., 7 pounds 5 ounces, 20 inches. It was a crazy night, and we barely made it to the hospital in time for me to push him out! I will have more details and photos later; we're settling in at home tonight. Peace ...

it's spring! it's easter!

It's Minnesota!

Yes, we've been blanketed in white today, and it feels more like Christmas than Easter. We've been very low-key (or should I say, low-energy) about the holiday this year — no Easter eggs, no chocolate bunnies, no hot cross buns. Just Mass this morning and a very nice dinner with family, followed by a lovely nap once we got home. Someone asked if the Easter bunny came to our house this year, and I wasn't quick enough on my feet to say, "No, we're waiting for the damn stork!"

My friend Vanessa (who actually celebrates Passover instead of Easter), gives a whole new meaning to the term "Easter egg." She and her husband are going through their first round of in vitro fertilization, and this morning was the egg transfer, which means two fertilized eggs were implanted in her uterus. She'll find out if she's pregnant right around April 1 — the same day our baby is due, and I hope for good news all around. Good luck, Vanessa and John!

good friday, bad day

Sometimes I feel like the world's crappiest mother. By the time he went down for his nap this afternoon, I was on my last nerve, and it's pretty well shot just like all the others.

In the course of the morning, Daniel tried my patience in the following ways: Drew on the coffee table with his crayons. ... Crawled up on a dining room chair while I was on the phone in the kitchen and removed all the tulips from the vase, breaking off several of the heads and throwing others on the floor. ... Kept trying to crawl into the bathtub while I was going to the bathroom, despite my persistent "Feet on the floor, please." ... Threw a tantrum when I ushered him out of the bathroom. And, he's started hitting me when he doesn't get his way. Each time, I felt my blood pressure boiling, and my patience flying right out the window. Of course he was curious about the flowers. He didn't hurt himself, so I shouldn't be so upset about a bunch of flowers, right? (The fact that he's not allowed to climb up on the table is a separate issue, but he's only started doing it in the past few days, so it's still new to him, and he doesn't quite get what his limits are yet. Not that we're not trying, but this boy is stubborn.)

Then, the coup de grace: After being ushered out of the bathroom, he went back into the living room and began banging on one of the windows with his wooden hammer as hard as he could. That's when I just about lost it. Envisioning the bloody, shardy mess that could ensue if my son succeeded in breaking a window, I yelled in a panic from across the room, "Daniel, stop that!" Over and over I yelled at the top of my voice, and that boy did not stop, did not even turn around to look at me. It was as if I wasn't even there. I could have sworn he was acting out because he was pissed off at me for ruining his fun in the tub, and that made me even madder. (You see? I react. It's not healthy.) Finally, I reached him (it took a while because I didn't have my cane) and grabbed the hammer out of his hand and told him, still yelling, that it was not OK to bang on the window. He got pissed off again and threw his pacifier on the ground. I started crying and fell onto the couch, and then he started crying, and then we were both staring at each other, equally distraught, and I came back to him and picked him up, and he clung to me like a scared little boy.

Then I pulled myself together. We sat back down together on the couch, and I explained to him in the best, calmest language I could that I used my loud voice because I was scared when I saw him banging on the window because glass can break and be very sharp, and he could get hurt. "Mommy was scared," I said, and he nodded. "Mommy scared." He seemed OK after that, and when we played with the hammer again after lunch, to pound some balls through holes, he said, "Bang window," in the way he does when he's reflecting on something that stuck in his mind.

I'm sure he's bored stiff with me these days. We rarely go out anymore — I just don't have the energy to take him anywhere except play group or places with Steve. (So we do go out at night sometimes.) Sometimes I don't have the energy to do anything but play with him from the edge of the couch. I live for the couple of hours a day when he naps because then I have my time to myself, and I feel free. I just don't feel like one of those natural mothers sometimes. I certainly don't keep the house as clean as I wish I could. It feels cluttered and dirty in here, and all I do is sit with my big belly hanging out and look at it, wishing for magical powers that would let me move things into place with my mind. Maybe it's exasperated by the fact that it's been snowing all morning — that heavy, March snow that comes down hard and wet. Heart attack snow is what they call it because it's so heavy to shovel. So it feels all the more clausterphobic to be stuck indoors.

I know I should cut myself some slack, being so pregnant and all, but on days like these, I wonder how on earth I am going to take good care of two kids, let alone one. Daniel demands so much focused attention. What is it going to be like to tend to him him while also nursing, changing and holding an infant? I can't even imagine. Am I really ready for this?

a spiritual birth

Our doula is going to be out of town on business for a couple of days around my due date, so she's given us a list of potential backups whom she likes and trusts — just in case the baby decides to be born on time. I called a few of them this morning, and one of them — an older woman who just became a grandmother — has been making me think about a component of this upcoming birth that I hadn't really considered in very much detail.

In addition to having a very calm presence over the phone, she also seemed very spiritual, so I asked her about that. She told me about how she is very much in tune with a sense of a larger presence in the room when a woman is giving birth, and she has had a few clients who incorporated religious rituals in their labor. One Jewish woman used a menorah as a focal point during her contractions. A Catholic mother said the Hail Mary through hers, timing each contraction by how many Hail Marys it took. Another Catholic woman had written a series of affirmations that she read, or that the doula read to her when things got intense — things like, "I am a wonderful mother," and "God's grace is flowing through me." Those phrases really struck a chord with me, and so did the doula's suggestion to incorporate spiritual elements through other senses — scents, music, images, etc. (The "smells and bells," as we Catholics like to say of our sensory rituals.)

I've been thinking a lot about how to create a calm, homelike setting during this birth, and I think I also will try to incorporate a spiritual atmosphere in that. Maybe it will help alleviate some of the stress I feel around being in a hospital again, surrounded by machines and protocols. I have been thinking in particular about music that touches my soul, remembering especially how certain hymns and pieces of sacred music brought me such comfort when I was facing my cancer surgery. I am going to go take a look through my CD collection and pull a few favorites that I think might take me to a more spiritual, prayerful space while I am laboring. I'm not sure I want anything too rousing this time around — I'm imagining something calm and intimate that can help transport me to a different place. Maybe this one by Ralph Vaughan Williams, which my friend Liz introduced me to years ago. (Any other suggestions, musical friends and sisters?)

I recently wrote a column about one of my favorite images of God — a comforting pair of hands, cupped together, in which I rest and feel completely cared for — and how carrying that image has become important to me lately as I prepare to have this baby. I wonder if there is a way to incorporate that image into some kind of mantra or focal point as I labor, as well. Anyway, I am feeling more ready now, and more confident that my body will be able to do what it needs to do. I hope I can hold on to this feeling for the next couple of weeks, or however long it takes for this little one to show his face — let's hope he's a little more prompt than Daniel was!

two weeks to go

And it couldn't come sooner. That's all I really have to say. Oh, except to report that my hip (and lower back and, now, adjacent knee) are feeling worse than ever, thank you very much. At this point, I'm lucky if I can carry Daniel down the hall without twisting my hip in a way that yields a stabbing pain. ("Mommy hurt," he says sympathetically when I yelp.) I can lift him up fine in a standing position, but walking is the tricky part. (I'm embarrassed to admit this, but we actually went to Walgreen's two weekends ago and bought me a cane. Don't laugh; it helps.) And sleeping is getting pretty challenging, too. I got a short, directed massage last week at my chiropractor's office; it was blissful, and I plan to repeat it again weekly until the baby is born. My half-hour slice of heaven.

P.S. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

what a difference a carseat makes

One more thing checked off our to-do list: We now have two carseats installed in each of our back seats — one for Daniel, one for the baby. (Well, his is actually just a base, and the actual carseat can click into either one of them.)

It was an arduous hour we spent getting all the latches and belts tightened and adjusted, and all I can say at the end of it is, I WANT A BIGGER CAR. I've never felt cramped for space with just one carseat in the back of my Honda Civic, but having two there changes the whole landscape of the car. It feels like it's going to be very crowded and cumbersome loading an infant in one side and toddler in the other with very little space to spare. Even Steve's Passat feels packed to capacity. And we're going to feel it up front, too: We had to move our front seats forward to make room for the infant seat (on one side) and Daniel's kicking feet (on the other). He used to occupy the prime middle of the back seat, where he had all the leg room he needed; but now both kids will be behind seats ... and next to side doors, which doesn't feel as safe to me.

We flipped through some old Consumer Reports today (back issues Steve's dad had given us) and started reading up on SUVs and other modes of family transport. All that room suddenly sounds very nice. I don't necessarily need an SUV, but a roomier station wagon with some extra storage space in the back would be nice. Egads. How our priorities change when we have kids.

reminiscing

As we prepare to meet Baby Boy number two, I'm sometimes struck by how much has happened in the past year and a half. I remember bringing Daniel home from the hospital in the same carseat (same make and model, that is; this is a new seat). He was so tiny that he swam in it, and we had to tuck baby blankets all around his head so he wouldn't flop to one side. Now look at him.


And his clothes ... was it only 18 months ago that he was wearing the sweet little onesies and layette gowns that I folded so carefully and lovingly last weekend? Oh how my baby has grown up ... and his little brother will, too. It makes a mama kind of sad, in a nostalgic sort of way.

spring stirrings

The new spring clothing catalogs have been pouring in since January, and I love paging through them. The prospect of buying cute, new clothes has taken a back seat since last summer — except for cute, new maternity clothes, but I've tried not to go overboard with those. It feels like I've spent the entire winter rotating among half a dozen maternity tops, two or three pairs of jeans (only one of which is big enough to fit me comfortably now) and an uber-large, uber-soft pair of black yoga pants that I found at a Lands' End outlet and wear almost every day now. And the same old pairs of faded underwear and stretchy bras that I wore when I was pregnant with Daniel. Right after he finished breastfeeding, I had splurged on some pretty new bras to celebrate; now they're sitting in the back of the drawer, too small again. So I flip through the catalogs, and I feel the stirrings: These are clothes I might actually be able to wear this spring! Normal clothes are on my horizon again, and I can't wait to go shopping. I know it's going to take some time for my body to settle back into shape — and, true, I'm looking at clothes like tunic tops and loose dresses that will cover my post-partum belly for a while, but oh — to have my body back. I can't wait.

This weekend, I gave my toenails a little touch-up. I last had a pedicure in mid-January, around my birthday, and it had pretty much given way to chippy paint and unshapen nails. So I touched them up with a nice pinkish-nude color and felt so much more pulled-together than I have in a while. Then I had to laugh Sunday night when our doula came over to talk about birthing stuff. I was musing aloud about whether I had the time or inclination to fit in a bikini wax before the Big Day, and she said many women she sees tend to paint their toenails before they go to the hospital. Ha — guess I'm ready, then!

c-section reflection

I have always wondered in retrospect if there was anything we could have done to prevent the c-section I had when Daniel was born. At the time, we felt we'd done all we could, but time gives a thinking woman plenty of time to ... well ... think. I've spent many hours looking up what went wrong, querying other people about things like asynclitic head positions and stubborn cervical lips that refuse to dilate completely. At first, in the months after Daniel was born, I lay awake in bed tearfully regaling Steve with my feelings of anger and regret and doubts. I'm mostly over the anger and regret now, but the doubts are still there. Just this morning, the midwife asked me about the part of my cervix that wouldn't dilate to a full 10 centimeters: "Did they try smoothing it back while having you try to push?" "No," I said. "I was never aware that was an option." She quickly assured me that it doesn't always work, then changed the subject, but there it was — another piece of ammunition to make me think I might have had an unnecessary c-section. And with the national c-section rate at over 30 percent (compared to the 15 percent recommended by the World Health Organization), it's quite possible.

So now I'm preparing for what is commonly known as a VBAC (which stands for "vaginal birth after caesarian" and is pronounced VEE-back). And I'm understandably nervous. I want so much to be able to let go and put it all in God's hands and the hands of my caregivers, but I'm nervous about laboring with this bad hip, and I'm nervous that what happened last time might happen again. Any number of things: The cocked head and stubborn cervix. The added stress of a hospital environment and the things I'm required to do according to protocol. Today I asked the midwife if I could decline having an IV port put into my hand until it became absolutely necessary, and she said it's something they insist upon with all VBAC patients. "I can't decline it?" I asked. "You can decline it, but we can then decline to keep seeing you as a patient," she said. And this is from a midwife in the most VBAC-friendly clinic in the area, one I chose solely — despite the half-hour drive to get there — because I knew I had the best chance of successfully having this baby the way I want to.

Last night (which happened to be the day I hit 37 weeks — full-term, baby!), I went to a meeting of the local branch of the International Caesarean Awareness Network to see if I could find some support and more information about what's ahead. I felt like I didn't really fit in, though. I sat in a circle of about a dozen rather earthy mamas, all of whom were bound by nothing but a scar across their lower bellies and the accompanying story of anger and regret. In a way, it was comforting to hear other women talk so openly about their c-sections, and it was inspiring to hear stories of successful VBACS. But at one level, it felt really wierd — some of the women seemed so angry, like they had never managed let go of the bad energy surrounding their c-section births. (And I have to say, Daniel's birth itself was not a negative experience for me; it was actually joyful.) I mean, here's a group that meets monthly to dwell on this particular part of their identity as mothers. Maybe it feels empowering to them. Some of them certainly seem to have embraced the "joy of childbirth" rather fiercely, so good for them. But I wondered, don't any of them get sick of it and decide to move on? Regardless of my feelings about my c-section, it takes up relatively little space in my psyche compared to the energy I give to actually parenting Daniel these days. And I like it that way.

Some of them seemed really strident in their attitudes toward hospitals, and when I shared some of my feelings about my baby's upcoming birth, they were pushing me to places I didn't want to go. "Go in armed with your research," I was told. "Learn these words: I do not consent," said one woman. "Well," I said hesitantly, feeling like I was coming across as an idiot, "I don't want to be that difficult person. I don't want to be so adversarial that I put off the very people who are supposed to be helping me." Well, several of them rolled their eyes, and I could see them biting back the words they really wanted to say. But it's true. Even though I have strong desires for how I hope this birth will go, I'm not, at heart, an adversarial activist. And I especially don't want to be one on a day when I need to focus entirely on myself. I just want to know that I am in good hands (like Steve's and the doula's and the midwife's and God's) and to let go of my need to control things. Kind of like on my wedding day. I did a lot of planning and organizing ahead of time so that everything could fall into place on the day, allowing me to glide along in my altered state and not worry about anything. Not worry. And I don't want to worry on the day the Lemmondrop is born, either, even though I'm doing a lot of it now.

So I don't think I'll be going back to the ICAN meetings, even though I did find some comfort in some of the women's VBAC birth stories and appreciated the chance to ask some questions. I just don't think this is a place within myself where I want to dwell on such a regular basis. I do hope the Lemmondrop's birth goes smoothly, and if I end up with another c-section, I'm sure there will be some more tearful nights, and I'll have to deal with that. I keep reminding myself to let go, to put this in God's hands — something that doesn't always come easily to me. Ultimately, what's important to me is to be a good mother, and to be healthy. And whatever happens in three weeks (give or take), most of all, I just want to have a healthy baby.

friday five :: what's it like?

It's threatening to be another sleep-deprived night, as my hip is keeping me awake. So ... I thought I'd do this Friday Five, provided courtesy of Kristine.

What is your keyring like?
It's the key fob for my car.

What is your purse/bag/briefcase like?
At the moment, I switch between a black L.L. Bean diaper bag (if I have Daniel with me) or a black, leather purse by The Sak (which I bought the day after I found out I was pregnant with Daniel).

What is your wallet like?
Black, leather, Coach. I've had it for a number of years, and it's still in really good shape. I get obsessive about wallet design; it has to be really intuitively arranged and easy for me to get to everything, but not too big. I love this one.

What is your mouse pad like?
It's one Steve brought home from work. It celebrates the June 2000 initial public offering of the company where he works. Sexy!

What are the curtains in your bedroom like?
They're a heavy, mossy green velvet. We added them at a time when we were being told that having a dark room at night helps with fertility. I don't know if they helped, but they do a very good job of blocking out the sun (and covering the old Venetian blinds).

hanging in there

Steve has taken Daniel to ECFE class, so I have a few hours to myself tonight, which I really need. American Idol is on soon, so I'm going to go fix a pot of tea and find out which four are getting sent home. (I can't believe I've become an American Idol fan.)

I'm having a less comfortable week than usual because of a procedure I had at the doctor's office Tuesday. I'm not going to go into detail here (to protect the sensibilities of my more squeamish readers — yes, I'm thinking of you, Adam — and because it's rather embarrassing and gross), but suffice to say, it's so uncomfortable that it makes my hip pain seem more tolerable in comparison! On the other hand, I was up at 3 a.m. last night because with all the pings, pangs and aches in my body, I just could not sleep. The discomfort should be gone in another few days. In the meantime, I'm just in survival mode, and that means lying on the couch a lot and, in the case of today, spending the entire day in my pajamas and robe. At least my spirits are relatively stable. Most of the January funk that spilled into February seems to have lifted, leaving only residual traces of occasional melancholy and crying. Now I'm just setting my sights on getting through the next three and a half weeks — which is how long I have before I hit my due date.

I can't decide if time is moving slowly or quickly. I feel like there's so much on my calendar: two columns and a major article to finish up, a tour of the hospital so we know where to park and go when we get there, last days of my WomenVenture class and Daniel's Music Together class, a meeting to help me prepare for my hoped-for VBAC (which stands for "vaginal birth after cesarean," if you aren't up on the terminology), another meeting with our doula, install the infant seat in the car ... and, oh yeah, there's Holy Week and Easter. The fact that it's Lent right now has been so far from my mind.

Baby Lemmondrop, of course, is oblivious to it all. He's been rocking and rolling all over my belly and seems to be having a good time in there. On Monday, he'll be at 37 weeks of gestation, which will make him full term. I can't believe we've come so far. I can't believe he's almost here. Yet we are slowly getting ready for him. This weekend, I washed and folded all the sweet little baby clothes Daniel used to wear (was he really so tiny once?!) and put them in the newly reorganized dresser drawers in the nursery. We bought a new crib mattress last week, and we're remaining optimistic that at least one member of this family will sleep in the crib. (!)

Well, Ryan Seacrest is on, so I'll wrap this up. More soon!

goodbye, green ash

Until Friday, we had a green ash tree in our back yard that was both a blessing and a curse. I loved the canopy it created over our patio, and it added some visual interest next to the garage. But its roots were beginning to push the patio up in spots, making it crack and bend. And over the years, it has been encroaching more and more on the small amount of sun we get in the yard. Our perennials had begun leaning sideways just to get enough, and the lilac in the back was barely producing any blooms. The lawn itself has suffered, too. We called an arborist and asked his opinion; he pointed out some problems that would probably mean the tree had about five more good years left in it. Steve and I discussed the matter and decided to have the tree cut down.


It was very sad to say goodbye. I am a softy, and if it had been solely my choice, I probably would have kept the tree a few more years and just had it trimmed and thinned out. But Steve felt strongly about it, and I deferred to him. He is, after all, my equal partner when it comes to gardening and yard upkeep. We decided that we'll watch our garden beds and lawn over the next growing season and see if there would be a better place to plant another tree — perhaps a maple, which would be beautiful in the fall. That feels like a good compromise to me. I went out and said goodbye to the tree on Friday morning. Yes, I even gave it a kiss and told it not to be afraid. As I said, I am a softy. When the arborist and his crew came, Daniel and I watched out the bedroom window as the yard filled with branches and debris.


All weekend, Daniel has been discussing the event. By discussing, I mean that he says a rotation of these four words: "Saw." "Loud." "Cutting." "Tree." Those are the things that left an impression on him.


I miss the tree, and the yard seems more bare without it; but I have to say, the whole space seems much more open and bright now. I am looking forward to seeing how our garden flourishes in the newly created sunny spots — especially the row of peonies down the side of the garage and the lilac in the back. I can't wait for the snow to melt and spring to come.