a historical day for america...just another day for grace

Dear Grace,

What a big week in American history! Barack Obama was elected President of the United States. To you, this may not seem like a very big deal…just another new president. And, in a way, I am very glad that you see it that way. That means that to you, it’s completely normal and natural for a Black man to be president. It means that you don’t see skin color as something that can help or hinder one’s position in life. It means that to you, we are all the same. I pray that this is always the way that the world will appear to you. Even more importantly, I hope that this is becoming true in our country so that you may live in a world without racism, prejudice, hate and intolerance. But don’t be naïve, Gracie. There will always be people who are not as open-minded and accepting as you are. There will always be people who judge others on superficial characteristics such as their skin color, gender, sexuality, even weight or height. I hope that you will be a woman—a girl, even—who stands up and demands respect for both yourself and others. Don’t accept ignorance from people. If Barack Obama accepted the fact that some people view him negatively because of his skin color, he could never have become president.



While I want you to change the world for the better, I also want you to accept yourself for who you are. I was horrified this morning as I watched the Today Show while I was waiting for you to wake up. There was a segment about Human Growth Hormone, an injection that parents are giving to their children who are “too short.” So that their kids won’t get picked on in school for being short, some parents give their children injections every day so that they will grow taller. I couldn’t help but think that these parents could save themselves a lot of money and their kids a lot of physical discomfort if instead of giving them growth shots they teach their kids that they are children of God, perfect the way that they are, and that they should be proud of who they are instead of trying to change the way that God made them! (Trust me, being short isn’t so bad!).

Grace, it is true, sometimes we need to work to change ourselves. Accepting yourself for who you are doesn’t mean never making any efforts toward change for the better. However, you also need to be happy with who you are, know that we love you because you’re you, and most importantly: Love Yourself! You are a beautiful, happy, sweet child and it doesn’t matter if you’re short or tall, thick or thin, purple or green. All that matters is that you live your life in a way that makes you happy and that you’re kind enough to think about the happiness of others as well!

Gracie my love, you are the center of Mama’s world. When you’re sleeping, I can’t wait for you to wake up. When I’m out without you, I can’t wait to come home and give you kisses. You are the most precious treasure in my life. For the most part your life will be full of joy and happy adventures. Unfortunately, sometimes life will be hard, painful, and confusing. That’s just the way it is. But you will get through it with God’s Grace, the love of your family and friends and your own inner strength. No matter what, through the good and through the bad, Mommy loves you more than anything in the world. You are my Gracie Girl.

I love you,
Mama

206 patrick place...a special place in our hearts

We are preparing to embark on yet another new chapter in our lives: moving into a new home--a really new home. One that we built together. Part of me can't wait to move in, to have more space, and for Grace to have a real bedroom (not an office with a Pack 'n Play in it!) As with all big life transitions though, every new begninning means saying goodbye to some other part of our lives. We're moving out of our apartment. Wait, we're moving out of our apartment. The first place we ever lived in together, the place where we planned our wedding, our future, the place where we brought our first child home.

There was a huge red wine stain on the carpet that I removed today (at the risk of not getting our security deposit back!), and as I sprayed and scrubbed I thought about some of our best times. Where the stain was was in the same spot on the floor that Jeff and I slept on our first night in this apartment, before our bed was moved in. The carpets were slightly damp from having just been shampooed. That night I stared above me, pleased that our livingroom had vaulted cielings. Vaulted cielings. I had arrived. Wow--what does it mean that our new bedroom has a vaulted cieling!? Even Grace's room has one. She's ahead of the game.

I thought about other spills--a goldfish cracker I once threw at Jeff's head that lived under the couch for months, Cheerios that can never seem to stay in my bowl as I have breakfast in front of the TV, chocolate cake from birthday parties, cracker crumbs from Jeff's nighttime snacks, popcorn he can never seem to get into his mouth on the first try...then later, formula drips from a bottle that has tipped over, spit-up from a laughing baby.

We've made many marks on this apartment. Nail holes where our wedding picture once hung, dents in the carpet from Gracie's swing. Not all the marks are so tangible though. Some of the marks are in my mind as wonderful memories. I remember where we all sat playing Cranium at our Halloween Dinner Party where Bryan brought a cake he baked (and decorated!) himself. I remember our Wii parties where we bowled until the wee hours of the night. I remember laying on a heating pad to relieve my pregnancy backaches and getting my feet massaged at the same time. I remember drinking a very expensive bottle of Caymus...with pizza and chicken wings! I remember carving pumpkins on the kitchen floor. The list goes on...and on.

Gracie is going to love her new home where she will have room to run around and go hiking in the woods, swim in the pond (well, maybe!), and play basketball with her daddy. But this is where she began...this is where our family began. And I can't wait to drive past, point to the apartment complex across from the hospital and say, "That's where we lived when you were born!"

there are no bad apples

In our refrigerator is a drawer that only ever houses a bag of apples, usually McIntosh, sometimes Cortland, but always grown in New York. Every evening when Jeff packs his lunch, he reaches into the bag inside the drawer and pulls out an apple to put into his lunch bag. If he happens to pull an apple from the bag with even the slightest bruise, he places it in the drawer outside of the bag and reaches for another apple. Only the best apples make Jeff's lunch while the rejects sit idly, waiting for someone to cut off their bad spots and enjoy them despite their flaws.

This morning I decided I would have an apple for breakfast. When I opened the drawer in the refrigerator this is what I saw: A drawer full of bruised apples amidst a clear plastic bag containing only a few apples--some unmarred by bruises or softspots, others maybe flawed yet undetected by Jeff's critical eye. My point is that there were far more imperfect stragglers than there were pristine red orbs suitable for Jeff's lunch. In a way, I felt sorry for the lonely bruised apples. In a way, I identified with them.

We strive for perfection. We all want the best, to do well, to be successful, to create perfect masterpieces, but I wonder--at what cost? Do we make others into bruised apples cast aside as we endeavor toward perfection?

Lately, I have been feeling like a bad apple.

there's just something about a smiling baby...

My face hurts.

It hurts from smiling.

The last time my face felt this way was on my wedding day when the proliferation of photo snapping had smiles pasted on our faces all day.


Gracie (since her baptism--a coincidince?) has been grining up a storm. Last night she sat facing Jeff while he was watching How I Met Your Mother just smiling at him. When Grace smiles her mouth opens wide, slightly upturned, flashing her gums, and her eyes smile too. The saucers get only slightly smaller and her eyebrows raise slightly higher. Every once in a while she would let out what sounded like, "Hiii!" Was she saying hi? Trying to get Daddy's attention? Making attempts at a laugh? Only Gracie knows.

We look at her, and we smile, too. Her smiles make us laugh. Our laughs keep her smiling. It's a cycle that makes our lives brighter.

part of god's master plan...

...is to make babies cute. If they weren't, would we really keep having them?? Seriously. Think about it.

amazing grace.

I woke up this morning replaying events in my mind again. This time it wasn't the birth of Grace, in fact, it can be argued that it was the shattering of it. September 11th 2001 stands out in my mind as one of the most poignant days I've ever lived. Since classes were cancelled at UB, Jenn and I decided to meet up at TGI Fridays, but it wasn't our typical lunch or happy hour meeting. We spent the entire day there--drinking, eating lunch, drinking, eating dinner, and drinking. What I remember best was that the bar was filled with people, and you would have thought it was a banquet, that we all knew each other, that we were friends, or even family. We all talked to each other with a familiarity that was born of what we shared--a mutual sense of shock, of sorrow, and of fear. The events of 9/11 were brutal, but somehow its spirit brought a sense of neighborly love and respect among friends and among strangers.

I wondered this morning as I lay in bed: How will I explain to Grace what happened that day? Will it be for her a story that brings fear of strangers, that there are nameless faceless people in this world who have set their sights on hurting her? Or will it be as mythical to her as the Blizzard of '77 was for me?

I believe that if Grace is going to be fearful of anything in life, that fear should come as a result of her own experiences and not cautionary tales from her mother's. At the same time, it's also my job to shed light on reality for her, to speak with candor and honesty about my own experiences so that she is not shell-shocked by truth.

Part of the reality of 9/11 for me is that as Americans, we do have the ability to walk together, to unite with a common purpose, to share neighborly love...something that today, given the divisiveness of American politics, we have completely lost sight of. I will explain to Grace the great tragedy that occurred that day, but I will also highlight the Amazing Grace bestowed on our country in our ability--if even for a moment--to connect with one another

During Grace's "cranky time" each night, I sing the song to her. Unfortunately, I only know two verses by heart. Without fail, it calms her into a peaceful state that I hope she'll carry with her into adulthood. In the spirit of me learning the song so that I can sing more than two verses tonight and in remembrance of that horrific yet inspiring day seven years ago:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.

In remembrance...

backtracking...

I often wonder what's more important in our lives: the actual moments that we live and experience or the memories that last once the moment is over?

Grace turned one-month old on September 3rd; time has flown and somehow has moved at a snail's pace at the same time. Her hair is coming in thicker, her face is filling out, newborn size onesies are now too small; she's changing more and more each day. One thing that has not changed, however, is the indellible mark her birth has left on me. And I mean her actual birth. Each night as I lie down to sleep I try to avoid thinking about tasks that need to be completed (like a dissertation, maybe?), and so I replay in my mind the events surrounding Grace's birth in much the same way I replayed over and over my and Jeff's first kiss four years ago. Is it reviewing it in my mind for weeks that has helped me to remember it? It was snowing outside. I see a snapshot in my mind of us sitting on his couch after finishing a game of Scrabble, me in an ivory fleece, jeans and yellow sneakers and him in a navy blue Eddie Bauer sweatshirt. He held my hand and I commented sarcastically, "I suppose you're going to try to kiss me next." The rest is history...

Fast forward four years. It occurred to me last night that I should write down the story of Grace's entry into the world both so that I'll have it to share with her one day, but also for me. For as painful as the experience was, I bask in its retelling, each one a memorial of a completed piece of life...one I want never to forget.

I woke up at 6:00 am on Saturday, August 2nd--contracting. Not painful contractions--just a tightening of my lower back coming every 10, then 7, then 5 minutes to let me know that my life was about to change forever. It was the day of Bryan and Jill's wedding, and Jeff was the Best Man. As he ran around getting ready to leave, he simultaneously timed my contractions on a stopwatch. I reassured him that they weren't that bad, that it was okay to head out for the wedding, I'd see him at the church. The story would be much more interesting if I said I went into full-blown labor the moment he walked out the door, but no. I made it to the wedding, contracting throughout the ceremony and then reception. My mother-in-law and the mother of the groom convinced me before dinner to call my doctor since we were an hour and a half away from the hospital. I did, and he told me to 'stay for a while, have fun, but try to get closer to Rochester soon.' After Jeff's speech and a eating a meager dinner (out of fear I would throw up during labor), Jeff and I headed out on our way to the hospital.

We arrived in triage at the birthing center, they "checked me" and I was 3 cm dilated. They told me to "walk around for awhile" and they'd check me again in an hour or so. After said hour, I was dilated to 3.5, but the resident on duty decided it would be best for me to take a percoset and head home to get some sleep. For the record, I knew that was a dumb idea, but I did what I was told. We made the one-hour drive home, I showered, got into bed...and then my water broke. We made the one-hour trip back to the hospital and in that brief time, my contractions went from tolerable to "holy cow, I don't know if I can handle this" painful. Our car ride began with chatting, to breathing, to moaning through contractions.

We got back to triage at around 3 am. I told them my water broke and their little litmus test was inconclusive as to whether or not it really had. It had. I knew it had. So when they told me they'd have to use the speculum to do an exam, I was anything but compliant. I made up my mind--there would be no speculum going anywhere near me. They "checked me" again and I was dilated to 5 cm, begging for drugs--"any drugs! Just something to make the pain go away!" After what seemed like an eternity (a nurse who didn't believe me when I said on a scale of 1-10 the pain was a 12, another nurse who admired my "beautiful veins" before she inserted my IV, and sitting in a wheelchair leaking all over the hallway forever), they brought me into a new room with a nurse named Joy and Dr. Sciabetta. The pain suddenly turned to an intense need to go #2...at least that's what I thought I had to do. In actuality, I was nearly fully dilated and it was time to start pushing! "Wait! Does this mean I can't have the drugs!?" I cried. The doctor decided I could have a saddle block because it would take away the pain for about 2 hours (instead of the epidural which is meant for more long-term pain relief). I love Dr. Sciabetta for this. I have never so looked forward to a needle in my life! Once it was in, I was completely numb, happy, and on my back ready to push.

It was a very intimate scene. No stirrups, masks or gowns. Just Jeff holding one leg, Joy holding the other, Dr. S. sitting at the end of the bed chatting and joking with us (in between pushes, of course). After about 30 minutes of contractions and a handful of pushes, Dr. S. warned me, "Now, if you don't get her out by the next contraction, the pain medication is going to wear off and you're going to feel everything." I knew he was kidding, but his joke signaled to me that it was time to get the show on the road and with the next push out came little Grace's head. I laughed and cried, amazed at both the work I had done in getting her out and the work Jeff and I had done together in creating such a masterpiece. For the first time ever, I saw tears in my husband's eyes. And our world was forever changed.

Grace entered the world in silence, her eyes wide open as she took in whatever she could make of her environment. Part of me was concerned that she wasn't tense and crying like all of the babies I had seen born on TV. But there was another part of me that was proud of the grace with which she made her entrance. Quiet and aware, cautious and curious, observant. I only hope that this is the way she will live her life as well--eyes open, looking ahead, quiet enough to attend to the world around her in thoughtful and meaningful ways.

Grace is one month old and I can't stop thinking about those several hours on August 2nd and 3rd that ushered her into this world. I have learned the meaning of the phrase "labor of love" and I am forced to admit that everyone was right--it was SO worth it.

As has become our morning ritual, when Grace woke up at 6:00 this morning to eat, I fed her and then brought her into bed with me, holding her next to me as she slept with my cheek pressed against her sweet-smelling little head. Every morning this is a moment I want to hold onto--put it in my pocket and save it for later for when she's too big or too cool to snuggle with her mama..

The experiences that I live are important, but they are fleeting--my and Jeff's first kiss, the birth of Grace, our morning snuggle-time. However, it is in these moments that I formulate the memories that I will hold and cherish forever.

Here's to never forgetting...