tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18384424341844748122024-03-05T12:52:50.156-05:00The Little Author That CouldMy blog about becoming a writer--daily creative writing exercises, thoughts. Only rough editing. Open to all readers and comments!Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.comBlogger204125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-17822552022752551522010-08-23T21:13:00.003-04:002010-08-23T21:34:47.079-04:00A curtain.I can't say how long I stood there, with Mrs. Linden looking up at me. Eventually, she stood, and walked to the door. She left and I found myself taking deep, gulping breaths, which only made me wonder why I was still breathing.<br /><br />The door opened again and she re-entered, carrying a small glass of water, which she handed to me. I realized that my hands and knees were shaking, and I sat.<br /><br />There were so many things that made no sense. My mind felt crowded and jostling, like an airline counter when a flight is cancelled at the last minute, leaving all the passengers stranded and wanting answers. I clutched the glass and looked at the water. Mrs. Linden took a deep breath and began to speak.<br /><br />"When I was 68 years old, I celebrated my 45<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> wedding anniversary by going on a cruise to Alaska. We had a spectacular time, my husband and I. I had retired from teaching. He had sold his business. I was looking forward to visiting my children and two grandchildren. But, toward the end of the trip, I didn't feel well. A very short three months later, I found myself here, in a room very much like this."<br /><br />I felt a flash of annoyance, shifting in my chair, wondering why we were talking about her life, when it was MINE that had just ended. MY life that had just been stolen.<br /><br />Calmly, she continued, "Like you, I was confused in the beginning. Bewildered and, eventually, angry. I was so young--not as young as you, obviously--but, still..." she caught my eye "I felt much like you do."<br /><br />"You were expecting a baby, your first, I believe. I can imagine that you had dreams of raising that baby, and others perhaps."<br /><br />Mrs. Linden said the last sentence kindly; carefully. Her tone brought my dry eyes to her face, which was set intently towards mine. "You suffered a fatal embolism, Anna. Instant and painless. There was nothing you could do--there was no way you could fight it or see it coming."<br /><br />I could feel my emotions at the edges--like a tsunami, the numbness was temporary and fragile, the tide of my emotion being pulled out so that it could come crashing down on me with greater force and intensity.<br /><br />Again, I whispered hoarsely "What is this place?"<br />"This" she answered, "is your waiting room. It is the place for you to mourn your own death. It is the place for you to ask your questions. You can remain here, as long as you need. If there is anyone you would like to see, I can bring them to you. It is the place for you to say goodbye. When you are ready--you can just open the door and leave."<br /><br />She stood, smoothing her corduroy jumper with her hands, and in a more business like tone said, motioning to the heavy brocade drapery "Behind that curtain is a window to your old life. The people that you love and left behind are there. Sometimes we need that--we need to see that they're alright. I would advise you to watch with caution... but that is up to you."<br /><br />Turning to me, she grasped my arms in her hands, and looked into my eyes for a moment. She nodded slightly and said "I'll be back to check on you. Let me know if there is anyone you need to see." With that, she slipped out the door, letting it click quietly behind her.<br /><br />With two long, desperate strides I crossed the room and wrenched back the curtain.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-44345297327562152302010-08-20T14:06:00.003-04:002010-08-20T14:46:11.869-04:00A small room.The room was small and square. Sparsely furnished, the main piece was a set of two simple, blue wingback chairs that reminded me of something my mother would've chosen for the living room. In between the chairs was a slender cherry wood table and a silver lamp, which was turned on, casting a warm glow on the room. Next to the lamp was a short, round bud vase holding a single white peony. It's fragrance tinged the air only slightly--more like the scent of a memory than anything else. A curtain hung over one end of the room, made of a heavy dove gray brocade, and on the opposite wall was a door. Looking around, I took all of these details in quickly, rubbing my hands on my arms. The room was pleasantly warm, but I felt slightly chilled--like I'd come in after being out in the cold for a long time.<div><br /></div><div>I moved over to one of the chairs and sat in it, watching the door. I wasn't sure where I was, or quite how I'd gotten there. But I didn't feel anxious. That surprised me, slightly. It occurred to me that, not knowing where I was should have made me worry. But it simply didn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>I closed my eyes and sunk deeper into the chair. For all their simplicity--it was very comfortable. For the first time in months, I felt like I could fall asleep and sleep for hours and hours, uninterrupted. As I sat, waiting, time seemed to move quickly around me.</div><div><br /></div><div>A very soft knock at the door opened my eyes as the handle turned with a click.</div><div>I stood as it opened and I found myself face to face with a kind, familiar face.</div><div>My second grade teacher, Mrs. Linden.</div><div>Her face, just as I remembered it, smiled at the surprise she saw play across my features. Her gray hair, plaited into a braid. Smile lines around her mouth and eyes. I even glanced down to notice her hands, which had always been dusted with chalk as she waved them around energetically. They were clean now, but still looked just as wrinkly and soft.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stepping forward into the room, she put her arms around me briefly and reached up to touch her cheek to mine. I was surprised to find that I was taller than her. When I'd seen her last, that had been different. Some things had changed.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's good to see you, Anna" she said, cheerfully, "I have to say I wasn't expecting to see you yet, but I'm glad just the same."</div><div>"You too" I responded automatically, pausing briefly to wonder what she meant by "yet." I hadn't really expected to see her again, ever.</div><div>She gestured to the chairs, "Please, sit! Let's catch up and chat for a few minutes. I'm sure you have questions."</div><div>I took my seat again and she went and sat opposite me. I looked at her and was aware that her hazel eyes were looking at me very intently, if kindly. Searching for something. I was the first to look away and down at the peony.</div><div>"I love peonies. But they're out of season right now."</div><div>"Yes, I would've imagined you'd like them. They're some of my favorites as well."</div><div>After a pause, I looked at her again. She sat back in her chair. She had on a forest green corduroy jumper with a peach turtleneck under it. Just like I remembered her.</div><div>Finally, I took a breath and said "I don't know where I am."</div><div>She nodded, but said nothing.</div><div>"I don't even really know how I got here" I laughed, embarrassed.</div><div>"Don't worry about that. I think you'll find if you think hard enough, you'll remember. But it's really not important" was her easy reply.</div><div>"Oh, well. I guess if it doesn't matter... can you tell me where I am, though?"</div><div><br /></div><div>And as suddenly as I had uttered it, I felt a tremble of unexplicable sadness that took me by surprise. My eyes sought hers and suddenly there was a flash of remembering. I realized that tears were springing to the corner of my eyes and my hand flew to my mouth. Mrs. Linden knelt quietly by my chair, her hand on my knee.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was shaking my head, trying to decipher the memories that were suddenly spreading out before me. Memories that didn't seem to be my own, because I wasn't in them. </div><div><br /></div><div>Placing her hand on my cheek, Mrs Linden lifted my head and said "Yes, Anna. What you're remembering? Yes."</div><div>I stood suddenly, and she knelt back--looking up at me.</div><div>"I'm dead." I whispered.</div><div>"Yes." was her soft, sympathetic reply.</div><div><br /></div>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-84033066132824351122010-03-12T08:16:00.002-05:002010-03-12T08:18:43.566-05:00Poke it with a stick...I haven't written on this blog in forever. Maybe you've noticed.<br /><br />But I <em>have</em> been writing! If you stumble across this sleeping blog, and want to come get to know me better, then <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.fairanddelightsome.blogspot.com">come on over</a>. I would love to have you.<br /><br />Would you be mine, could you be mine, won't you be my neighbor? :)<br /><br />--BeccaBeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-29351143493254102172010-01-19T11:34:00.001-05:002010-01-19T11:36:01.669-05:00I am in love...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyu2YFiXNHrTtGX4fGW-rS2_rqDX7orQcJ0jjOlXc5Ffd0NSglLyy8qwFPrxPILouHUMVVdUCAeaniHHUppneoSXTJqSWk0U7y5dX7L1WbDzBtAHXB-pgMuk1_E_J-Ou-u9zDN3cQfC0/s1600-h/IMG_6358.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428490468117225666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyu2YFiXNHrTtGX4fGW-rS2_rqDX7orQcJ0jjOlXc5Ffd0NSglLyy8qwFPrxPILouHUMVVdUCAeaniHHUppneoSXTJqSWk0U7y5dX7L1WbDzBtAHXB-pgMuk1_E_J-Ou-u9zDN3cQfC0/s320/IMG_6358.JPG" /></a><br />Dear Dave,<br />I am sorry. I used your Marshall's gift card.<br /><br />It just couldn't be helped.<br /><br />Love you,<br />Becca<br />I love youBeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-83517539921441404282009-12-29T15:58:00.002-05:002009-12-29T16:14:31.322-05:00Biographical Sketches... Rose StandishFeet slipping over the rocks and mud, Rose picked her way down the hill. Her head was bent against a vicious wind that whipped her skirts against her legs and stung her face. She withdrew even deeper into her rough cloak and a shiver passed through her. Pausing, she glanced up at the pale sky.<br /><br />"How long?" she wondered "How long until spring finds us?" Placing the wooden pails on the ground, she rubbed her hands together, then picked them up again and, once again, slid downward toward the fort wall at the edge of the water.<br /><br />Reaching the well, she joined other women filling their buckets with fresh water. Few of them spoke. It had been a long winter. Unkind, even brutal. The fact that the cold continued now even into May taxed even the most patient of them. Not wishing to complain, they said little. They all knew that they were tired of fish. They were tired of ground meal cakes that had no flavor. Most of all, they were tired of the constant cold, and the incessant wind. They wished for warm breezes. They wished for things, green and growing. Too often, unbidden, their thoughts turned to the tulip fields and meadows of daffodils at home.<br /><br />"Not home." Rose reminded herself, firmly. She hoisted the filled buckets and steadied her footing as she turned her back toward the wind. England would never be home again. This was her home--the place she had chosen. She had agreed to come with her Myles. She had promised herself that she would never look back. It shamed her to admit that there were times when she let her fingers dip into the frigid waters of the Atlantic, just to touch the same ocean that touched the shores of her native land. This was something she told no one.<br /><br />With the wind at her back and the weight of the filled buckets to steady her, the climb back up the hill was easier than the way down. "Let the wind carry me home" she thought, and then smiled to herself.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-23858847681051271882009-12-27T20:43:00.003-05:002009-12-27T20:59:47.634-05:00Biographical Sketches... Helen Keller<em>I've decided to try a few short biography sketches of real people that I admire. Just an attempt to get into their heads. To try on that character, and that voice. My first one is Helen Keller. The first chapter book I ever read was one on Helen Keller, and to this day, she remains one of my favorite people. I've chosen to do a sketch on the day she met Ann Sullivan in March 1887. Helen was 7 years old, and had been blind and deaf for just over 5 years... </em><br /><br />It was spring.<br /><br />Sitting on the front porch, resting her hand on the smooth wood pillar, Helen took in a deep, hungry breath. She could tell it was spring. There were so many new smells--some of them strong, and assaulting. Some of them she had to really concentrate on. And there were smells missing; she couldn't smell as much smoke from the fires as before. The air was warm, and there was a spice to it.<br /><br />Groping down off the porch, she felt towards the leaves of a bush, and then sunk down on the ground next to it. Helen dug her fingers into the dirt, and smelled the wet earth. Rubbing her fingers together, she felt the clay crumble. She dug some more, and then her finger bumped something... cool and wet. Carefully, with one finger she stroked the creature and felt it recoil and squirm. With two fingers, she lifted it up and put it on her hand. She felt it move. Then she laid it back into the dirt, careful not to smash it. She wondered what it would feel like, to be down in the dirt, where it was cool.<br /><br />Scootching backward on her rear end until she felt the grass, she lay down. The grass was stiff and prickly. Not soft. It scratched through her tights. She lifted her legs off the grass and held them for as long as she could. She brought them down to the ground, hard, and was startled to feel something big and furry under them that darted away. She laughed. It must be the cat. She got up on all fours and crawled slowly toward to house, searching with her hands for the cat.<br /><br />She knew that the cat hated her. It ran from her, and she had to find it. Sometimes, when she caught it, she would tug at it's fur. It would scratch at her. Then her mother would try to take the cat away. But she wouldn't let her. The cat was hers.<br /><br />Suddenly, she felt soft vibrations through the ground and sat back on her heels. Someone tapped roughly on her shoulder. Martha. Only Martha would poke her like that. She made a sign to Martha that meant "WHAT?" and Martha replied by pulling on one of her hands. That meant she was to come inside. She signed again "WHAT?" and Martha rubbed her face. She needed to get clean. Her mother was always wanting her to get clean. To meet new people.<br /><br />She sighed and got up, allowing Martha to lead her inside the house. She dragged her feet whistfully, and took another deep breath. But it was such a beautiful day.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-50841036176356661592009-12-24T20:09:00.003-05:002009-12-24T20:10:46.977-05:00Merry Christmas.As we sprinkled reindeer food on the lawn tonight, I got impatient and dumped the rest of the baggie out in a pile on the lawn.<br /><br />My husband snorted and said "Who's that for? Fatzen?"<br /><br />Then he chuckled and continued "On Dasher! On Dancer! On Prancer! On Fatzen!!! FATZEN! GET UP! GOOOOOO!!!"<br /><br />Ha.Ha.<br /><br />I feel a story in the works. Tailored especially for obese childrens. ;)<br /><br />Merry Christmas!Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-40775561784737777912009-12-13T11:19:00.004-05:002009-12-13T11:30:08.577-05:00Revised Christmas List...I made up my Christmas list weeks ago.<br /><br />But I've changed my mind.<br /><br />I want new stuff:<br /><ul><li>I want the germs that are <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">plaguing</span> my house to cease and desist. No more vomiting. Please. And if my 15 month old could stop emitting farts that smell like a Port-a-Potty on a July afternoon at the fair, that would be AWESOME.</li><li>I want to be able to find a pair of tweezers. I know. It sounds like an odd request. But, somewhere in this house, I own FOUR PAIRS of tweezers. And yet my eyebrows are starting to look more and more Old Saint Nick-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">ish</span> by the day because I.can't.find. a single pair. All four of them would make a great stocking stuffer.</li><li>Somehow in the past week, the name ABBY has appeared on my darling, perfect, red mama chair. I love this mama chair. It's my favorite <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Craigslist</span> find ever. But the big, black ABBY is really kind of killing the appeal. When I asked my kids, glaring at the 5 year old, WHO wrote it, they responded "Um... Abby?" I would like "Abby" remover.</li><li>I would like my kids to decide that wearing pants is a good idea. Especially if they insist on dancing in front of the front window to "Run, Run, Rudolph", as is their habit.</li><li>I would like "The Drummer Boy" to never.darken.my.doorstep.again. I'll bet his mother hated the drum every bit as much as I do.</li><li>My cheekbones. (Okay, it's a repeat request. I asked for them back in 2005, 2006, 2008, as well. But, hey, at least 2007 was a good year.)</li></ul><p>That's all for now, but stay tuned. It may change again.</p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-84117333081755976212009-12-09T08:16:00.002-05:002009-12-09T08:22:00.654-05:00Year 2: In which I never post because of "stuff."I am currently not wearing a bra.<br /><br />This is unthinkable for me.<br /><br />But the Childrens have just been so darn <em>needy</em> this morning. They're always wanting something. Some of them are understandable. Like breakfast. Cereal. Not that cereal. That one. Without milk. No. With milk in a cup. Not that cup. That's a boy cup.<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />And now the Wee One, henceforth known as the GREMLIN, wants her thumb sucked, but she doesn't want to do the sucking herself. She wants ME to do it. And if I don't? Then she's going to sit there ON my bosoms (because they are hanging THAT LOW thanks to her and her siblings) and cry/whine/act like a teenager denied her prom date.<br /><br />Fine. I'll even suck your thumb for you. Lazy child.<br /><br />But can I at<em> least</em> get a bra on???Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-75429182053103446702009-11-10T07:58:00.005-05:002009-11-10T08:42:48.188-05:00Day 172: Date<a href="http://www.aroundhawaii.com/assets/articles/2007/08/973/images/chilis1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 312px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 221px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.aroundhawaii.com/assets/articles/2007/08/973/images/chilis1.jpg" /></a><br />Sitting at a table for two. Or six. There are no quiet tables at Chili's. They are all built for groups.<br /><br />Or just two.<br /><br />The air is filled with chatter and laughter. Waiters and waitresses skim past each other as they bring food to the table. Sizzling, steaming plates and skillets. Over and over, "Careful, that plate is hot." From the other corner of the restaurant, a group of waiters with an enormous sombrero converge on a birthday table and sing their rendition of happy birthday. I wonder to myself, amidst the clapping, when a new employee learns the song--is it part of their training? And is the whole restaurant expected to join in?<br /><br />Sitting on opposite sides of the varnished table, my husband and I. Between us, a bowl of chips and a bowl of salsa. He is talking.<br /><br />I realize how rarely he gets a word in edgewise. How the only time that I really hear him talk like this, about his work, his calling, what he heard on the radio, is on these dates. I feel guilty about that.<br /><br />I reach out and take a chip and dip it into the salsa, and I watch him...<br /><br /><a href="http://www.luludinewine.com/images/lamb.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 270px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 206px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.luludinewine.com/images/lamb.jpg" /></a><br />This restaurant is trendy and small. The settings are eclectic. The wine list is long. We had to get a reservation for our tiny table by the window, a candle in the middle.<br /><br />Conversation rises and falls, like a wave. The tables are full of couples, although a few have the tables pushed together. Our waiter is wearing black, his arms lined with tattoos. All the waiters and waitresses are wearing black, their shirts expensive. Cashmere, maybe, for the women. Extra starch for the men.<br /><br />My husband smiles at me across the table, holding the single page menu displayed on brushed leather in his hands. The waiter appears and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">whisks</span> our wine glasses away, slightly disappointed, when we request only water. With lemon. He runs through the specials of the day, which leave us staring at each other in confusion--did he just say bone marrow with a blueberry sauce?<br /><br />"We'll need just a few more minutes." my husband says, raising one eyebrow at me. His foot taps mine under the table, and I look down, smiling.<br /><br /><br />In the end, I order the squash filled <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">ravioli</span>. He orders the bone marrow, making a face at me when it's delivered actually in the bone, with a sprig of sage sticking out of the top. And I watch him...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"This is really good." my husband says, dipping his spoon into his Frosty dessert.<br />"What do you think these are made of?" I ask, twirling my spoon.<br />"You probably don't want to know" he laughs.<br /><br />Back and forth. Back and forth. We're quiet, as we eat our <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Frosties</span>, and swing on the swings at the local park. I am watching the small group of teenagers, sulking in the corner by the tennis courts. I glance over at my husband, who is gazing at the sunset.<br /><br />He loves sunsets. Sometimes I forget that.<br /><br />I scoop out the last spoonful and eat it, then look over at him. I find that he is watching me. And I smile.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-52646747765759741502009-11-07T22:33:00.002-05:002009-11-07T22:43:42.973-05:00Hope Chest.The smell of cedar is overwhelming. Sickly sweet.<br /><br />First, come Christmas stockings. Eight of them, woven, with embroidered names. Picking them up in my hands, I remember how the Christmas goodies would catch and snag on the threads inside. But the orange fit so perfectly in the toe. And peanuts, which always ended up abandoned in a bowl. Left for my father to eat.<br /><br />More stockings, but only 7 this time. Red felt, with cut out felt shapes glued, untidy, on the front. Names with glitter on glue. I remember sitting at the table in an olive green kitchen and choosing the shapes for my own stocking: a reindeer, a bell, and a star.<br /><br />A wedding dress, the satin with a slightly yellowed sheen. An a-line ball gown gown with a tiny waist. Long sleeves. Dust on the hemline from my mother's wedding reception. Beneath the gown, the veil--brittle with time.<br /><br />Christening outfits. Baby blankets. Elementary school projects. A pair of tiny toddler cowboy boots. A Marine dress coat, cut to fit like a glove.<br /><br />Going through my mother's hope chest is to step back in time. Filled with her hopes fulfilled. Reflecting years of my own hopes...<br />to wear a dress like this.<br />To marry a man like that.<br />To fill my arms with babies.<br />To hide their blankets in my own hope chest.<br /><br />Which stands against the wall of my own room now.<br /><br />Christening gowns. Baby dolls. Faded, dried roses. Graduation caps and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">tassels</span>.<br /><br />The smell of cedar, sickly sweet.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-16996430586720263482009-11-04T22:49:00.004-05:002009-11-04T23:04:08.541-05:00Day 171: Work in Progress<a href="http://renegadegraphics.org/images/contest_images/falling%20leaves.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 241px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 277px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://renegadegraphics.org/images/contest_images/falling%20leaves.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Sunshine day,</div><div>happy breeze.</div><br /><div></div><div>Jumping </div><div>in a pile of leaves.</div><br /><div></div><div>Toss them up,</div><div>higher than high.</div><div>Deepest blue of an autumn sky.</div><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400464139302504738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhallcvlSp3g4Z0QAzVrDuJYCXWg7Z3MrHpHPfeQziLPMzGemjkCFw4Zex9i24C6WttkQuzWgZ-mLAO08t-14PblnNSO34S_sw59PVepxicwortPK3ZkgHMMwm13Qn6auFknPlbqjeoWr4/s320/leaves2.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-34274923023911076502009-11-02T07:20:00.004-05:002009-11-02T07:32:22.781-05:00Day 170...Early.Cough.<br /><br />Cough. Cough.<br /><br />She rolled over in her sleep, only partially awake. The sound of a tiny cough down the hall drawing her out.<br /><br />Silence.<br /><br />She looked up at the red digital number on the alarm clock. 5:30. Just an hour too early. Curving into her sleeping husband as he reached instinctually for her hand, she allowed the warmth and silence to draw her once more downward.<br /><br />Cough.<br /><br />Sighing, she unwillingly withdrew her hand and stepped out of her warm bed. Wrapping her arms around herself she closed the door quietly behind her. At least maybe he could sleep for another 30 minutes.<br /><br />Walking down the hall she listened at the door and heard only the sound of restless sleep... maybe... but then, a cough and a little whimper. Opening the door softly, she reached into the crib and scooped up the small, sleeping bundle. Wrapping her blanket more snuggly, she lowered herself into the rocking chair in the corner. The humidifier hummed in the corner. Softly, she laid her cheek against the fuzzy down on top of the sleeping head. Back and forth. Back and forth. The soft warm weight in her arms. She closed her eyes, patting the little back gently. Maybe she could doze...<br /><br />A creak. Her head came up and she saw the light from the front window fall across the hall. A little shadow peering into the darkness. The rustle of footsteps, with a blanket in tow. Awake already.<br /><br />Standing, she lowered the now peaceful baby back into the crib and stroked her cheek just once with the back of her hand before slipping silently from the room. The little figure stood in the hallway, smiling when he saw her. She scooped him up and he cuddled into her. She gave him a hug and walked to the living room. They sat on the couch and she laid him down against a pillow, stroking his hair. He asked for breakfast. Too early. He asked for Daddy. Too early. Try to sleep. For just a few more minutes. He nodded.<br /><br />Standing and yawning, her eyes itching for just a little more sleep, she heard a small meowing at the door. Opening it for the small cat, all puffy with cold, she followed it's meow to it's food dish. A scoop of fresh food.<br /><br />Walking back to her room, she slipped in the closed door and shut it behind her. Back under her warm covers, nestling into the now cool pillows.<br /><br />Just a few more minutes.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-34358773846146391632009-10-31T09:15:00.003-04:002009-10-31T09:27:56.607-04:00Alpine.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI_OPg9Wo7fqeXkyc4DBcMXfiaupBJe1R_Vi36rnPg-4qEeiPTZ3_5og2giiWwB592c9PA5RHAMlOdQKGYzMK6BdIjhtGVJEXbSDE4xm7l53Ra1OfS4NNTM-cEiD6R4Huc3DjlxORqkWE/s1600-h/IMG_5404.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398754729347821922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI_OPg9Wo7fqeXkyc4DBcMXfiaupBJe1R_Vi36rnPg-4qEeiPTZ3_5og2giiWwB592c9PA5RHAMlOdQKGYzMK6BdIjhtGVJEXbSDE4xm7l53Ra1OfS4NNTM-cEiD6R4Huc3DjlxORqkWE/s400/IMG_5404.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The shadows come early here, and they stay late. Even in the warmest breezes of midsummer, there is a slight sour tang to the air that speaks of coolness. A warning: this will not last. So you hold each day as it comes, like a petal that you know will lose it's color and wilt in your hands. But you cannot help it, and you cannot leave. For the brilliant blue sky and the jagged edges of the peaks are as much a part of you as an arm or a foot. When you close your eyes, they make up the landscape of your mind. The hawk soaring--a tiny speck on the currents of the wind. And far down the valley, the river tumbles over rocks, sending up an echo of greeting.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Winter is coming on fast now, the snow creeping steadily closer on it's descent down the slopes. The brilliant blue of the glacier ice on the peaks is disappearing under fresh, white snow, and there is--more often--the crack of an avalanche on some unseen face. The animals grow shaggy under their winter coats, eating voraciously. But still, the sun is warm. You can sit on a rock outcropping, with a roll of hard bread and some cheese, and feel the warmth on your face--turning your cheeks pink. In those moments, you don't feel so alone. Even though the thoughts of the crowds far below, or even the small village on the opposite hillside, fills you with trepidation. It isn't always easy, when the winter comes, to be so alone. Alone in a hut, warm and secure, that hunkers against a hillside. No way to get out, once the snows begin. With all the wood stacked on the side of the house to get through the winter, and the cows nestled in their stalls. The warmth of fresh milk and alpine flowers, hung upside down to dry, holding your hand through another long, lonely winter.</div>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-612666011839030622009-10-23T11:03:00.002-04:002009-10-23T11:04:55.775-04:00The View...Tomorrow is my 30th birthday.<br /><br />Which explains why I'm sitting in a hotel in Interlaken, Switzerland. Looking out a window. Getting lost in my own thoughts...<br /><br />Oh, how I can't wait to start writing when I get back.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-35911938654043065462009-10-07T20:49:00.004-04:002009-10-07T21:14:32.952-04:00Day 166: Ainsley, Part 7 and Conclusion<p align="center"><a href="http://s241.photobucket.com/albums/ff148/schternli/?action=view&current=IMG_0866.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" src="http://i241.photobucket.com/albums/ff148/schternli/IMG_0866.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><br />I'm not sure how it sunk in, for the Spouse, that he was going to be the one delivering a baby. I know that it only dawned on me, slowly, that we didn't even have time for the paramedics. But at no point did I feel panic, and at no point did I see panic on my husband's face. I think we both knew that it was up to us, and we would do it. He simply set the phone aside, on speaker, and did what the 911 dispatch told him to do.<br /><br />"Sir--can you see the baby's head?"<br />"No... yes. Yes. I can see it."<br />"Alright, now sir, I want you to guide it out slowly... Don't drop it! It will be slippery!... Is the head out?"<br />"Almost.... yes."<br />"Okay. Now guide the shoulders..."<br />"The shoulders are already out."<br />"Is the baby out?"<br />"Yes! Yes--the baby's out!"<br /><br />And there it was. Our baby. Caught by his father's own hands and handed right into my arms. I remember my first look at my baby's face. All wrinkled and tiny.<br /><br />At that moment, a knock came at the door and the Spouse yelled "Come in!" There was the slightest note of excitement in his voice. I heard my friend, Lisa's, voice answer back "How we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">doin</span>'?" I remembered then--we had called her to stay with the kids while we went to the hospital. The Spouse answered her by saying "Well, we have a baby!" She gasped and hurried in, grabbed a towel and started rubbing the baby vigorously. I wanted to hear a vibrant, furious cry, but we were getting only baby <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">squawks</span> that worried me a little. Lisa and my husband both assured me that the baby was breathing. Then Lisa realized we were all referring to the baby as "he" and said "Oh wait! Did we look?!?... It's a Girl!!!"<br /><br />I looked up at my husband and he looked down at me in utter surprise. A girl! We had both been secretly expecting a boy. In all the surprises of that night, we hadn't even thought to check if it was a boy or a girl.<br /><br />And then the party started, my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">doula</span> rushed in leading the firemen who had come to our rescue. They knelt down beside the couch and suctioned the baby, cut the cord, and started looking her over and making notes. About 5 minutes later, the ambulance finally arrived with the paramedics. They got right in there with the firemen and began shooting off questions, "What time was she born?" "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Uuuuuh</span>... 3:30?" "We'll say 3:28." In all the quiet commotion, I looked up from the couch at my husband, holding our baby girl in his arms--wrapped in one of the bath towels we'd gotten for our wedding, and my eyes met his. In that moment, we both smiled. I was so happy that I cried. It was like we had the greatest secret on earth. We had just brought a child to this planet--just us. We were the only ones present when she was born, in our calm and quiet home. He was my hero in that moment, and reflected in his eyes I saw all the love and strength that I possessed. I wouldn't have traded that experience for anything in the world.<br /><br />Several minutes later, they wrapped our baby girl up in my arms and loaded us on to a gurney for the ride to the hospital. Dave stayed behind to clean up a little bit and to send a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">skype</span> message to my friends Tori and Rob in New Zealand that our baby had arrived, at home, and it was a girl. I asked Lisa to please tell them the story, if she had time.<br /><br />And then we were out the door, in the warm night that was full of stars. They loaded us into the ambulance and I remember my precious baby girl clutching my finger in her fist with a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">death grip</span> as her eyes looked up into mine. I'd never had a baby quite that strong before.<br /><br />When we arrived at the Emergency Room they wheeled us through a crush of nurses who had been on alert for us, and all of them wanted to see the baby. We reached Labor and Delivery and met another huge group of nurses who were chattering and excited. It felt like the biggest, happiest birthday party ever. We finally got a weight, however inaccurate, and guessed at an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Apgar</span> score. And I marvelled at the whole experience. I had given birth and never been hooked up to a single monitor or I.V. I was amazed at how much I had loved it.<br /><br />Eventually, we hugged our paramedics goodbye and settled into the night. It was just our little family again--a baby and her parents. I held Ainsley in my arms, with her little pink hat, and I can honestly say: I have never known happiness like that.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://s241.photobucket.com/albums/ff148/schternli/?action=view&current=IMG_0911.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" src="http://i241.photobucket.com/albums/ff148/schternli/IMG_0911.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-16320597066217169242009-10-06T14:31:00.002-04:002009-10-06T15:04:51.863-04:00Day 165: Ainsley, Part 6People tend to raise their eyebrows at me and look skeptical when I say the following sentence, but I want to assure you that I mean it as much as I can mean anything: I absolutely love doing the whole labor and delivery thing with my husband.<br /><br />Go ahead and scoff, but I think it is one of the funnest, coolest things we've ever gotten to do as a couple, and--since we've gone through this a few times now--it just gets better each time. We are a perfect match in this aspect of our marriage. An ideal team. If Labor was a sport, we could go for the gold. My Spouse knows exactly how to support and comfort me in a way that helps things to move forward and help me keep my cool. He knows when to gently remind me to open my eyes, and when to get in my face and mirror breathe with me. He knows just where to push on my back during a contraction, and when to make me laugh. And every time I look at him, I can see it in his eyes: he knows I can do this, and he is right there with me. I.love.it.<br /><br />So. I was in the shower, full blast, and the Spouse was there with me (in his swimsuit, thanks) and we were doing just great. He would help me during contractions and then we'd joke and laugh in between. That's something that I love especially--laughing together and being so excited to meet this new little person. Whoever they are.<br /><br />I remember, at one point, the Spouse saying "Becca--I think these contractions are closer than 5 minutes apart" and I said "No. They're erratic. Wayne said not to call back until they were consistently less than 5 minutes apart or my water broke." <br /><br />The hot water held out for an entire hour, and then I stepped out of the shower and said that I thought it was time to call my doula and see where she was, and then to call our neighbor and tell her to come over and watch our other kids. The Spouse got dressed and called my doula while he pulled a few last minute things together.<br /><br />I was in the family room, draped over my exercise ball and feeling very relaxed. I knew things were going great so far, and was absolutely thrilled at the way this birth was going. Then, suddenly, I heard a little "pop!"... and my water broke. I couldn't contain a huge grin--this was a sure fire ticket to Labor and Delivery! There would be no sending me home, now!! I called out that we should call Wayne and tell him we were on our way.<br /><br />Then, as the next contraction descended, I heard a faint echo of my the obstetrician's voice at my last exam saying "Wow. Your water is never going to break on it's own." But it just had. And at that moment, I looked up at the Spouse, who was waiting for Wayne to pick up, and he looked down at me. And I swore. Because, in that instant I knew--we had missed our window. We had waited too long.<br /><br />Wayne picked up and the phone was passed to me. I stood up to speak and, in a moment that struck me as too sitcom to be real, I said "I need to push." The voice that came back, calmly, said "Now, ma'am. These things take time." Shaking a bit, "No, sir. I need to hang up so I can call 911. I need to push." Irritated now, Wayne said "Okay. Call 911. But don't get off the phone with me." At which point, with my teeth clenched I said "I.only.have.one.phone. I need to HANG UP so I can CALL 9.1.1." I threw the phone back to my sweetheart and said "Call 911." He held the phone in his hand and looked at me blankely. "9.1.1. CALL.IT." I ordered as I clutched the back of the couch and slowly moved around to lay on it.<br /><br />I wasn't even sure where to lay. The couch? Should I get my feet up? Was this going to be messy? Maybe the tub would be better. I could hear that we had 911 dispatch on the phone. I remember my Spouse asking if he should get towels, and an affirmative answer.<br /><br />As he left the room to go get the towels and I lay there on the couch, it began to truly dawn on me. I wasn't going to make it to Presbyterian Hospital. I wasn't going to give birth in a big suite with nurses and a warming bed. I was going to give birth right here. On my couch. And it was all so "Evening News" that I laughed out loud. But at least the paramedics would be there. Maybe they liked delivering babies. I'll bet they didn't get that many chances to do it. I clenched my eyes and muttered the most fervent prayer of my life: "Oh, Heavenly Father, it's You and me now. Stay with me." That was all I could think to pray.<br /><br />The Spouse came back into the room and I could here him giving dispatch our information. Again. At this point, I was simply riding each contraction like a wave. I could feel the rise and fall. And I knew that the paramedics better hurry up a bit so, in between contractions, I gasped "We need an ambulance!" He relayed that information to the dispatch and then she spoke these words: "Oh, sir, an ambulance is on the way. I'm here to help you deliver this baby."Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-80351400292361727992009-10-05T08:58:00.002-04:002009-10-05T09:18:43.945-04:00Day 164: Ainsley, Part 5Tuesday night. My kitchen. I finally, gave in to a much needed nervous breakdown. Crying into my husband's shirt. Copious amounts of saltwater flowing down my face. Hiccuping, gulping sobs.<br /><br />And then? I felt better. Much better. Prepared to wait another week. To be patient.<br /><br />My husband tucked me into bed, and I remember smiling as I dozed off. I looked forward to an exhausted but refreshing sleep.<br /><br />An hour or so later, I opened my eyes. Something was off. I lay there in the dark and looked up at the clock. 11:30. I yawned and rolled over. Then I thought "Oh no. I know this feeling. It's the stomach flu." <br /><br />At this point, can I just interject and say, is there anything worse than waking up with that feeling? The pre-urp, stomach ache, "green-apple quickstep" kind of feeling??? Because if there is, I have not experienced it yet. Moving on.<br /><br />Sparing you the details, I made my way to the living room--expecting to spend the night on the couch, alternating between the ever handy huge Tupperware mixing bowl and the porcelain throne. I felt so nasty and crampy, but really low. Not like contractions. Contractions were up high. Like they had been on Friday. I decided to call my mom. She's two hours behind me, so it wasn't all that late where she was. And of course, there was a small nagging voice that maybe, just maybe--this could lead to something? If this was labor, my Mom would be able to tell me. So I got on the phone and chatted with her, aimlessly, as I walked around and straightened the house. The couch was in the middle of the family room, covered with picture frames and fall decorations that had been taken down while I was painting. One by one, I moved them back into their places until the couch was clear. I was starting to wonder if the coming and going of severe intestinal cramping wasn't contractions, and my Mom told me to call the triage nurse over at Labor and Delivery. I hung up with her and lay down on the couch, hesitating. I mean, the cramps were painful, but I really felt like it was a stomach bug more than anything.<br /><br />I sighed and called L&D triage at my OB office and the call was answered by a nurse named Wayne. I explained to him that I was having pain, but it was really low. He asked if my water had broken--I said no. He asked if I had contractions that I could time--I said no. I told him that the pain did seem to back off sometimes, but it was erratic. He said "Ma'am, I'm going to guess it's probably gas cramps. Take some antacid and call me back if and when your contractions are less than 5 minutes apart, or if your water breaks." I nodded to myself and hung up, although I was feeling more sure that this was the beginning stages of labor.<br /><br />Around this time, Dave came out of our room to see if there was anything he could do to help me. I told him that I thought I was going to take a shower, and asked him to call my doula Heather and ask her to come over. He did that, and then left a note on the front door. It said "Heather--come on in. We're in the shower. Don't worry, I'm in my swimsuit."<br /><br />I knew it would probably be several hours, but I gave up on the idea of sleep for the night.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-44859141174325503342009-10-04T19:58:00.003-04:002009-10-04T20:16:08.624-04:00Day 163: Ainsley, Part 46:30 came and went. I wasn't headed back to the hospital. Not all day Saturday. Not all day Sunday. And even though I had a week to go before my due date, I felt overdone. Like insult had been added to injury. Lemon juice in the paper cut.<br /><br />Done.<br /><br />But I had an appointment on Tuesday afternoon at 3:30 with my favorite doctor at the practice. He was my one ray of hope. The single thread that kept me from pitching headlong into a batch of cookie dough.<br /><br />So I did what any 9 month pregnant woman would do: I grabbed a bucket of paint, a roller brush, and repainted my entire house, ruining all my favorite maternity clothes in the process by brushing my ample anterior (and posterior, come to think of it) against freshly painted walls. By Tuesday at noon, I had sufficiently ignored everything else to the point that I was 3/4 done with the living room, family room, and halls. If that hadn't put me into full blown labor, nothing would.<br /><br />Feeling optimistic, if tired, I entered my doctor's office early--3:00. I knew my appointment wasn't for half an hour, but I hoped I could squeeze in a bit early. I was hoping for good news and a ticket to Labor and Delivery. As I signed my name at the front desk, the nurse looked up at me with a confused expression and hesitantly said, "We thought maybe you'd gone into labor... when you didn't show up for your appointment this morning at 9:00."<br /><br />"9:00??" I gasped, zipping open my little wallet and finding the appointment card from last week that read <em>"Tuesday. 9:00 am." </em>I felt the blood rushing to my face as I stuttered an apology, "Is there any way you could get me in, this afternoon?"<br /><br />She turned to the computer and said "Well, I think we can get you in for a quick visit with the doctor on call. It's [Dr. Doogie.]"<br /><br />Now my face paled. Not Dr. Doogie. "Isn't there some way--any way--I could see... who I was scheduled with this morning?" I whispered. "I'm sorry. Truly. But he's off. For the rest of the week." I nodded, numbly, and she said to take a seat.<br /><br />I had not only forgotten my appointment, but I'd missed my one chance to see the doctor that I trusted implicitly. He had been my surgeon. Seen me through a very complicated pregnancy. Induced and delivered my second child. Comforted me through a miscarriage. Rejoiced with me in this current pregnancy. And he was.... off. Only a woman who has stood in those very swollen shoes will know what I was feeling. Like your favorite show has been cancelled, forever. Like when my favorite Ben n' Jerry's flavor, Purple Passionfruit Sorbet, was retired. Like there was nothing between you and a pregnancy that could, and would, go on for 13 more years.<br /><br />They called my name. I went through the routine of standing on the scale as it groaned and the nurse made her little jokes. Waiting in the tiny office for Dr. Doogie. He showed up, looked over my chart, and said "Yup. Looks good. Make an appointment for next week."<br /><br />At which point I lost all pride. "Please. I was in Labor and Delivery for hours last week. I'm just... so done. Can't you do anything?" At which he smiled his baby-toothed smile and chuckled "Oh! Don't worry! We won't let you go past 42 weeks."<br /><br />I have never hated anyone more than I hated him at that moment, however irrational. I nodded curtly and made my appointment for the next week and thought I would rather crawl under a rock than face another week.<br /><br />It was never.going.to.end.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-6913422585263026132009-10-02T08:24:00.002-04:002009-10-02T08:45:41.537-04:00Day 162: Ainsley, Part 3Last night, as the Spouse read the latest entry he said "I'm not going to look very good when you tell them that you went to the hospital while I stayed home and slept." To which I replied, "Maybe I won't write about that part." <br /><br />But then I decided it's kind of essential to the story.<br /><br />Because when I say "we" decided it was time to head to the hospital, I mean "my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">doula</span> and I." Dave was tired--understandable. It was 11:00. So we decided to head up and get checked in, and then call him if we were going to be staying. We all know these things can take time.<br /><br />So we got to the hospital, contractions every 2 to 3 minutes. But I was still smiling. That right there, plus the missing husband, should tell you that things were not quite right. But we checked in, got our nurse, got our bracelet. Answered all the questions. After monitoring contractions for a few minutes, the nurse said "Get comfortable. You're not going home." We called the Spouse to tell him to come--he was watching <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Bourne</span> Identity. Killing time. Waiting for us to call.<br /><br />I wanted to get up and move around, but our nurse kept saying "Just a few more minutes on the monitor. Just a few more minutes." The spouse showed up. We were good to go.<br /><br />Then, suddenly, the contractions stopped. Totally. Utterly. Stopped. I got out of the bed and looked in wonder, with my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">doula</span> and the nurse, at the monitor tape. We had three hours of good contractions every 2-3 minutes and now... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">nothin</span>. I waddled around a few minutes. Not even a twinge. The doctor on call was on the floor, so the nurse said she'd go get him. Get me hooked up to some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">pitocin</span>. Now, I'm a natural girl, but I would've gone for some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">pitocin</span> at this point.<br /><br />Enter Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">McNewbie</span>. Not as recent a graduate as Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Doogie</span>... but only by two more months. He'd been practicing medicine for a grand total of 5 months at this point. Nice guy, though. Looked at the readout, turned to our expectant, upturned faces and said "Eh, go home. It's late." The nurse's eyes widened in surprise, "You're... you're sending her... home?" He turned to her, "Yes. I think that's the best course of action." She looked at me, then back at him, then back at me.<br /><br />I forgot to mention that my nurse was 8 months pregnant. So I knew that she could intuitively sense my palpable, tangible done-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ness</span>. Like a turkey on Thanksgiving. Oh yes, she understood. And I could see in her eyes that, if it were her choice, she'd roll in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">pitocin</span> cart and crank it up for me. But it wasn't her choice.<br /><br />Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">McNewbie</span> laughed heartily and said goodnight. We all stood there for a minute. The nurse said, with a note of false optimism, "Well! I'm sure you'll be back by 6:30 in the morning!" We packed up a few things. I glanced longingly at the little warming bed in the corner... the newborn diapers... the little hat. I thanked my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">doula</span> for coming. I felt utterly stupid. Foolish. This was my third baby--how could I have performed such a first time stunt??<br /><br />Birthing ball in our arms, we shuffled back to our cars, and we drove home in the bitter, bitter contraction-less night.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-63803269765019167342009-10-01T15:00:00.003-04:002009-10-01T15:20:12.931-04:00Day 161: Ainsley, Part 2By the first Friday in September, all my headstands had done the trick and we had a head-down baby. Perhaps this was the reason I scheduled myself a pedicure. I can't think of why else that would've been, unless I was feeling really sorry for myself. Also a reasonable hypothesis. But I'm pretty sure there wasn't anyone in the Northern Hemisphere that wasn't feeling sorry for me at this point. I was 50 pounds heavier than I had been 9 months earlier, my thighs were tan but still the size of pylons, and I had to get out of bed to go pee at least 10 times every night--a nearly impossible feat because my sciatic nerve liked to play games with my ability to walk.<br /><br />So I mustered up the energy to leave my kids home with the Spouse (snort) and plunked myself down in a lovely, cushy pedicure chair and became instantly engrossed in "Days of Our Lives", which I'd never seen before but had no trouble following, while "Allison" from Vietnam went to town on my hairy legs and calloused feet. Because of some miscommunication that was either pregnant brain or the nuances of the Vietnamese language, I ended up getting not only Harlot Pink toenails but an orange salt scrub and paraffin foot waxing as well. Perfect.<br /><br />It was about the time that the delicious smell of chemical tangerines hit my nose that I began noticing them... contractions. Blessed contractions. Based on the commercial breaks during "Days", they were about 5 minutes apart. Perfect. "Bring 'em on," I thought, as I slipped my now soft and sweet smelling feet into the little foam flip flops.<br /><br />I drove home, patting my very cooperative belly. My mood was ebulliant. I had never gone into labor, but these contractions felt just like the ones I'd had hooked up to pitocin in my two former deliveries, so I assumed they were a good sign. I grabbed my laptop and brought up every full-term pregnant woman's best friend: Contraction Master. The contractions continued, not painful, but very easy to time. We had dinner. Got the kids to bed. They were now two to three minutes apart.<br /><br />I called my doula, Heather, and she came over to walk with me. I had showered and put on makeup. I could tell I was headed for the perfect birth. Finally, we agreed that we should head to the hospital. It was baby day.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-60458258467577676532009-09-30T11:44:00.004-04:002009-09-30T12:16:31.033-04:00Day 160: Ainsley, part 1.There are times in your life when you think "Wow. This feels like a movie... is this really happening to me??"<br /><br />In my life, I've had that feeling three times:<br />1. Laying in a field of wildflowers next to a sparkling aqua stream in the Alps, nibbling on bread and cheese.<br />2. The night my true love proposed.<br />3. The night I had a baby on the couch.<br /><br />To kick off my return to writing life, I present <em>"The Tale of the Night When the Nurse said it was Gas Cramps so the Paramedics Didn't Make It On Time and We Had to Get a New Couch Cover."</em><br /><em></em><br />This story begins actually about 6 weeks before Baby was due. We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl. We thought the surprise would be fun--you know, the big announcement at birth by the doctor. We thought it would be fun. For about two weeks after the ultrasound. Then we realized that it was one of our stupidest decisions. But too late. So, anyway,6 weeks before my due date, I felt like I was still carrying this baby in the breech position. I had an appointment with a new doctor at the practice, whom I shall refer to as Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Doogie</span>.<br /><br />He walked into the tiny office and tripped over my two children who, as usual, were playing with plastic glove balloons on the floor. He looked disconcerted at the presence of other children, and his eyes kept skittishly flitting to them as he looked over my information. While he did this, I was noticing the lack of wrinkles on his forehead. He seriously looked like an 18 year old doing a "Try Out a Profession" project for their civics class. He asked me the standard questions, and then asked if I had any questions for him.<br /><br />"Actually, I think I'm still carrying this baby breech." I stated.<br />"Oh." he said, eyeing the two year old, who was busy stacking the little pap smear tests.<br />"Um...is there any way you can tell?" I asked, without confidence.<br />He felt my ample belly and then said "Nope. Can't really tell."<br /><br />Cue awkward pause.<br />"So. Um. Who in this practice is best at external versions, just in case?"<br />"I don't think we keep that kind of information."<br />"Oh... Is there any way to get that information?"<br />"Um. Well. When I was in medical school, we googled how to turn a baby. We lit some herbs on a lady's toe and it worked. It set the fire alarms off in the hospital though."<br />"In medical school?" I stuttered, "And how long ago was that?"<br />"I graduated two months ago." Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Doogie</span> stated proudly.<br /><br />At this point, alarms of my own were going off inside my head. Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Doogie</span> offered to schedule a c-section, on the spot, but I tried to decline politely. I didn't want to be his first, you see.<br /><br />I went home and proceeded to put on my old lady maternity swimsuit and do headstands in the local swimming pool at every opportunity, trying to get this baby to turn. I had a new purpose in life: to avoid having Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Doogie</span> deliver my baby at all costs.<br /><br />And so a month passed.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-5472232451810147832009-09-22T07:43:00.002-04:002009-09-22T08:01:01.993-04:00Day... uh....It has been a long time since I've written. The well dried up. Seemed to have hit the rock bottom of my creativity and imagination.<br /><br />It was depressing to know the true depths (or not) of my abilities.<br /><br />So I had to decide: force myself to keep writing, and feel frustrated in the process and unhappy with the result? Or step away. Close the laptop. Wait and see if more would come.<br /><br />So that's what I did.<br /><br />And for a long time, nothing came. Not a thing. I would try, on occasion, and find nothing there. So I tried to be patient and keep waiting.<br /><br />Then this past weekend, I took Thing 3 and got on an airplane to fly to meet some good friends up in New England. It had been a cloudy week here in Charlotte. The very definition of muggy, without a single ray of sunshine. Not typical for here. I was looking forward to the flight and the utter assurance that we would pull above the clouds and see the sunshine, even if it was only for a couple hours.<br /><br />We boarded the plane and found our seats clear at the back. The flight wasn't full, which was nice. I put Thing 3 in the seat next to me, which was open, and stretched out. Waiting for take off. Then I saw a teenager coming up the aisle. He caught my attention because he looked familiar, and out of place. He looked like the kind of teenager who should be hucking hay bales in hometown. He looked like the kind of quiet teenager that would be much more comfortable all alone on a mountain then on an airplane headed for Baltimore and beyond. In my head, I knew he was a cowboy. This is not a title I give lightly. True cowboys are very rare. They work on farms and ranches. They are quiet a respectful. Cowboy is a title you earn through back breaking work in sweltering heat and freezing cold, not something you buy at a Western Wear Outfitters. This was a cowboy. He nervously found his seat. Struggled with the buckles. Looked about apprehensively. Not long after, I noticed another figure coming up the aisle. I knew immediately that he would be sitting in the seat next to the Cowboy.<br /><br />He was older. Well into his sixties, if not seventies. His face was lined and had a deep, permanent tan. His silver hair combed carefully. He looked just as nervous as the Cowboy, who I'm guessing was his grandson. He clutched a blue duffel that had written on it "THE SPA at ARCHWOOD" in a familiar font, circa 1986. He saw the Cowboy with relief and nodded. He<br />"Excuse me, ma'am"-ed himself past the flight attendant, and settled himself into the aisle seat. The Cowboy showed him how to put on his buckle. They were looking around, quickly--like chipmunks or prairie dogs.<br /><br />The engines revved. I handed Thing 3 a "TAKE ONE" copy of a Herz rental car pamphlet to chew on and continued to watch what was happening directly across the aisle from me. The flight attendant stood in the aisle for the safety demonstration, and they hurried to grab the safety instructions from the back of the seat pocket in front of them.<br /><br />Their first flight. A grandfather and his cowboy grandson. I wondered where they could be going. What could be so important that it would get this grandfather on a plane, after so many years. The Grandfather stood to get his blue duffel out of the overhead bin after takeoff and I noticed the tag still on his navy blue jeans. Brand new. From Walmart. I wondered if some sweet wife somewhere had bought them for him--for his trip.<br /><br />And suddenly, I wanted to write again. I had something to say. Something to write about.<br /><br />I was breaking through the clouds into the sunshine again.Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-6298070971701832892009-09-02T07:53:00.003-04:002009-09-02T08:03:19.352-04:00Rumba.You know those little vacuum cleaner robots? The round ones that zip around and (kind of) vacuum your floor, without you having to do anything?<br /><div></div><div>I have one of those. Kind of.</div><br /><div></div><div>Only it's a lot more efficient model. It can really get under things and in things and around things. It moves really fast. It does awesome with cat food. I'm pretty sure it could handle just about anything. Including shirts, toy cars, Barbie shoes, and papers that your child's teacher may or may not have sent home with important lunch numbers on them.</div><br /><div></div><div>No. It isn't actually a Roomba. Or whatever they're called.</div><br /><div></div><div>And it isn't a goat. (Although that's a nice thought.)</div><div>No.</div><br /><div></div><div>It's Wee One. Very soon to make official Thing 3 status.</div><br /><div></div><div>Watch out for your toes.</div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376839115048392626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBxrYXdyHUZWB5dlCIz9YcrBoSfF1bQCh-sEz__ntHkiI8IqlpzP9j5uWHkPTGxrAnFvHUsexiN0O2H-7rJECH9Ro2_bbLQbTxxhcnuFHPQXkkYFUyrfUGxubDpxxx0nqdYujqXPhHBI/s400/August2009+257.jpg" border="0" /> <div></div><div> </div>Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838442434184474812.post-64931453076132416232009-09-01T09:46:00.003-04:002009-09-01T14:51:47.947-04:00Sniff.I have this really awful habit.<br /><br />(That got your interest, didn't it???)<br /><br />Well. I do.<br /><br />I never bring stuff in from the car.<br /><br />I'd like to say that it's because my arms are so full of Almost-One-Year-Old child, not to mention Thing 2 who wants "UP" so he can "PUSHTHEBUTTON!" while trying to open the back door, let the cat in, and not trip over or otherwise injure Thing 1 that I just don't have the energy to go back out and gather all the STUFF I left in the car. But there's a good chance that I'm just lazy. So the stuff gets left there.<br /><br />Which may or may not include the following:<br />An assortment of children's books.<br />A toy microphone.<br />A stale donut.<br />Empty water bottles.<br />Rotten baby bottles.<br />Raisins in the carpet.<br />Papers. Always. Papers.<br />Broken Happy Meal toys.<br />Receipts that I don't remember where they were from or why.<br />Frosties cups.<br />Frosties spoons.<br />deflated pool toys<br />possibly used swim diapers<br />1.2 tons of graham cracker crumbs<br /><br />I think that's a fairly comprehensive list.<br /><br />But no where on the list are the words "DIRTY SOCKS THAT SMELL LIKE GARLIC WRAPPED IN CABBAGE DIPPED IN FERMENTED BEAN CURD."<br /><br />So what is that smell in my car?????Beccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003367723852198095noreply@blogger.com5