Thankful

... That there is a holiday dedicated to being thankful.  In a country as rich as ours, it's good to remember to stop and count our blessings.

... For the time I spent standing outside the other day, waiting for my son and his sitter to come downstairs from putting his friend down for nap and answer the door.  The view from the house on the hill where he stays each day is amazing.  I could see layers of fog hovering over the earth in the distant sky.  Rain fell light like mist around me while I hovered under the covered porch.  The world seemed full of mystery and ultimately unknowable.

... For the fire my husband built in the fireplace last night.  The room was warm and the couch piled with more blankets than we could put to use.  The world seemed cozy, safe, and familiar.

... For every morning that we hear the crows call Caw Caw while we ready ourselves for the day.  My son said to me last week:  Mommy, the little birds say tweet-tweet, but the crows say CAW-CAW!  We like to listen to the sound of the crows.

... For the little birds too, who dip and weave through the sky like a symphony is playing, that only they can hear.  Two flocks rose together and danced in front of my car window while I drove to the doctor yesterday morning, and it was like art rising up from the highway, a ballet in black against the grey white of the sky.

... For this morning, when I inexplicably woke at 5am, finally rising from my bed at 6, and still, walking through my house, my thoughts weren't grumpy or bitter.  Instead, I thought:  I love this house.  I'm so happy it's ours.

... For my husband and son, who bring laughter and delight to my world every day.

... For my daughter, dancing in my womb and preparing for her grand entrance into the world.  And for all the work we got done yesterday, preparing to welcome her: the attic is semi-organized (a feat unto itself), and furniture is moved and rearranged, paint is purchased and ready to go on the walls, and we are closer to welcoming her every day.

... For the basics: a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, medical care when we're sick, and then for magic: laughter and delight are magical, and I am most thankful for how much magic I find in the daily details of this ordinary life.

Happy Thanksgiving!

One More Month

I feel substantially better yesterday and today than I have in a while.  Last Monday I was afraid I might go into labor at any moment.  I would find myself bent over a countertop swaying and moaning, and wonder: what am I doing?  I'm not supposed to be in labor!  I fluctuated between hot flashes and bouts of cold shivering, and I had to race to the bathroom multiple times during the day to empty my body out, fearing it would empty itself if I didn't run waddle at top speed.  My face took on that soft, almost swollen glow that I recognize from seeing other women in late pregnancy, and the baby dropped noticeably lower in my abdomen.  My chiropractor and coworkers both noticed and remarked that I looked like I could go anytime.  I started to believe that I wouldn't make it to my due date, and a VBAC seemed more possible by the minute, since she'd likely be substantially smaller than normal coming so early.

But then Tuesday I felt better than Monday, and Wednesday better still, and now at the end of the week I feel almost like a regular person again.  It feels wonderful to sit, stand and walk without significant pain, and even these small abilities make me feel so much more powerful and capable!  Still, I decided against traveling for Thanksgiving weekend, which will be 37 weeks, and I'm doing my best to wrap things up at work and leave my colleagues with enough direction to make their lives as easy as I can while they cover for me for three months.  I'm scheduled to work right up to the Friday before my due date, but we'll just be playing it by ear at the end.

For quite some time I didn't believe there was any chance my daughter would come early.  I know this is a direct reaction to what happened with my son.  I was so huge with him that people commented all the time that they wondered if I'd make it to my due date.  I was so uncomfortable being so huge, and so hot in July that I chose to believe the man-on-the-street report and thoroughly convinced myself that I was going to go into labor early.  I stopped working at 39 weeks, and then spent the next two and a half weeks sitting in the one small room in our apartment with a window unit air conditioner, reading and waiting.  After that experience, I just had no faith whatsoever that any baby of mine would ever come early.

But I went to the doctor today, and the news was a lot more positive than my last visit.  She's measuring exactly average, and at this point there are no contraindications to trying for a VBAC.  That will change if she suddenly balloons into a little fatso, but for the time being, things look good.  Also, I've been having contractions all week, and my cervix is beginning to thin out, in addition to the ridiculous amount of relaxin I've been producing for months.  All of these are signs that my body is preparing for labor, and I had none of these signs last time with my boy, especially this early.

The doctors are still hoping she comes early, and in the meantime we wait and continue to check on her growth.  I'm making my peace with the wait-and-see approach.  In fact, I'd rather the universe decided this for me: either she'll come early, and be small enough, or she won't come on time, and I'll have to have a repeat section.  I feel better leaving it in the hands of fate than having to make the decision myself.  Practice for all the moments in parenthood that are more fate and chance than choice!  So my due date, like the title of this post, is a month from today.  My daughter's birthday, on the other hand, well ... we'll leave that up to the whims of the gods.

Nesting

Normally, I like paperwork and hate housework.  My job requires a rather ridiculously large amount of paperwork.  I get a certain satisfaction out of organizing all this paperwork into systems I think work best for our staff.  I want the paperwork to reflect the work we do on the ground; I want it to paint a picture of the magic we create with families.  I usually believe I'm the best person to do this job, and the endless reading and printing and editing and piling and filing are part of this job, parts I do willingly, and with great satisfaction when I do it well.

Housework ... well, I guess I'd rather just skip to the end result.  My son's too-small clothes are semi-organized.  Meaning: that one time when my sister came to town and organized the 0-12 month clothes?  Those ones are still organized.  The 12 month to 2T can be found in an assortment of bags, both paper and plastic, and piles, most of which are found in the general vicinity of the attic, with no organizing principle whatsoever, except get-this-out-of-my-face.  I don't necessarily believe that I'm the best person for this job.  My sister showed me that in one weekend visit.  In fact, I'm pretty sure she's the best person for the job!  But the fact that she'll be birthing a baby any day now makes it substantially less likely that she'll show up and do it anytime soon.

And lately I've made a switch, as complete and dramatic as a florescent overhead light in a pitch black room.  My disorganized attic calls out to me.  It haunts me while I hobble to and fro on the first floor of my living quarters, trying to tidy things as best I can.  I daydream sitting cross-legged (I can't sit cross-legged; are you freakin' kidding me?  I can hardly sit at all.) behind the walls, in the uninsulated eves where we store all the belongings with no defined place, all the too-small baby clothes, boxes of Christmas decor, and bins of books awaiting the future purchase of bookshelves big enough to contain them, all our homeless, forlorn belongings.  They whisper my name while I'm sleepless in bed, and I imagine myself creating order from that chaos, moving like a whirling dervish (yeah, highly unlikely) through stacks of stuff we've chosen to keep, but left neglected while trying to manage our everyday lives outside the attic eves, the parts of our lives the world sees.

And paperwork?  Bah humbug!  My dad recently retired from teaching, and has long enjoyed the cynical teacher's past time of scoffing at any new development designed to improve the learning of students, but seemingly more likely to create a new set of hoops for teachers to hop through on their way to wherever they were already headed.  Usually I'm more optimistic.  I readily adopt, and adapt whatever is sent to us, and attempt to use it to show how amazing what we do really is.  I look at the endless forms, reading between formulaic lines for hidden poetry to unearth ideas for how we can be better.  But now?  Ugh.  My desk?  UNcomfortable!  Forms?  A PAIN in my ass!  Paperwork?  WHATever!  I think I'm ready to be done with work.

My chiropractor recommended I not teach my last yoga class, scheduled for this Thursday evening after I told her I don't mind the stretching, but the students, my God!  What are they doing there?  What do they want from me?  They need to chill.  She told me about her last day of popping backs before her maternity leave a few years ago.  She knew it was time to go when clients told her about their back problems and all she could think was:  You think YOUR back hurts?  I'm eight months pregnant here, buddy!

I want to retire to the cave-like clutter of my attic eves.  My husband and son can come with me, and we can unearth treasures like children in a junkyard of discarded toys.  I want to leave my office abandoned, let the spiders weave their webs between binders on my bookshelf, and my paperwork  pile up to the ceiling, sniffling in sudden neglect.

I want to come home.  I want to prepare my nest.

Random Bits and Bame-ing

My brain is skitter-scattered, and I hop from one train of thought to another.  It's hard to finish anything.  I have five weeks left at work, and I need them to prepare for my three months out.  My doctor said yesterday that we should hope I go into labor naturally at 37 weeks for my best chance at a successful VBAC.  That would mean two weeks left at work.  If I could focus for those two, I might complete five weeks worth of planning and preparation.  The aching in my knees gets in the way of my focus.  So do thoughts of my attic.  And daydreams of Christmas trees.  I have little desire to focus, or finish, even though things are lining up, piling up, begging to be done.  I finish novels and naps, and books with my boy.  I finish bathtime and bedtime, but we are often running late.  And then again in the morning: running late.

If my daughter runs late, they want to open me up and fetch her from my womb.  I try to balance all the medical information, but I'm easily distracted, and I've read it all before, and there are no real answers there.  I find myself wondering: is that rude?  To slice right in and fetch her just because she's running a little late?  I wouldn't appreciate it.  Then again, I didn't appreciate it when my son decided to burrow in and remain in my belly for nine extra days.  I didn't hold it against him because --being unborn-- he hadn't yet learned about overstaying one's welcome, but clearly it's a lesson we'll need to review at an age appropriate time.

I had a dream I had a baby boy.  As soon as he was born he knew how to run, throw and bang.  He had my long hair, which made him look like a tiny rock star.  He threw toys everywhere: at me, in the fireplace, on the floor.  He was a little bit scary, actually.  A newborn with toddler capabilities and desires.  I woke up relieved I'm having a girl.  Not that she'll refrain from running, throwing and banging, but she won't be the dream baby, that destructive rock star, and for that I'm relieved.

My son's personality continues to change before my eyes.  He's developing the kind of characteristics that make people look at him and say: that one's all boy.  Throwing and banging are currently high on his priority list, and I'm trying to entice him to pound on my back and shoulders, although he hasn't entirely bought into this plan yet.  He plays with verbs and verb tense all the time too.  I tumbled.  I dumbled.  I dumbaded.  I dommed down.  I dommded down on the floor.  I banged.  I bammed.  I boomed.  I bamed.  I bameded.  I bameded Mommy!

Ouch!  No more bame-ing, I say.  I don't know precisely what bame-ing is, but I don't want any more of it on my head.  No bame-ing Mommy in the head.  That hurts.  You can bame and pound on my back if you want.  But you need to be gentle with my head.

The doctors seem less and less VBAC happy with each appointment.  They don't want me to go past my due date.  And did they mention my slim chances of success?  And oh!  Look at the increased risks to our lives and well-being if I try and fail.  There are numbers, and the numbers look worse every time.  But there are other numbers they aren't reciting, and those numbers tell a different story.  And then the fact that all the numbers in the world can't tell one woman's story. 

What do I do?  What do I decide?  I told you, my brain is skittery, and my thoughts are slippery.  They don't stay in my head.  Also, my knees ache, especially the left one.  Is there anything you can do about that?  No?  Then how can I be expected to juggle all these numbers and come to a conclusion?  My knee aches something awful, and my attic is a mess.  It needs to be organized.  Doctor, can you offer me something for attic organization?  No?  Would you like to hear about my Christmas tree?  It's going to be beautiful!  The numbers will have to wait.  Why are you always bame-ing me in the head with these numbers?

In another dream I drove a monster truck and had a pet bear.  We cut through someone's house, and my monster truck got stuck in their hallway and I had to abandon it and travel by foot.  But they had a pet gorilla who began to chase me.  My bear hightailed it out of there, and I was so pregnant, racing through the city streets with the gorilla hot on my tail.  I woke up breathless.

Birth seems like the perfect time to let go of the illusion of control.  I have a voice in my head that says: you create your own reality with your thoughts.  You need to BELIEVE you can do this, and WILL it into being!  Another voice responds:  That's both silly and arrogant.  Sit down and be quiet.  Give it to God.  Let go.

And the numbers float in and out of my daydreams, hanging on my Christmas tree, gathering in the boxes in my attic, poking me in the knees with their perpetual ache.  And in my dreams I have rock star babies with personalities too big to manage, and monster trucks and pet bears and gorillas out to get me.  How can a woman possibly juggle numbers, or complete lists of tasks on a teacher checklist, or make a life and death decision about one's daughter with all these distractions?  I wonder if they'll understand if I just explain how the distractions are constantly bame-ing me.

I'm sorry doctor/ supervisor/ State Department of Education.  I was not able to complete the tasks you entrusted me with.  You see, I've been bamed in the head with all manner of distractions.  What's bamed, you ask.  Well, I think that's a perfect example of the type of distraction I'm talking about.  Let's talk about the word bame.  What does it mean to you?  If you're not the type to define your own words, then perhaps you'd like to hear about my pet bear instead.  He rides beside me in my monster truck.  I think it's clear I'm going to need an indefinite extension on those responsibilities.  Might I recommend a pile of novels while you wait?  A lovely afternoon nap?  A life and death decision to ponder while you rest?  Just relax right here, and try not to bame each other in the head.  Be gentle, authority figures.  Just be gentle while you wait.  All this bame-ing me in the head isn't helping anyone at all.

Strange Fruit

There is a story here.  It's a story about death, and birth, and the swelling of fruit and bellies, and the decay of flesh, of everything that lives and dies and settles back into the earth for another round.  It's the story of the day last week when my last remaining grandparent --my father's mother-- died, and both my parents became orphans.  It's the story of three sisters at a funeral with babies growing in their bellies, one of whom is still a whisper yet to be spoken aloud.  It's the story of an apple tree bearing fruit right outside a wake where the rosary is recited, a two year old boy who buries himself in leaves while the woman inside waits for her own burial, flesh painted like a poor rendition of a song that will never measure up to the original.  It's a story about family, about the things that divide us and bring us together.  A story about hope and regret, and the passage of time and distance, minutes that become hours, and days that become years, steps that become miles and seemingly small spaces that become insurmountable.  There is a story here.  I'm just not sure how it goes yet.  Perhaps if I had tasted the apple instead of taking a photograph ... perhaps I would know the words by now.  Or maybe I'd be banished.  Maybe I'm still in Eden.  Perhaps I'll never know the words.  Perhaps that's for the best.

Freedom Reigns

I'm not sure whether to be amused, appalled, or impressed by my two year old's growing independence.  As a baby, he was a cheerful, social little thing who would seek the attention of strangers and bestow upon them the sunniest of gummy baby smiles.  By the time his first birthday rolled around he had developed a keen case of stranger danger, and has remained relatively clingy and Mama-centric ever since.  While this is occasionally tiring, it seems to me that all kids have ways in which they are easy and ways in which they are difficult.  All things considered, having a shy child who hides his face in handfuls of my hair and responds to friendly overtures with a mumbled Iwantmommy isn't that difficult to deal with.  Keep in mind that I work with toddlers who occasionally call me a bitch and belt me in the face.  It offers perspective.

Recently my son has begun to break out of his shell.  Fortunately, he hasn't made the leap to face belting or calling anyone a bitch (at least, not to my knowledge!), but he is definitely developing -or perhaps returning to- a social side of his personality, and in conjunction an independence, defiance, and sheer bossiness I haven't seen before.  Sometimes it's amusing; occasionally it's appalling.  And at times I find myself impressed with this sudden display of chutzpah.

We were playing in the backyard the other day and I stepped into the kitchen for a moment.  While I was inside, the neighbors let their large dog out, and he ran up to the fence just a few feet from my boy, jumping and barking furiously.  As I stepped from the kitchen into the hallway leading out to the deck, I heard my son reprimanding the huge dog in an even bigger -and bossier- voice:  Doggy!  No barking!  I said no barking!  I tell my Mommy!  He turned to the door and addressed me in the same domineering tone:  Mommy, get out here!  I tell that doggy no barking!  He turned back to see the dog bounding away from the fence and calmly finished his lecture:  I tell that doggy be quiet and he runned away.  Very self-satisfied, but it was clear he expected no less.  His Royal Highness, the Tyrant of Two, had spoken.  Even large dogs are expected to stop their barks when the Tyrant of Two gives his orders.

*  *  *  *  *

I took my son with me to work last week.  The morning was surprisingly productive and we had a pleasant time playing together in the toddler classroom.  Things were going so well I decided to make an appointment at the Teacher's Center to laminate a pile of curricular materials that had been piling up since the start of fall.  We arrived and the laminator hadn't finished heating up.  The room we waited in was surrounded by offices, most of them with open doors and empty desks, oh-so tempting for a toddler!  He would approach an open doorway and look to me, eyebrows slightly raised and the start of a mischievous smile on his lips, waiting for the warning he knew I would repeat each time:  Stay in this room, sweetie.  You can look, but don't go through the door.

Then he would place a hand on either side of the door frame and leeeaaan into the office, belly protruding through the doorway, back arched, up on his toes, coming as close as he could to entering the office without actually doing so.  If I said his name in a warning tone, he would respond evenly, without altering his precarious position in the slightest:  Mommy, I just yooking!  I not going.  Content only on the razor's edge of being right, parsing the language in his retort until the truth becomes exactly what he wants it to be.  Part of my brain was saying:  For God's sakes, kid, just stay out of these stranger's offices so we can laminate this crap and go home!  And another part couldn't help but take a step back and say:  True, child, true.  And if you can use language so that what you want becomes the truth, well, the world is your oyster.  Well done, ya little punk!

*  *  *  *  *

I've had the displeasure of reviewing a motley collection of parenting literature recently featuring the following commonality: deep admiration for authoritarian discipline.  It would never work for me.  Philosophically, I'm opposed to it, and personally, I admire the spirit of defiance, the magic of chaos, the messy potential and slightly scary surrender to freedom that children display in their play far too much to even desire authoritarian control over it, or them.

A recent question raised by one of these so-called parenting experts at a conference I attended was this:  How many of you want -more than anything- for your child to obey you immediately and without argument?  My hand remained in my lap.  Really?  More than anything?  I sit without judgement in the presence of parents who have no idea how to discipline without the use of a sharp smack, but in the presence of an "expert" who holds blind obedience as the highest of parenting ideals, I can't help but sniff like a snob with my eyebrows raised in disdain and think:  What a terrible poverty of imagination.  Give me literal poverty over this any day.

There are any number of things I can think of wanting more than the quick, unthinking obedience of my offspring.  I'd take a half hour of simple gastronomic pleasure, a smoky glass of Malbec and a small plate of shrimp with cocktail sauce over a lifetime of lobotomized children, trained simply to make my life easier, or neater, or whatever it is that obedience -that most overrated of virtues in my book- is supposed to offer.  If I strive to keep my possessions simple, my house neat (which, admittedly, I do halfheartedly in any case), it's only so there's room for minds, hearts, imaginations, to expand into the space, making all the mess they want.

*  *  *  *  *

Two years ago, I'm driving.  I have a newborn baby in the carseat and NPR on the dial.  I hear a radio show, and it says the best way to prevent your child from becoming an eventual smoker is to ensure that they never, ever take that very first puff.  I look in my rearview mirror and see my brand new baby reflected in the safety mirror I later learn is not so safe at all, being that it can break the baby's nose on impact, in the case of a collision.  His cheeks are so fat they protrude on both sides as he shoves his hands in his mouth, gumming his fingers like they're teething toys, drool glistening like sunlight hitting a drop of morning dew.  My love for him sparkles like glistening drool.  I turn down the volume on the radio and speak to my infant son:

Oh sweetie, I say, you will probably try a cigarette someday.  You'll hold it clumsy between your too-young fingers and if you figure out how to inhale, you'll nearly cough your lungs out as you exhale.  And if you never, ever want even a drag of a cigarette, I hope -and I'll help- you have the confidence of your own convictions.  When you know what you want, it's not nearly as difficult as the world will tell you to stick to your own guns.  Pressure from peers, and media, and our culture exists, sure, but you know what, kiddo?  You can be stronger than that.  You are stronger than that!

You know what else?  You might want a drag of a cigarette someday.  You might find yourself in an alley at dusk, under the glowing light of a streetlamp.  Maybe there's a drizzling rain, and a girl with a Marlboro between her fingers.  She cups her hand over the flame from the lighter and when her eyes rise to meet yours, smoke trails up around her face, and you find your fingers reaching out toward her mouth and you pluck the cigarette from her lips and with your eyes locked to hers, turn it around, place it between your own, and inhale.

Now if that's your first time, you'll go on to choke, sputter and spit like water just went down your windpipe.  The girl might laugh.  Can you blame her?  But sweetie?  You will survive this.  One drag of a cigarette?  Will not ruin you.  You, my dear baby boy, you are powerful beyond measure.  No single cigarette, let alone a dismal drag, can take you down.  As your mother, I'm telling you:  If you want one, go ahead and have one.  Life is dangerous.  None of us survives it.  And sweet baby, we all have more power in the tips of our pinky fingers than a cigarette has in it's smoky spark, even under the glow of a streetlamp, even in the dusky haze of a drizzling rain.

*  *  *  *  *

The house where my son goes each weekday for babysitting has a very long driveway.  When we come outside in the afternoon to get into the car, he has recently taken to running away.  It's not a safety issue; it's a private drive the length of a football field at the end of a dead end street with little traffic.  But this is the point in the day when my energy level begins to wane.  My workday is done and I'm rushing home to have lunch.  My arms are loaded down with bags and the bottom of my belly is sore with the weight of my daughter's head.  My lower back and hips -while no longer in pain, thanks to the weekly administrations of my chiropractor- remain loose enough to ensure that I waddle more often and easily than I walk.

I do not want my son to scurry down the driveway each day, laughing like a loon, head half-turned to gauge my response, tongue hanging out like a dog in the back of a moving pick-up.  My life would be easier, neater, in those moments each afternoon if I chose to prioritize obedience.  If I shut down the daily scurry before it began, prevented the loon-like laughter, the half-turned head, the tongue freed from its mouth to permit the cackle that escapes across the blacktop as he flees, yelling:  I wun away!  I wun away fwom Mommy!  Mommy gonna gitchoo!  I smile as I sigh, toss the bags into the car, and gather my strength.  I take my growing desire for lunch, the pressure of my daughter's weight on my internal organs, any lingering frustrations left over from my work day, and channel them into a growl, growing from deep in my chest and escaping across the space between myself and my racing boy:  MOMMY GONNA GITCHOO!!!

And I waddle his way, picking up speed as my growl grows into a roar.  We run together, eschewing obedience, ignoring easy, neat and sensible, fleeing toward freedom, laughing like loons every leap of the way.

Fighting Fire With Prayer and Poetry

Today, before my husband woke up, breakfast was made.  The boy was fed and read to.  The house was cleaned and tidied.  The weekly menu was planned and written on the chalkboard.  The bills were paid and the budgeting was done.  Hot coffee was waiting in the pot.

Shortly after my husband woke up, my body began to whisper, urgently: slow down, slow down.  I heard it.  I acknowledged that it had spoken.  Then I ignored it.  We went to the Farmer's Market, like we do every Saturday, and I asked my son: stroller or walk?  He chose walk, which meant run, and so while my husband poked and prodded the produce and purchased our weekly supply of staples, I morphed from mother to coach (which is especially amusing considering if sports in their entirety disappeared from the face of the earth overnight, it might well be years before I noticed).   

Eyes ahead!  Watch for people!  Follow the white lines!  Okay, slow it down!  No crashing the people!  NO CRASHING THE PEOPLE!!!  We're working on this incredibly specialized sport-specific skill called watching where you're going.  It's handy when sprinting.  He's not quite there yet.  The Saturday Farmer's Market is like a grueling battle against a particularly tough team of rivals.  Multiple times, in order to avoid certain collision, I was required to intervene by tossing my little speed racer up onto my shoulders and containing him there until we passed through a danger zone.

We got in the car to come home, and my body was no longer whispering.  It fairly shrieked:  STOP already!  I listened, mostly.  There was lunchtime to get through, and naptime for the boy, and then I napped.  And woke up with a soreness more suited to a player the day after a bruising game of tackle football than the fat bellied coach I'd spent the morning impersonating.  I tried to relax in the evening, I really did, but after sitting with the television on for two hours and another hour to go until the little one's bedtime I could stand it no longer.  We went out for a walk in the dark.  Up the hill, and down the hill, and up the hill and down the hill, and this is the only way to walk in my neighborhood because we live on a hill.  And have I mentioned how steep that bad boy is?

I am sore, and hurting, and still smarting at the truth of the lecture my husband gave me when I got back inside and collapsed on the couch, about how I have to slow it down, and how I shouldn't be lifting my boy so much.  He's not the first person to tell me this and  I. do. not. want. to. hear. it.  Yes, my shoulders are burning, and my back is throbbing, and I am busy being a stubborn, bitter bitch about it.  You can see how well my yoga instructor skills are serving me now.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Consider being slightly less of a stubborn, bitter bitch, why don't you?  Good, good.  That's the direction in which we need to move, dear.

Below is a poem.  I didn't write it today.  Oh, most certainly not.  I wrote it a number of years ago.  But I probably need to read it today.  Perhaps I need to read it a few times over, repeating lines like an incantation, reminding myself that life is long, and my body is a gift, like my children, including the child my body is so kindly carrying.  And like children who whisper, and are ignored, it will eventually shriek to get my attention.  I would not ignore my children until they were forced to shriek.  I should offer the same courtesy to myself.  And so I will fight the fire in my shoulders and spine, not with harsh words and recrimination, but with prayer and poetry.  Oh, and biofreeze and an ice pack.  Even prayer and poetry appreciate a little practical assistance every once in a while.

WOMAN PRAYER

My body is

this whole world

is my body.

Limbs stretch out like rivers;

fingers, tributaries;

toe-ponds resting at the bottom of

my sand colored skin.

Breasts like mountains,

pink snow capping

nipple buttes.

An explorer looking down could see

a vast prairie of belly,

navel looping down like

a river whirlpool.

My callused heels

are old volcanoes

crusted over with lava,

now layers of igneous rock,

and my back is testy territory,

that fault line spine

running up it.

My thighs are tree trunks

in some ancient forest,

where the sun of love peeks through

to unfold a blossoming flower.

Waking is the shift of the earth’s plates

deep beneath the surface.

Sleeping is the ocean

on a windless night.

Orgasm an earthquake,

Death a gradual erosion of my soil.

Thank-you Lord for giving me this body.

Thank-you Lord for giving me this woman

that is me.