2 milestones: 3 weeks for grace and 40 years for mom & dad

3 weeks ago today the world was graced with Grace's presence and 40 years ago today made it all possible. Well, in theory. They really didn't have to get married in order for Grace to be possible. But they did. Because that's the right way to do things. (Got it, Gracie?) I am actually really glad my parents got married. Here are a few reasons why:

I am glad my parents got married because...

...it was my mom's wedding-day hairstyle that inspired the do for my senior prom. Oh wait, maybe that was her prom-day hairstyle? It doesn't matter. She shared both days with my dad.

...the photographer that shot my and Jeff's wedding was the same one that captured my parents' wedding day 38 years earlier. That fact made it a little more okay that he was a kook.

...they have an anniversary each year that alerts the world to my upcoming birthday three days later.

...it would be weird if my parents were just "dating." However, since they bought their boat (which I affectionately refer to as "The Titanic") dating seems to be something they do much more of. (So what if their dates consist of a bottle of Yellow Tail and clams in the boat's toaster oven? These provisions build their strength in the event that they need to ward off a barge that may jump into their path on a summer evening cruise).

...in addition to the previous point, 2 words--TEAM WORK!

...at least my mom has a platform from which to dole her unsolicited advice on marriage.

...and finally, 40 years is a heck of a long time to be married, and they inspire me and Jeff with hope that our marriage will be as long and as fruitful!

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. We love you!!

in the name of all things tentative.

I've always been a planner, a list-maker, a slightly OCD woman incapable of "winging it." Living in the "now" has never been my strong suit. I love the story my mom tells about me when I was around five years old. We were driving in the car one day when I suddenly began to cry (As a mom to a three-week-old, I'm sure this probably happened on more than one occasion). When my mom asked me why I was crying, I sobbed, "Someday I'm going to have to drive a car, but I don't know how!" That was me. Five years old, consumed with worry about how I would handle the challenges of the road eleven years later. (I ended up doing fine, by the way. I successfully learned to drive at sixteen, and other than the intermittent speeding tickets and some tailgating issues that drive Jeff nuts, I'm able to get us from point A to point B with very little anxiety or difficulty).

The thing about my planning (read: incessant worrying) is that it is only on very few occasions that things work out the way that I intend. This paradox has become especially apparent in the past three weeks during my initiation into motherhood. I had many plans that I fully intended to follow to a T.

First of all, childbirth was going to be "natural." I practiced by breathing at every stoplight as my birthing class instructor suggested and talked with Jeff about what his role as "coach" would entail. As it turns out, "coach" is a contrived role that gives dads a purpose, highly overrated, and completely unnecessary. When it came down to it, I didn't want a coach at all. Sure, I wanted Grace's dad there to witness the miracle of her birth (which it was since I "quit" childbirth about five times during my three-hours in hell), but I didn't want him talking to me, touching me, or motivating (read: inciting) me with his words of encouragement. I wanted drugs. Lots of drugs. My fear of needles dissipated in a longing for numbness and I received my saddle block just in time to push Grace out and appreciate my "coach" for at least 30 minutes of the birthing process. So much for a "natural" childbirth. I remember that anesthesiologist in my nightly prayers.

Second, I was bound and determined to breastfeed--again, in the name of all things "natural." Breastfeeding is known to be "the best thing" for babies, convenient, cheap, and one of the best ways to get your pre-pregnancy body back. Oh, and did I mention that breastfeeding means my baby wanted to eat every hour of the day and night? That there is pain and even blood involved? That I would dread feeding time, cry each time Grace began rooting for my boob, and that said boobs would grow to astronomical proportions? This was all conveniently omitted from the beauty of breastfeeding text I'd been indoctrinated by. Another plan out the window. The money that we'll earn from my selling my nursing bras and breast pump on eBay will get us about a month's worth of Similac Advance. Grace and I say a special prayer for Mr. Similac before bed each night.

And finally, I would never, under any circumstances, give Grace a pacifier. In the words of my brother, "It's like giving a hungry child an empty spoon to suck on." So we'd find other ways to "pacify" our baby. I would never want to be the parent of one of those four-year-olds walking around with their "binky" in their mouths, pulling it out to ask for a cookie, and shoving it back in. I am convinced that it can hinder speech development (my own non-scientifically based hunch) and that it paves the way for using toothpicks in public, chomping obnoxiously on gum, and other unsavory habits that I've always frowned upon. So I'd never give Grace a pacifier. Until the night Jeff was getting her bottle ready at 2:00 am and she would not stop screaming (Singing over and over, "Your bottle's almost ready!" evades her at this point as a soothing mechanism). And that night when she was burped, fed, changed, rocked, sung to, and she still contiunued to cry. It's amazing what a pacifier can do. So I'll never give Grace a pacifier...unless I'm at my wits end. Then we say a special prayer for Mr. Binky.

So, in a nutshell, one of the things I've learned during the past three weeks is that plans are always tentative and worrying about the inevitable--whether it be driving a car, a child's impeding birth, feeding time, or what to do the next time she cries--is useless. With Grace, the only time that exists is right now.

And that's a good thing.

I'd hate to miss a second while I perseverate on what's to come.

growing up.

I've been having contractions for nearly 24 hours now, and all the signs of an impending labor and childbirth are present. It's an exciting time, indeed, as my fear of childbirth slowly morphs into an incredible urge to get this show on the road. What were the chances that I would begin labor (if this is indeed labor--I'm pretty sure it is the beginning) on the day of Jeff's best friend's wedding? When Bryan asked Jeff to be his best man I believe my exact words were, "Don't worry--what are the chances that I'll go into labor on that particular day?" Lo and behold...

Jeff just left for pre-wedding preparations. Tuxedo Junction forgot to include his tux pants so that caused some unneeded commotion this morning. He felt so guilty leaving. All morning he kept his stopwatch in his hand (he even brought it with him when he went into the bathroom to shower) so that he could fulfill his primary duty as "coach." Before he left, we sat snuggling on the couch watching CNN. We laughed about China's efforts to "go green" during the Olympics. (Who knew China was so ecologically atuned?!)

At that moment it occurred to me that it could possibly be the last moment Jeff and I would enjoy as a family of two. While I am looking forward to celebrating the birth of our little Grace, I also feel a sense of mourning for the loss of our solitude; our weekend mornings of sleeping in, watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and sharing a breakfast of waffles and sausage in front of the TV; our midday naps and long evening walks to Yummies. I do realize we will still be able to do these things, but they'll evolve around Gracie's feeding and sleep schedules instead of our own selfish whims.

I once decalared ever-so-pedantically to my sister that a sign of adulthood is one's ability (and willingness) to consider how our life's decisions impact others in addition to ourselves. It's something that's definitely easier preached than practiced. Today Jeff and I live for our marriage and our friendships (with each other and with others) as we celebrate Bryan and Jill's marriage hoping against hope that Grace's arrival will delay even just long enough to get us through the ceremony.

Tomorrow, we will likely be living for our family.

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.