A happy haze

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Looks can be deceiving. This little darling looks so gentle and calm, but he is extremely demanding. He does a fabulous interpretation of the demon possessed between the hours of 6 and 8 pm; really, you should stop in for the show. My most common nickname for him is Little Dragon. This is not news to anyone who has had a baby before, but it still feels like news to me.

I am tremendously needed right now, and I can’t say that I perceive it as fun. I would like to be less necessary. From my nursing chair, I watch people walking and biking and running along our street, and I feel envious of all of them. All people who don’t have to worry constantly about a newborn. How carefree and happy all other humans must be! This is a thought I have every day. The other day I think I had three total hours, out of the 24, during which he was not attached at the breast. He is five weeks old now, so we’re apparently in the trenches of baby care, with the expectation that his murderous rages and constant feeding will start to taper off soon. Some days it feels more relentless than others.

We’ve had an army of wonderful support, and I don’t know how we would have made it without our generous community: Family who came and stayed and cooked and cleaned and held Little Dragon while we slept. Friends who brought and keep bringing us food. Doulas who made us feel sane and guided us on all aspects of postpartum life. Neighbors who check in on us regularly. A dear friend who babysat for us so we could go out for dinner. Unbelievably generous mothers who donated their own milk during the week we had to supplement his feedings, so I could work on my own supply and avoid formula. And of course, Guion, always and forever Guion. I knew I liked him before all this, but now I know for a fact that I could not live without him.

Things I am trying to treasure up and ponder in my heart: How frequently the mothers of older children tell me, “Oh, I miss this phase,” when gazing upon my squalling infant. And I think, “You must be insane, lady. I can’t wait until this creature can tell me what he wants and sleeps more than a few hours at a time.” So there is some shift that happens. Perhaps it’s simply that everyone recalls and longs for the seasons past, because they always seem easier than the one you’re currently in.

But there are lovable aspects, which even I can discern in my incarcerated, sleep-deprived state: His milk-sweet breath. The smell of his little head (now beautiful and round, after looking like an old potato right after birth). Wearing him in a wrap. Cuddling with him on my chest while he naps. Getting eye contact. His small animal noises while he nurses. These are lovely things.

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He has no idea how much he’s in charge. But look at that face. Would you dare cross him?

A home birth story

Birth stories are perhaps only interesting to pregnant people (and even then just marginally), but here is a truncated version of ours.

On my due date, May 8, I felt my first contractions while sitting in a meeting at work. I was excited and surprised; I’d expected that the baby would be a late arrival. A calm sense of anticipation and joy marked the next several hours as Guion and I ate dinner (spicy sausage and broccoli over orecchiette pasta) on the back deck and prepared the various places around the house for the birth. I felt focused and ready. Or as ready as I could be.

Contractions began to pick up in intensity around 10 pm, right when we hoped to be sleeping. We’d texted our midwife and doula and the advice consensus was to try to sleep. This, unfortunately, was rapidly becoming an impossible task, as I’d jump out of bed as things intensified. I could not lay still, much less fall asleep. Soon, I couldn’t speak through the rushes, and Guion knew it was time to call the midwife.

Our wonderful birth team (our midwife, her assistant, and our doula) arrived around 4 am. I was already so much in it that I don’t think I had the ability to greet them properly. I recall standing in the front hall doorway, clutching the frame, when our doula arrived. She rubbed my back and then apparently mouthed to Guion, “Wow, you really waited a while to call me.”

At this point, because of how early labor has progressed, I was buoyed by a misplaced optimism that the baby would arrive soon. Alas, this was not the case.

The rest of the story, from my perspective, is shrouded in a traumatic fog. You’d get a much more accurate and detailed account if you asked Guion what transpired from dawn until Thursday afternoon. For my part, I felt simultaneously out of my body and entirely controlled by it. I labored all over the house, in and out of the birth tub, in our bed, in the bathroom, on a chair and ottoman, begging the baby to please come out. He was, however, quite content to hang out in the birth canal for hours. Afterward, our midwife estimated that I’d probably been 10 cm dilated for five or six hours. I screamed for almost all of those hours and don’t recall very much, except for the sweet encouragement of our doula, who prayed for me and read scripture while I moaned, and Guion, who was so strong and supportive (figuratively and literally, as he spent many hours holding me up in my various positions). I also remember a short pep talk from our midwife, who leveled with me while I was in the tub and said, “Abby, you can do this. You have to push your baby out now.”

I knew this was the work of the day, but this whole push-your-baby-out-now thing still took a tremendously long time. I remember hearing birds singing and noticing the golden afternoon light filtering through our living room curtains and wondering what day it was, whether this would ever be over. It was easy to forget why I was in this state, why I was being ruled by this unimaginable pain. In the early afternoon, our midwife sensed this, I think, and encouraged me to reach down and touch our baby’s head. This was encouraging; I had absolutely no idea how or whether I’d progressed at all, and the baby’s head was this sharp reminder of why this was happening to me. I swear I’d forgotten.

Finally, blessedly, after being persuaded to do an impossible forward-leaning inversion and a few other positions to encourage the baby to descend, we moved to the sofa. Guion sat behind me and held my knees with every push. The baby’s head was out, and in one more push, he had arrived.

We welcomed our son, Moses, at 3:17 pm on May 9, 2019, in the peace of our home. I felt totally spent and amazed:

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We are both so grateful to have had such a joyful—albeit long—birth in the comfort of our home and immensely thankful for our incredible birth team.

Moses, on his first day of life:

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And last week:

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We love our little blond boy, and we’re all well and settling into our new life. Every day brings a new crop of delight and anxiety and sweetness.

Stop patronizing pregnant women

My beautiful mother, upon having recently brought me into the world.

One of the more unpleasant surprises in my first trimester was my discovery of the widespread condescension heaped upon the pregnant.

I did not expect this. I have lived in and managed my body for three decades now. I have been married for eight years. I have been working for ten. I have a mortgage. I have managed to keep myself alive thus far. But should I be trusted to gestate? All on my own? That doesn’t sound safe.

I don’t know if there is an American pregnancy lobby, but I have felt affronted by it just the same. As soon as I made the terrible mistake to start reading articles about pregnancy, I discovered this looming paternalistic conspiracy to treat women like ignorant cows. Women are thick-minded mammals who won’t question “science” or the accuracy of “studies,” even when they plainly contradict themselves. They don’t know enough to keep themselves from killing their babies willy-nilly! They don’t get that babies are the most important thing! Without us, the sanctified lobbyists of American pregnancy, they wouldn’t have a clue about how to take care of their bodies or their babies!

If you’ve ever looked at a patronizing pregnancy app, you get hit with this tone immediately. The consistent approach of these popular apps made me batty. Early on, I was curious about how the baby was developing and what was happening inside me at each week. I downloaded two apps, BabyCenter and The Bump, but I eventually stopped looking at them altogether because of all of the condescension mixed with fear-mongering. The apps present you with (1) a feed of terrifying articles (one was literally titled, “Top 50 Pregnancy Fears.” Others: “Are you miscarrying right now?” “What happens to baby if you have just one drink”) and (2) a flood of condescending advice that is written as if for an ignorant child. And then there’s typically a message board from the pit of hell, with hordes of terrified women asking and giving each other medical advice. In sum: Pregnancy apps are bad. Don’t use them.

But you know what’s also bad (or less than great)? OB offices. My office, which is presumably composed of nice doctors, told me to have a six-week visit with their “pregnancy education nurse,” whom I’ll call Janice. This is basically a visit so that a nurse can lecture a pregnant woman, who is, by all accounts, a knocked-up dodo who has no clue what she’s just gotten herself into. Janice, at least, talked to me this way. Janice was a well-meaning senior citizen. She wore a giant platinum crucifix and struggled with her Dell laptop during the duration of our visit. She calculated my due date with a hand-held plastic wheel (which I thought was a cute, old-fashioned touch).

Janice was friendly, but she was also the peculiar mixture of being both condescending and deeply uninformed at the same time. She ran me through a litany of commandments without explaining the rationale behind a single one.

“And you’re not drinking, right?” she asked, pen hovering over a check box. I wasn’t, but what if I was? What if I had been, just a few weeks ago, before I knew I was pregnant? What a terrible way to lead into that question. And then she didn’t give me any reasons why I shouldn’t drink. All of her questions were framed this way. Another exchange went like this:

“You don’t eat sushi, right?”

“Well, I do enjoy sushi, yes. Why shouldn’t I have sushi?” I asked.

“Because of the mercury.”

“But mercury still exists even in cooked fish.”

“Well. Yeah. I guess that’s true. But you still shouldn’t have it.”

I didn’t ask another “why” because I knew she didn’t have an answer. (I knew the answer, and I knew that sushi really isn’t that dangerous; if you are sketched out by the quality of a sushi place, don’t eat there, regardless of your gestational capacity.)

Later, I was given unsolicited advice from a male osteopathy student about what position I should give birth in if I don’t want to “tear horribly.” The best position, according to him? And I quote: “The traditional way, flat on your back.” Aside from the absurd use of the word “traditional,” this was his counsel, despite the veritable reams of evidence that birthing on your back is the worst position in which to bring a baby into the world. (Importantly, it has only been considered “traditional” since we started having male OBs deliver babies instead of midwives, because it was more convenient for them to catch babies if the woman was working against gravity, on her back.)

This is the American baby bias—baby trumps mother, every damn time—that makes me feel insane. The sacred fetus is to be protected at all costs from that woman it’s growing inside. Women’s knowledge about their own bodies and their own wisdom about birth is repeatedly discounted in favor of the establishment, which often seems to feature a loud chorus of male voices.

As Rachel Cusk writes in A Life’s Work (which is extremely grim for different reasons, and which I do not recommend):

“The baby plays a curious role in the culture of pregnancy. It is at once victim and autocrat. It is a being destined to live only in the moment of perfection that is its birth, after which it degenerates and decays, becomes human and sinful, cries and is returned to the realm of the real. But in pregnancy, the baby is a wonder, a miracle, an expiation.”

The mother is a dangerous interloper. She can’t be trusted! She’s a clueless breeder! She may be creating the all-important life, sure, but does she really know what she’s doing? She needs to be told. She needs to be bossed around and micromanaged. She needs a long list of everything she’s not allowed to do anymore, and then she should be shamed repeatedly, for the rest of the child’s life, if she forgets or ignores a single thing.

As Danya Glabau writes in “Sins of the Mother,” published in Real Life:

“The imperative to do more and be better is not only a question of the well-being of the person carrying the child. At stake (so we are told!) are concerns that are bigger than us and yet seem to depend on us: the future of the national economy and the health of the species. When pregnant people fall short, they fail not only themselves but the imagined heirs, nations, and biological kin by whom they could have done better.”

I’m already sick of it, and I’m only halfway through this pregnancy. Because here’s the thing: Yes, children are precious. Yes, some mothers-to-be could be knocked-up dodos. But we must stop treating women like they are no more intelligent than the infants they’re carrying and then scaring them into submission.

I’m furious about it, and I’m enjoying using my fury in productive ways for the remainder of this pregnancy. Here’s to smart, capable women, who have been bringing human beings into the world for millennia—and down with all of the misogynistic fear-mongers who lurk behind every baby app and cash register and desk.

Further reading that does not patronize the pregnant

(What do all of these pieces have in common? Women authors. I’ll listen to thoughtful, educated men on most occasions, but I’m not taking any birthing advice from them.)

A holiday in Italy

May was a terror of a month, but near the end of it, we flew off to the Amalfi Coast and then to an island near Naples, and we have returned, restored and refreshed (and filled to the brim with amazing food and wine). Our yard is a swamp meadow, because it apparently poured every day we were gone, and the German shepherds smell like a fish market, but we are glad to be home and glad for all of the adventures we shared with family and with each other, concluding with commemorating our eighth anniversary on the gorgeous island of Ischia.

Buckle up for a photo dump, sans context.

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Amalfi Coast Italy

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Italy Amalfi and Ravello day

Last night in Praiano Italy

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Arrivederci, Italia! What a pleasure to have encountered you.

What to do when we’re all monsters

Inspired by the horrors and paradoxes of our current cultural moment (and a Paris Review article by Claire Dederer), I wrote a short piece for Mockingbird: “Love the Art, Hate the Artist?

An excerpt:

When a politician misbehaves, it’s easy (in theory) to wave our hands and say, “Politicians! They’re all filthy.” But when our favorite novelist or comedian or musician misbehaves, we feel conflicted. We feel like we’ve been implicated ourselves. This is how I felt when I learned that Virginia Woolf, one of my all-time favorites, dressed in blackface to a party and was famously cruel and anti-Semitic. We want our artists to be as blameless as we think we are. Our beloved artists made something so good, so beautiful; shouldn’t the end product match the content of their souls?

This is the tricky thing about art: Great art can be created by terrible people.

Read more at Mockingbird.

In other news, we had a lovely Thanksgiving holiday with my family. Full of sincere, deep gratitude for these people (and pups)!

Thanksgiving 2017 Thanksgiving 2017

Thanksgiving 2017 Thanksgiving

More family times Thanksgiving 2017

The garden isle

Kalalau Trail
View from the Kalalau Trail

The fam went to Kauai for a week, and we thought about staying forever.

Dream holiday, really. Perfect time with my hilarious, strange, and marvelous family.

I took all of these photos with my old, crappy iPhone, and the island’s aggressive beauty is STILL VERY EVIDENT. Kauai cannot be dimmed!

Kalalau Trail
Another view from the Kalalau Trail

Koke'e State Park
Canyon views from Koke’e State Park

Koke'e State Park
Kels and Alex

Koke'e State Park

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Koke'e State Park
Dad and Mom share a gigantic shave ice.

Queen's Bath
Checking out Queen’s Bath. Note that Jak roller-bladed here.

Queen's Bath
Queen’s Bath

Queen's Bath
Hi, Guion!

First days in Kauai
Hanalei Bay on a foggy day

First days in Kauai
Alex and Jak at Hanalei Bay

First days in Kauai

First days in Kauai
View in our neighborhood

First days in Kauai
Feral chickens everywhere!

First days in Kauai
Sam down at our private beach

First days in Kauai
Evening view from the outdoor shower

Not a joke. The rainbows are everywhere.

Verdict: Kauai = totally worth the 22 hours it took to get there.

Koke'e State Park

Why cast the world away

Family weekend
Ladies at Blenheim.

Family weekend
The boys with kayaks.

Fam came for the weekend, for Mom’s birthday, for kayaking down a very low river and for visiting a winery and Monticello. Time with them is always very good; it always goes by too quickly.

I used to keep much more fluid and interesting blog elsewhere. I wrote about people and events as if I was writing in a private paper diary. It’s a little shocking to me now, rediscovering my late high school and college blog, but I also think I was a better writer back then. Sure, I was self-righteous and affected, but it was far more scintillating. Now, when I look at this thing, which I have maintained over the course of seven or eight years, my mind feels empty. I have nothing, it seems, to say.

Things I enjoyed reading online

(Hot tip: If you want to know what I enjoy reading online, you can sign up for the bimonthly email I curate: Story Matters.)

“God’s world is good. Only one thing in it is bad: we ourselves.” — Anton Chekhov

Writers I’d read on any topic

  • Anne Carson
  • Annie Dillard
  • Lydia Davis
  • John McPhee

Her towels, her house

A pair of colorful beach towels, folded so that they resemble books on a shelf, reside in my coat closet. I have left them there, undisturbed, for almost a year now. They belonged to my grandmother. She died a year ago today.

Oddly enough, I have strong memories of these towels. Ma-Maw would wrap us kids up in them when we’d dash into their house from the lake. We’d be shivering in the freezing house, dripping all over her floors in our Disney one-pieces, and she’d have a stack of these big beach towels by the door to fold us in.

The towels came into my possession when my mother gave me three framed prints from Japan that lived in my grandparents’ house.

Home, August 2016
One of the prints.

I had always loved these prints, as a child, because of my study of Japanese, and I was honored to receive them. To protect the frames in the car, Mom had wrapped them in these two towels.

When I unwrapped the prints, shortly after her funeral, I burst into tears in my dining room. Not because of the art but because of the towels. The towels smelled exactly like her. It was as if she was suddenly in the room next to me. My eyes still swim with tears when I remember this, which is strange, that the mere memory of a scent could produce such a strong reaction.

The towels don’t really smell like her anymore. Over the past year, they’ve absorbed our scent, whatever it is (probably a mix of old books and German shepherd dander), and lost hers. But if I bury my face in them, nose deep into the well-worn fibers, I can pick up the faintest hint of her.

I am not sentimental about objects. I throw everything away with gleeful fervor. But these towels, weird as they may be, may always live in my closet, untouched, unused.

Sapona Lane
Me, in front of their house, in August 1995, apparently.

The last time we saw my grandparents’ house was the day of my grandmother’s funeral. All 10 of us grandkids went together, as a final pilgrimage to the house that we so adored.

We silently split up and wandered through the house, each of us taking a separate path, seeking out the room we had most loved: And I remember how sad and somber it felt, because she was not there. The house itself seemed to wilt. There were mildewy patterns on the gingerbread trim. Even the shadows seemed gloomy. The things that were once cute—a concrete owl on the front porch, her numerous rabbit figurines—now were strange and sad.

Grandkids at Sapona Lane
The last time we saw the house. March 2016.

“It was as if the house knew they weren’t living there anymore,” I told my mother, and she agreed. The house took on a grief of its own.

The house is sold now, and I am glad of it. Not only because of the needed income for my grandfather but because it would be horrible to keep thinking of it empty, without the two of them. The house needs a new life, just as we do.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over the loss of her. I don’t expect to. But it is comforting to remember her, in all of the ways that she resurfaces in my life.

Women in my family have taught me

Advice from the women in my family.

My mother

Christmas 2015Buy nice hand soap. Make your home a warm and welcoming place for guests. Be a kickass business owner who isn’t afraid to negotiate, with everyone, for everything. Never settle for uncomfortable jeans, even if they’re on sale. Take care of your nails (stop painting them). Sit down and eat a good meal, mostly derived from the earth, and don’t worry so much about hard-core exercise. Tend a garden. Take walks.

My grandmother Lucy

Ma-Maw getting some bun cuddles.Take care of your face. Invest in expensive face creams. Be proud of your family; tell them how proud of them you are whenever you see them. Create and cherish family traditions. Find your signature scent and do not deviate. Write and send cards to people on every conceivable occasion.* (*At Ma-Maw’s funeral, a woman came up to me and told me that Ma-Maw sent her dog a birthday card.)

My grandmother Loretta

GranBe direct with people about what you want; don’t hedge. Laugh a lot: loudly and daily. Tell stories and crack jokes in every social interaction. Making fun of people is a nice way to show that you care. Consider the needs of dogs, first and foremost. Take risks and do not give any weight to cultural opinions. Show off your legs.

My sister Kelsey

Easter 2016Be confident about yourself and your appearance. Marie Kondo your entire home; if you bring home one new thing, throw out one old thing. Reserve time for kissing and cuddling. Take care of everyone around you; be uncannily prescient about predicting others’ needs. Prioritize your own needs on a long road trip (e.g., chicken nuggets and a milkshake).

My sister Grace

It's so hard having hot sisters #farsonsSee the whole damn world. Do what you want with your life and ignore conventions. Hoard creative material and ideas and make no apologies for the rats’ nest that is your childhood room/closet. Dress like you just went on a trip to Japan and found out that your life calling is to be a potter (who also owns a motorcycle and two pit bulls). You can never have too many notebooks.

My great aunt Lib

Found photo: Aunt LibRead everything and write long letters full of great sentences. Tell stories in every conversation. Invent your own catchphrases and use them liberally. Preserve an irreverent sense of humor in all circumstances. Be a lady who gets things done and doesn’t let anyone stand in her way.

Christmastime

ChristmasHow pleasant it is to be home with the whole family; how quickly it always passes.

ChristmasThis year, I was particularly grateful to have such an extended amount of time with Grace, whom we now get to see only a few times a year, owing to the fact that she lives in Germany.

Christmas times

Christmas timesChristmas times We got to meet sweet baby Covin, our second cousin.

Christmas timesEden was strangely good and cuddly.

Christmas timesCheers for the new year.

Xmas lovers