grace.

Edwidge Danticat writes in her latest memoir Brother I'm Dying that telling her story is an opportunity to look forward and back at the same time. Likewise, being pregnant has offered me an interesting opportunity to reflect. I'm not sure if it's the pregnancy hormones, some sort of feminine instinct, realizing my own mortality in the fear of labor and delivery, or the realization that I'm staring my future in the face each time I glance at the blurry ultrasound picture of my daughter framed on a small table in my living room. It's probably a little of everything.

The last week or so has been rough. I've been what they call "nesting," so everything in my life has been getting cleaned, organized, sorted, put together, and thrown out in preparation for the little one's arrival. I'm pleased that all I have left to do is have the sofa shampooed, wash the kitchen floor (Jeff says he'll take care of that) and cart some boxes of old clothes and general crap to the VOA. But the nesting process is another blog in and of itself. In the midst of my cleaning sprees, I frequently find myself in tears. I think most of it comes from sheer terror. I'm not particularly fond of hospitals, and I am afraid of needles, catheters, pain in general...I'm scared that my body won't look the same after I give birth as it did before I got pregnant, that my relationship with Jeff will change, that I will become irrelevant to my non-mother friends, that my job will suffer, my dissertation won't get done, the house we're building will be too small... In a nutshell, I am consumed by fear.

But perhaps the most frightening thing about all of this is the feeling that I am all alone. Oh, don't get me wrong. I know Jeff will be a fabulous labor coach and a terrific dad; I also know my parents, in-laws and friends are only a phone call away and will swoop in at a moment's notice to lend a helping hand. But when it comes to being a mom, to getting her into this world, even to getting her to the point where she's ready and healthy enough to come out...that's all up to me. No one can help me with this part.

The other day was particularly trying. My mom called to see how I was doing while Jeff was away at a bachelor party all day. I was, of course, cleaning. She asked me, "Aren't you excited that the house is coming along so quickly?" With that, I errupted into tears. "No! I'm not excited!" and at the sound of my first few sobs my mom was off the phone, closing her shop, and in the car to Warsaw like a bat out of hell. She showed up at my door with one arm extended to hug me, a package of Snickers bars and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in the other arm. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel completely alone in this journey toward parenthood. In that wonderful, comforting mommy-hug, the realization set in that she's done this too. She's been there. We had a fabulous dinner at my favorite restaurant that evening and spent a lot of time talking about childhood and motherhood--both hers and mine. We spent most of our time talking about my Nonnie.

Nonnie, though she didn't know it, was a feminist in the truest sense of the word. She actually taught me all about feminism--not by standing on a soapbox and preaching to me about women's rights, but by the silent whisper of girl power in her every action. She divorced her husband in the 1950s, a time when that was just not something women did, but she did it for her children. He was a raging alcoholic, abusive to her and her two children who were 8 and 4 when she finally got up the nerve to leave. Nonnie was young when she divorced--probably only 30 or so--and went to work in her sister's restaurant as a waitress for $1 an hour. Doesn't sound like you could maintain a family on such a salary, does it? And she couldn't. But with no child support to be had from her deadbeat ex and too much pride to accept what she called "handouts" of any kind, she made due, even if it meant that all they had in their refrigerator were potatoes. At 8 years old, my mom became her brother's caretaker while Nonnie worked to put food on the table and shoes on their feet. One of the things I asked my mom the other day was why Nonnie never remarried. She was young enough, beautiful, and her life could have been a lot easier with another income around to help her take care of her kids and home. She made a conscious choice not to remarry, my mom told me: "She would never, ever have another man lord over her again for as long as she lived." And that she didn't. She would never iron a man's shirt again after she left her husband, but at the same time, she would never cease to care for her children and then her grandchildren. With hands crippled from rheumatoid arthritis she continued to work, cook, take care of her home, knit sweaters and slippers, crochet tableclothes and afghans, all until she died...all with beauty and Grace...all with her makeup on, hair in place, clothes impeccable.

I see the power my grandmother harnassed in my mom all the time, who, at 55 (when many are preparing to retire) finally stopped altering clothes in the basement and fulfilled her dream of opening a dress shop of her own. My mom, a card-carrying, Limbaugh-listening conservative--decries the tenets of feminism. Little does she realize, however, that she too typifies the feminism I learned to embrace through my liberal education and my adventures therein. She too typifies the beauty, Grace, and sheer power that my Nonnie instilled in us as she locks the doors of her shop two hours before closing time to rescue her daughter in need of her love and insight.

When the baby arrives (any day now!) her name will be Grace Concetta. Concetta was Nonnie's name. Grace was Nonnie's mother's middle name, my middle name, my mom's confirmation name, but most importantly, Grace is what I learned from these powerful women in my life. Grace is a symbol that I am not alone, that those who went before me continue to walk with me. It is the "grace of a woman and not the grief of a child" that I take with me as I enter into the tumultuous stages of labor with my "head up and my eyes ahead" to quote a poem by Veronica Shofstall. Grace is my past in the women who've made me who I am and Grace is my future...my child.