So we go to our favorite NY Pizza Pie place, where Ralph speaks with a good Bronx accent, and the pizza is pretty damn close to the real East Coast thing, slightly adapted for Californians. Everyone loves to talk to Ralph about their piece of back East, including me.
Tonight someone asks Ralph, "I wanna order a do-it-yourself pizza" ( meaning he wants to pick the toppings). Ralph says, "oh yah? You know how to make a pizza? You wanna go back there and make it? How bout I make the pizza."
Someone else asks him, "hey, you know Pork Rollers? Like they have in New York?" Ralph says, "Do you put it on a pizza? Then no." It's awesome.
So we're in there and his wife is there too. And I'm big, my belly runs into things. She asks me if I want a beer. I love it. Tells me how she thinks it's fine to drink a little during pregnancy. I say I'll just have a sip of Ryan's, don't want to draw attention in public, we are still in California.
And then comes the usual conversation, all about the baby, and is this our first, I say no. I like leaving it at that because Otto isn't just defined as having died a week into his life. For me he is so present, he is my son, and if they need to know more, I'll tell them more about him. It's always kind of painful and awkward though. So I tell her. When she asks how old my son is.
Later she comes back, and says, "You know, your son is with the Lord." It was so strange, I had no idea what to say, it wasn't a question, it was a statement. How God loves children and takes care of them, and when I die I'll go to heaven and see him as a child.
To sit there with Ryan and try to take it gracefully was a challenge. She asks me "Do you believe this?" And I'm just thinking, why do I need to tell you what I believe? It is so vast and misty, of my heart, not something I go around defining in pizza parlors to people I just met. I know my baby is with me, I know he's in a good place, but to define heaven and God and how it all works?
This is my child, so close to my heart, and words don't need to be spoken here about the BEYOND.
She leaves and Ryan and I are both fighting back tears. Not sure exactly why. Partly because she gave me a hug, partly because we didn't know what to say. And we miss him so much. And making him an angel makes him not real.
Don't worry, we left in good spirits because the pizza is so good. And we went to gelato and got the BEST flavors - I got pumpkin and vanilla, it was the best dessert I've had for a while. Then we got coffee (for Ryan) and then a nice turn around the used book store, and it was FUN! We had a fun night. Indulgent. Strange. Good.
The moon is almost full. My belly is definitely full. And it was so nice to have fun! We're learning this. Tragedy, fun, laughing at yourself, laughing at other people, it's all part of this short/long life. We ended by taking pictures of my belly from angles that make it look huge, and Bo trying to kiss Ryan the whole time because he was on the floor. I laughed and laughed.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Moments of the moment
Just the last couple days
I've had moments of the moment
Excited about a small thing
Like planting sweet peas for the spring
Or laying down for a nap in the golden times of afternoon
Of letting myself feel the freedom
Of not having much to do
Except grow this baby,
Lie down with my hand on her,
We are separated on this side
By a quarter inch of skin and muscle.
She moves a knee against my palm,
And then gets all the love
that my body makes in chemicals
surrounding her,
The love of my heart expanding down to her.
The more I nap the more she moves,
The more I rest the more energy she gets
I rest to not get a cold,
I rest to save up my energy
For a labor rapidly approaching
and with every contraction I smile
Thinking how close I am
To holding you in my arms
And for that first look into each other's eyes.
If I survive that gloriousness
and don't explode into sparks
I will be a changed woman.
I've had moments of the moment
Excited about a small thing
Like planting sweet peas for the spring
Or laying down for a nap in the golden times of afternoon
Of letting myself feel the freedom
Of not having much to do
Except grow this baby,
Lie down with my hand on her,
We are separated on this side
By a quarter inch of skin and muscle.
She moves a knee against my palm,
And then gets all the love
that my body makes in chemicals
surrounding her,
The love of my heart expanding down to her.
The more I nap the more she moves,
The more I rest the more energy she gets
I rest to not get a cold,
I rest to save up my energy
For a labor rapidly approaching
and with every contraction I smile
Thinking how close I am
To holding you in my arms
And for that first look into each other's eyes.
If I survive that gloriousness
and don't explode into sparks
I will be a changed woman.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Facebook Babies
One thing about Facebook is that I see all the pictures of EVERYONE having babies. It seems like everyone. A lot of people. So many people seem to be due before me! I've waited so long for this moment.
I see them, gazing down at the newborn infant, with a deeply warm smile on their face. And it's usually their 3rd child now, they've gotten this moment before, and each time, things have gone well. The baby comes out, they get to hold it, they go home. In love.
I want that so bad.
I want it more than anything.
And it is so close, just weeks away.
But the question is still in my mind, will that be for me? Will I get to hold her and keep her? Will I get to, after the intense, loving work, hold my baby and love her? That was stolen before.
The most joyful moment is about to come.
We talk to her, sing to her, every night, we love her, we wait. These days, when she is so close, the waiting is long.
The night is a big yawning black to settle into.
We both have our rituals we need to do now before bed. Light the candle, light the sage, rub the rose oil over the heart, look at the stars, breathe, pray, love Otto, love Lima, be brave.
I see them, gazing down at the newborn infant, with a deeply warm smile on their face. And it's usually their 3rd child now, they've gotten this moment before, and each time, things have gone well. The baby comes out, they get to hold it, they go home. In love.
I want that so bad.
I want it more than anything.
And it is so close, just weeks away.
But the question is still in my mind, will that be for me? Will I get to hold her and keep her? Will I get to, after the intense, loving work, hold my baby and love her? That was stolen before.
The most joyful moment is about to come.
We talk to her, sing to her, every night, we love her, we wait. These days, when she is so close, the waiting is long.
The night is a big yawning black to settle into.
We both have our rituals we need to do now before bed. Light the candle, light the sage, rub the rose oil over the heart, look at the stars, breathe, pray, love Otto, love Lima, be brave.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Morning light
After my walk with Bo this morning through sidewalks with distilled, slanting, whiteFall light, and leaves of every color on maples, and the woodiness of the oaks, and water from rain on the grass, I came home and walked into the bedroom and saw the co-sleeper we have set up, and felt peaceful about her coming.
There is her bed. With some of her clothes stacked in it. And she will be in it soon. And she is safe in my belly.
I pray for her safety. I pray to my grandmothers, and to angels, to GOD, to all the mothers who have ever been, to make my baby safe.
There is her bed. With some of her clothes stacked in it. And she will be in it soon. And she is safe in my belly.
I pray for her safety. I pray to my grandmothers, and to angels, to GOD, to all the mothers who have ever been, to make my baby safe.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Fall, coming and going
A time of such beauty, the leaves on trees fiery and deep, a time of things going to sleep.
So much love and so much heartache.
I look forward to getting the baby dresser back in our home, and as soon as it's here, I want to break down. Our baby is coming so soon, and I welcome her with these preparations. And yet, once the dresser is in our room again, the mama in me who misses her son is so sad. "We picked this out for you, darling," I think. We went to the antique store, and decided it was right, we bargained for it, and then your Dad picked out the color and painted it, we put it in our room, and touched it every time we walked by. This one piece of furniture that showed our baby was coming.
My mom comes over and brings the bins of clothes that I had laid out and washed and folded and organized getting ready for Otto. I am so excited to be getting ready for a baby again, for my little girl. I can't believe I get to pull them out again, these things that hurt so much to put away. My mom helped me put them away, that impossible task, and here she is again, as we take them out.
And in order to get them out, I must pass through the hurt again. I have to remember going to the stores where we chose things for our little boy (who we didn't KNOW was a boy yet, but had a good feeling). Our first child, all the hope, all the faith and belief of those months, the decisions of what kind of diaper to get and how many, thinking of what kind of parents we wanted to be through the THINGS that we accumulated, I took it all so seriously. Finding the Moses basket, Ryan's mom making the liner for it, just for him, the gifts given, the blessings people wrote that we tucked inside the liner.
It's still so hard to believe and accept that you won't wear these things. That all our love and care was compounded into one week, one week to see you and hold you. It is hard to touch these sweet little things again, and let you go from them again.
We learn to love you from our hearts, to carry your heart, to let you carry ours. But I miss my son. I miss the boy that won't grow up with me, who I won't have laughter with, or first words or tantrums or all the beautiful and difficult things that we would go through together. The amazing person that I know you were and would become.
And your sister, your beautiful sister, is about to come into the realm of our arms. She is here with us now, sleeping between us, hearing our conversations, sleeping and waking, taking up so much of our conversation.
"How is Lima today?" your daddy asks all the time. We talk about how you're moving, how often, how I'm feeling, any contractions, emotions, we circle around you. You are coming and you are here already. I am so happy to be pregnant, so pregnant with you. I look at my belly every day with wonder at the shape and the grace of the lines of roundness. I am so grateful that we've gotten to create another little being.
And we go through these months, from September to November, a year from when Otto died, in that silent tunnel of space when he didn't exist on this earth, not yet conceived, not yet in my belly, and then a year later, gone, back to the earth, back to the heavens. The year anniversary of the saddest months of our lives, the most quiet, the most insane, the most heartful. I couldn't remember the leaves of last year, I was blind to the Fall. I thought it was a little insulting actually, I couldn't get inspiration from the way things looked or felt, it just wasn't enough, I wasn't part of it, nothing could compare to my little boy.
And somehow, a year has passed. And we see the leaves every day, we point them out and take them in, because this time, they mean that our daughter is coming. The air cools, the earth is fragrant, the birds change, we welcome all of it.
How can we hold so much? How can the Fall be the time of such excitement and such disappointment, hope and devastation, so much love? It is why I'm up at 4:30am, my mind full of strange chatter and dreams, because it is really hard to hold both.
I feel slightly crazy. So any phone calls and emails and cards are so welcome, any coffee dates or short walks, any candles lit and poems read and prayers sent off really do help. We need help. I need people now. I also need a lot of sleep and naps and quiet. And reassurance.
Thank you for reading and for the love sent.
So much love and so much heartache.
I look forward to getting the baby dresser back in our home, and as soon as it's here, I want to break down. Our baby is coming so soon, and I welcome her with these preparations. And yet, once the dresser is in our room again, the mama in me who misses her son is so sad. "We picked this out for you, darling," I think. We went to the antique store, and decided it was right, we bargained for it, and then your Dad picked out the color and painted it, we put it in our room, and touched it every time we walked by. This one piece of furniture that showed our baby was coming.
My mom comes over and brings the bins of clothes that I had laid out and washed and folded and organized getting ready for Otto. I am so excited to be getting ready for a baby again, for my little girl. I can't believe I get to pull them out again, these things that hurt so much to put away. My mom helped me put them away, that impossible task, and here she is again, as we take them out.
And in order to get them out, I must pass through the hurt again. I have to remember going to the stores where we chose things for our little boy (who we didn't KNOW was a boy yet, but had a good feeling). Our first child, all the hope, all the faith and belief of those months, the decisions of what kind of diaper to get and how many, thinking of what kind of parents we wanted to be through the THINGS that we accumulated, I took it all so seriously. Finding the Moses basket, Ryan's mom making the liner for it, just for him, the gifts given, the blessings people wrote that we tucked inside the liner.
It's still so hard to believe and accept that you won't wear these things. That all our love and care was compounded into one week, one week to see you and hold you. It is hard to touch these sweet little things again, and let you go from them again.
We learn to love you from our hearts, to carry your heart, to let you carry ours. But I miss my son. I miss the boy that won't grow up with me, who I won't have laughter with, or first words or tantrums or all the beautiful and difficult things that we would go through together. The amazing person that I know you were and would become.
And your sister, your beautiful sister, is about to come into the realm of our arms. She is here with us now, sleeping between us, hearing our conversations, sleeping and waking, taking up so much of our conversation.
"How is Lima today?" your daddy asks all the time. We talk about how you're moving, how often, how I'm feeling, any contractions, emotions, we circle around you. You are coming and you are here already. I am so happy to be pregnant, so pregnant with you. I look at my belly every day with wonder at the shape and the grace of the lines of roundness. I am so grateful that we've gotten to create another little being.
And we go through these months, from September to November, a year from when Otto died, in that silent tunnel of space when he didn't exist on this earth, not yet conceived, not yet in my belly, and then a year later, gone, back to the earth, back to the heavens. The year anniversary of the saddest months of our lives, the most quiet, the most insane, the most heartful. I couldn't remember the leaves of last year, I was blind to the Fall. I thought it was a little insulting actually, I couldn't get inspiration from the way things looked or felt, it just wasn't enough, I wasn't part of it, nothing could compare to my little boy.
And somehow, a year has passed. And we see the leaves every day, we point them out and take them in, because this time, they mean that our daughter is coming. The air cools, the earth is fragrant, the birds change, we welcome all of it.
How can we hold so much? How can the Fall be the time of such excitement and such disappointment, hope and devastation, so much love? It is why I'm up at 4:30am, my mind full of strange chatter and dreams, because it is really hard to hold both.
I feel slightly crazy. So any phone calls and emails and cards are so welcome, any coffee dates or short walks, any candles lit and poems read and prayers sent off really do help. We need help. I need people now. I also need a lot of sleep and naps and quiet. And reassurance.
Thank you for reading and for the love sent.
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