27 May 2010
So many projects sitting around
unfinished. The mural I started
years ago, forlornly in the stairwell
stands against the wall, hoping someone will notice
the beauty, ignore the naked; the parts-in-
progress. I measure
the merit of the day in terms of
what I accomplish, regardless of my circumstance.
The quilt sitting in a heap on the dining room table
reminds me each morning how very many things
must wait until a more convenient moment--
after a nap,
when the living room is tidy,
once the laundry is done,
after the baby arrives.
Oh, the things I would accomplish if not for
exhaustion. All the things I didn't do before,
must now wait until I can.
Friday, May 07, 2010
22 April 2010
I don't think I can stretch
much farther (but I will) as I bend to find
the next shorts, pants, skirt
I probably wouldn't have chosen
for myself--but I'm grateful for clothes
that will cover my unfamiliar body.
I whisper a thank you, a Lord have mercy;
write the lender's name on the tag,
if it fits; consider more creative
ways to identify them as someone else's
if my marker won't show up on the tag.
Choice is a luxury right now. I knew
this would be the case, this process
highlights my vanity nonetheless--
I don't wear an XL.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
16 April 2010
Everything defeats me rather swiftly
these days. The lawnmower, a brisk walk,
a careless moment bending over to collect
mail from the floor--I missed the coffee table.
I can't even enjoy a cup of tea
without consequences. My body is not
my own any longer; for a time.
Such things once caused
deep resentment, wondering
if there had ever been a time
when my body was my own. Now I know;
it is. A skipped cup of tea, or the admission
that I cannot start the mower on my own
are sacrifices, not deprivations. Finally
I have something to give.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
When we first decided we wanted to give birth at home, one of our first concerns was how and when to tell our OB. She has been wonderful from the beginning, handling with compassion, tact and honesty what we all thought was going to result in a miscarriage. She's been very attentive and supportive and concerned throughout the pregnancy.
The anxiety I've experienced at the prospect of talking with my OB about the choice to birth at home has been a bit over the top. It's my choice, right? I'm never going to do this again, so I should go for the gusto and do it the way my husband and I are both now excited about doing it, right? The majority of folks I talked to suggested not telling her. This struck me as dishonest and even a little unkind, but I had been leaning toward doing just that--nothing. As much as I want to give birth at home and as excited as I am at the prospect of doing so, when folks start naysaying, I start feeling the pressure to placate and appease. I'm very suggestible that way.
I threw my anxiety to the wind today and talked with my OB. She was amazingly supportive, considering how worried I'd allowed myself to get over telling her. She said that, as an OB, she would obviously prefer that her patients deliver in hospital, but that life's short, and we should make this choice according to our convictions and preferences. She asked me to consider continuing to see her until 36 weeks (given my history of early preterm labor), but after that, we could be done.
I feel a bit foolish about how much time I've given to worrying about this. I was afraid she'd try to talk me out of it. I'm very glad I did talk with her. *Not* telling her was not sitting well with my conscience. It's a professional relationship that one has with her OB, but it inevitably turns personal. She's caring for me and my baby, and doing all that's necessary to ensure our health and safety, and if she's doing her job well, she really cares. I'm happy to have given her the benefit of my trust and vulnerability. I'd highly recommend her to anyone looking to give birth in hospital.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
14 April 2010
I must have something to say.
Seems unlikely that the well has
dried up like the skin of my very pregnant abdomen.
But none of the images work. None of the words
come together like they used to, and I can't
force them to make sense to anyone but me.
Unpoetic, but necessary. Life continues
in it's very earthy vein: breathless, sleepless,
swollen and uncomfortable,
but amazing in a way that lacks art, though not beauty.
It is a truly lovely thing to carry your baby.
It's just not very poetic.
"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."