Back to Reality

Sitting here, just like I do every year, mumbling something like, "I can't believe school starts in a week." Smudged mascara, bedhead from trying to get two kids to sleep and a crunchy front yard worthy of a biker gang are proof that yes, summer's nearly gone and this party is over. The boys have had it pretty easy on the manual labor front since school's been out but with the start of a new school year we'll be getting back into our normal routine and along with regular bathing and decent bedtimes that also means chores.

At one point long ago we tried the whole allowance thing with the caveat that in order to get the allowance, we wouldn't remind you to do your chores. If you did them, you'd let us know and Friday would be payday. A couple weeks went something like this:

"Hey, what day is it?"
-"It's Friday."
"I forgot all my chooooorresss!!! Waaaaahhhhh!"

We quickly realized this was not the way for us and came to the decision that if the chore was something you would be called on to do in your adult daily life (assuming no live-in help) then we wouldn't be paying you to do it at our house. Each boy gets chores that are within his capabilities without help from us and rather than simply assigning them, we give a few different options to choose from and they can create their own responsibilities. Today when we talked about it, Flynn decided that after a year he's had enough of table setting and would like to move to dish washing some nights, which I think is crazy but I'm gladly willing to accommodate.

It's also essential that they help because 1. We live in a small home for 4 people and 2 dogs (roughly 1100 square feet with no garage) and things get funky very quickly 2. Jonah goes to preschool 3 mornings a week and I work from home. I could easily spend that precious time doing housework rather than work-work 3. They go to Waldorf school and won't have homework until 3rd or 4th grade, leaving plenty of time to play and still finish chores.  Here's a little run-down of what each guy is doing:

7 years old

• Make bed every morning 
• Help make younger brother's bed
• Have backpack ready for school
• Prepare any sports stuff
• On bath nights, set and clear table
• On non-bath nights, do all dishes (seriously, this will be a life lesson)
• Spend 5 minutes helping prepare lunch for school
• Lay out clothes for the next morning
• Tidy up bookshelves each night
• Brush dogs
• Read every day
• Sort laundry

3 1/2 years old

• Put pillows and friends onto bed every morning
• Put on own clothes
• Have a vague idea where backpack is
• Come to breakfast table with a minimal amount of screaming, crawling or moaning
• Responsible for catching all bugs that come into the house
• Responsible for helping with all baked goods
• Help clear table
• Take all used cloth napkins from table to laundry after dinner
• Feed dogs at night
• Sweep floor after dinner
• Tidy up toys at night

Yes, we have to nudge sometimes, and yes, we have to demand sometimes but for the most part we're very consistent and it's gotten easier. They are still fairly little and I'm willing to do pretty much whatever it takes to help them find some joy in their work so if that means speaking in a British accent while you sweep or listening to Janet Jackson while you clean that's totally fine. As they get older, more chores get added. Around 10 years old the hammer really comes down when they have to start doing their own laundry and each kid will be responsible for one family meal each week. They'll find or create the recipe, shop for ingredients, cook and serve it. 

Since there is no allowance offered we give Flynn opportunities to earn money by doing additional bigger jobs. The boys are working towards getting a bunny so they need to save up for alllll the supplies that go with it and this part has worked out so well. For example, one Saturday he organized my closet, cleaned out the fridge and cleaned the front porch for $15. We were both ecstatic at the end of the day! 

The 7th Year

Ah, spring! Truth be told, I'll always be a fall loyalist but as soon as I see green shoots come up from the earth or hear a robin calling while we're eating dinner by the light of the sun, I start to warm to spring. Another added benefit of spring is celebrating my April baby! Spring babies remind me of the truth in the cycle of life, the basic wisdom within all of us that tells us it's wise to bring new life into the world after the frost when everything is softer.

I also enjoy that spring break falls shortly before my son's birthday because it gives a unique opportunity to be with him for a length of time and truly see him for who he is, where he is at this moment. The couple months leading up to his birthdays tend to be challenging. Just like the stems tentatively rising up, he is incredibly sensitive. Any shift in the wind can blow him over and it shows in how quickly his face can flush, how the tears seem so close and so ready to spill out at the first sign of any hurt, any slight - perceived or real. It's ALL real during this time and I've learned we just have to ride it out.

While some children delight in yanking out a tooth that's dangling by one last thread, my guy cries and howls about how scared he is, how bad it hurts, that he just wants it to be OUT. These last few weeks we've had several conversations about all the reasons why it's so wonderful and such a gift to be a very sensitive person. Of course it's awful to see something that should be "no big deal" or that you know still needs to occur another 20 or so times become a two day saga, and of course you try not to imagine the day the hurt will come from someone or something outside himself. When a friend turns away or a heart is broken you know you'll have the same conversation then about how bad it hurts, how scary it is and that you just want it to be over.

During these times I feel acutely aware that all children, and yes, all adults are highly sensitive beings. We all have within us something that strikes a nerve, quickens a pulse. Some of us may try to ignore or avoid those triggers but they are still there. I take comfort when I see my son working through this time at his own pace, in his own way. I see the evidence in the repetitive patterns in his drawings and paintings, the way his shoulders and jaw relax when he sinks into his knitting projects, the way he seems to go into a trance as he dribbles a soccer ball back and forth, back and forth across the field.

According to Rudolf Steiner, the seven year change is of major significance. And it doesn't stop there - the seven year cycle continues on. I'm sure there are other children going through this change who are being told expressing themselves during this time makes them "a baby" but as I think about the extensive changes we all go through every seven years, from the cellular level outwards, I think, "EXACTLY! You're 7! You are a baby!" During times of transition we should expect less, pressure less, laugh more, touch more and move more slowly. As parents our knee jerk response is to label this transition "difficult", demand our expectations be met, demand attention be paid to the task at hand. Yes, there is a time to focus inward, to follow instruction from others but this is not that time. I find lately that my son tunes me out and argues vehemently about simple daily tasks yet instantly tunes in when the conversation is framed in learning about something. Anything. This curiosity to soak in the new, to tune into the outside world is at the core of the seven year change and I'm reminded that in order to foster these changes in the most peaceful way possible we need to "feed what's hungry." If we truly see ourselves as beings rooted in nature, then during times of conflict or growth it only makes sense that we tune out the monotonous, the voices of others and stretch outward tentatively, carefully, soaking up the knowledge the world has to offer, just as the sprouts soak up the sun.

As a wise man once reminded us, "Take care of yourself, and each other."

The Baker and the Phoenix

Thanksgiving is a day to teach and be reminded that much of our human experience is determined by how we define "abundance" and tomorrow the boys and I will be unveiling our first Thanksgiving play, "The Baker and the Phoenix." It started out as a simple seedling of a story months ago, likely on a chaotic morning car ride when it was too cold for me to stick my head out the window and crank the radio to escape the fighting, potty-talking and horrific noise from the back seat. If you've ever spent time with a 6 or 7 year old, you know that they don't miss much. Every slight note of hypocrisy and unfairness is immediately pounced on and their powers of perception also extend to those around them; who has what, who is taller, faster, reads better, reads at all in my son's case, who gets to have video games, who gets more grapes, for Christ's sake..the list is endless. I may have planted the seed for this story, but I'm convinced that it's my son's observations of the world around him and his need to reconcile those observations with what is in his heart that quickly turned it into something much, much more. Of course, it will likely be carried out like an outtake from "Waiting for Guffman" but the intention is so there and I'm grateful for every moment we spent creating this story.

The Baker and the Phoenix

"The Baker and the Phoenix" is the story of an old baker woman who lives alone high in a remote mountain village. The village was once abundant with trees, animals and gardens but the greedy villagers sold the lumber and watched as it was carted away, counting their shiny new coins. Of course, the money was spent in no time and they were left with dry soil, no wood for cooking or shelter and little food. Despite her age and her few supplies the old baker woman continued to make small loaves of bread for the villagers each day. If they couldn't pay her she simply smiled, shook their hand and sent them on their way, assuring them they would someday pay her back.

The baker woman also had a gift with animals and was always nursing injured or sick animals back to health and feeding little ones who had been abandoned. (This is also how we ended up with a "shop mountain lion" named "Mookie" who I'm sure will tear down our entire set and eat the entire cast). One day she found a great bird deep in the forest and brought him back to her shop. She could see nothing wrong with him and despite all her efforts, he continued to sit in the corner of the shop, watching her with sad eyes as each day another of his shabby feathers fell to the ground. Although she was perplexed and frustrated by his failure to return to health, she kept on trying all she could think of, never giving up hope.

Finally, one day she realized that she had only a small handful of wheat left for bread and just a few splinters of wood left to start her morning fire. Her body ached and her bones creaked as she spent the early hours making as many small loaves as she possibly could from the few ingredients she had left. When the last loaf was handed out, the old baker woman had no choice but to turn away a family in desperate need of food. She boarded up her shop, realizing she now truly had nothing left to give. Then baker woman collapsed into her chair and cried, not for herself in her cold, dark shop, but for those she could no longer feed.

As her tears slowed, she looked up just in time to see the very last feather fall from the great bird (name TBD prior to curtain call). She wept once again for the bird, who was surely too sick to go on. The bird had been quietly watching her all this time and then, he bowed his head and a single tear fell from his eye. When the tear landed, it made a flash of golden smoke and there, before the baker's eyes, the flash turned into a stalk of wheat, growing from her dirt floor. Then suddenly, the bird raised his head and let out a piercing cry. A brilliant blue-green light started to swirl from the bird's claws, up his chest, then turning a blinding yellow and red above the crown of his head. When the light became so bright that the baker woman had to shield her eyes, there was a loud CRACK of thunder and the bird burst (but not in a gross way) into a million shards of light. The baker woman was in shock and jumped back to avoid being burnt by the sparks that had been sent all across her bakery. When the smoke faded, she ran to the spot where the bird had been and fell over the small pile of ashes. She held them in her hands and mourned the lost of this poor animal. She sat there all the rest of that day and deep into the night. When the very first light of dawn started to appear, the old baker realized that her shop was quite bright, and she was not cold at all. She stood on her fragile legs and turned. There, in her oven, burned a fire larger than any she could remember. A single spark from the bird lay in the bottom. She also noticed that the stalk of wheat had grown over night and she quickly got an idea. She worked as quickly as her old bones could carry her, pulling the wheat from the stalk, grinding it and making her dough.

When the villagers woke that morning they were greeted with the strong scent of fresh baked bread. They were sure they were only imagining it but walked towards the bakery anyway. When they arrived, the old baker woman hobbled over to her shop window and opened it to reveal dozens of loaves of bread, enough to feed everyone in the village. She worked all that day, feeling more alive and spry than she could ever remember. When she finally closed her shop window long after dinner, she sank down in her chair, her heart content. Then she remembered her friend, the dear, dear bird. She looked over to the corner where he had stayed for months, and she could hardly believe her eyes; there was a tiny hatchling in it's place. She quickly fed the bird and made it a small nest. Then, the tiny bird bowed it's head and began to quickly grow, sprouting brilliant green and blue feathers all over it's thin, gray body. When it finally stopped growing, it raised it's regal head to show a wonderful crown of golden feathers. The woman stepped back in awe and the great bird slowly spread it's enormous feathers to reveal wings so wide and full they stretched from one side of her shop to the other.

After that day, the villagers used the stalk of wheat to start a garden and there were soon saplings growing throughout the forest. Slowly, animals began to return to the forest and the villagers were once again happy and healthy. The great bird, the unnamed Phoenix (we'll call him Lee Majors for now) left the same day he returned to his true glorious state, but he could often be seen flying over the forest, checking in on the old woman who had cared for him so diligently. Every 7 or 8 years, Lee Majors would return to her shop, his feathers listless and tattered and the baker would care for him until he once again burst into ashes (still not ever in a gross way) and became reborn as a Phoenix.

*Snip-snap-snout, this tale's told out*

Worry Warts

Having a family binds you together with other people in a way more intimate than most of us can imagine. Sometimes you feel like the crew of a ship, out at sea, isolated from the world around you by waves and the knowledge that everything you need can fit into one little boat. Sometimes you feel like you've been secretly cast on a season of "Big Brother" with a group of people who just want to fight, scream, pee their pants and throw food. Luckily that doesn't happen nearly as often. But even in a stable, happy family there are times when the sails get ripped, the rations run out and big decisions have to be made. By someone. And it's you. Things are quickly changing for us; long-held dreams are suddenly coming to fruition, new developments seem to be happening daily and things we had always put in the "it's a given" pile are on the chopping block. Everyone has to make decisions and I know mine are not on the same plane as deciding whether to cut the blue wire or the red wire but the problem with being an adult with children means that all these decisions need to happen while still packing lunches, doing store runs, making sure the special red socks are washed, being responsible for 10 feet worth of toenails (yes, the dog counts) and all the other things we all do everyday. When big things come up it creates a perfect pressure cooker environment. Before we know it, we become so overwhelmed that we can't think straight and that's when the worrying comes in. In so many instances, the thought of deciding and choosing the wrong wire is just too much, so it's easier to worry obsessively until we are backed into a corner, time is out and we just say "Uncle!" and choose something, anything. Or worse, we let someone else do the choosing for us.

When this all started a few months ago I noticed that my shoulders had started creeping up to my jaw, as if I'd shrugged and they'd just stayed there. I went to bed each night making lists, running numbers in my head, and feeling anxiety about my knitting project. Since I took up knitting to have a relaxing hobby I knew I'd let my worrying ways get out of control. There are so, so many things in life that warrant a good worry and there are billions more that simply do not. When we're overwhelmed it becomes impossible to separate the two and if we put the worry-worthy items in Column A and the not-so-much in Column B it's easy to see how we spiral. The lists combine and worrying suddenly becomes preventative medicine for thousands of inconsequential things. But worrying is not preventative medicine. I've started to realize, probably much later than most, that many times worrying is just a synonym for fear and helplessness and if you can correctly name the real feeling then your work is halfway done. I once remarked to a very wise woman that I was very worried about a good friend. Her reaction? "Oh, that's terrible! Don't do that! When we worry about someone, it tells them that we don't believe they can do it, that we doubt them, that we think they are a lost cause." While I can think of several people I've encountered who are, in fact, lost causes, it really struck a chord. When I think of friends who are ill, do I really think they won't make it? Absolutely not. I see their fire, their strength and I feel no doubt whatsoever. But I do worry about how they feel; I worry if they're getting enough rest, eating well, feeling alone, feeling frightened, if they're getting enough love. And of course, the interesting thing is that all those questions can be answered or remedied with a phone call or a visit yet many times we just don't do it. We don't want to intrude or over step, so instead we do the most proactive thing we can think of, which is to worry about them. If you were waiting for medical results or just lost your job and a friend called to say, "I worried so much for you last night I slept three hours and cried in the shower for you this morning," it certainly doesn't inspire confidence.

We all know the haggard, over-worried person who combines and confuses love, empathy, compassion and action with worry and it's not a pretty picture. I've become determined to NOT be that person. It's not the person I set out to be and it's not the person I want my children to wake up to every morning. It's so much more empowering to be a solver of problems, a maker of decisions and a care-notter of pointless, petty things. Vowing to never, ever worry is pointless, but I do believe I can cut my worrying by at least half. Below are some helpful worrying alternatives:

1. Breathing, breathing is good.

2. When you feel overwhelmed with worry, try a good Uttanasana pose and you'll feel how all your worries are quite literally shoving you down. It's a great way to force a deep breath.

3. Write them down. Look at them hard and decide if you want these worries to be so powerful in your life that you'll take time to write them down.

4. Ask yourself if you can fix it. If yes, make a plan to do so. If not, think of three things that could at least make it better or make you not care about it. Write them down if you need to.

5. FORCE yourself to sing. It doesn't have to be "The Love Cats" but it probably shouldn't be "Comfortably Numb." On my current worry-free playlist: "In A Big Country," lots of Bollywood and "Good Feeling."

6. Kung Fu fight! Preferably with someone of equal or larger size. This one really works.

7. Exercise. It works but has varying levels of discomfort.

8. Hug a child (always get permission if not your own).

9. Take a dog for a walk. Having something be so grateful to you for 30 minutes definitely clears your mind a bit.

10. My favorite - do something for someone else and expect NOTHING in return. Don't do it grudgingly, don't drag your feet, don't worry that they won't like it since that's, you know, another worry. Just know that you're making someone's day better and possibly taking a worry off their list.

11. If all else fails and you feel yourself sinking in worry, watch this and regroup.

No Nooky

The library has really been on my mind these last few months. As a kid I spent a lot of time at my local public library (the Olde Town Arvada branch behind the Junior High, excuse me, middle school) which has since been transformed into a stunning two-story building in the center of Olde Town with huge windows and the standard geometric print armchairs that serve as shorthand for "modern". I would retreat to the library whenever things were tough at home and in summer my idea of getting outside was huffing and puffing on my bike to sneak off to the dark, cool stacks in the library. I fell in love with all things Judy Blume in that library and religiously read "Tiger Eyes" every fall. I remember the year at elementary school when I discovered the banned book list and immediately got a copy of "Wifey," which I read hidden behind a back issue of Cat Fancy, sweating and nervously chewing my lip every time an adult came near me. When I got to the part where she goes for a check up I distinctly remember looking up the word "gynecologist" and nearly hyperventilated while reading the rest of the paragraph. I wore a dark turtleneck for months thanks to Holden Caulfield and stopped washing my hair to pay homage to Kerouac. I had my first kiss and my first cigarette behind the rounded exterior on the west side of the library. I can't remember what color the walls were in my childhood bedroom or what I got for my 10th birthday, but all I have to do is close my eyes and I can see the library perfectly. The wood paneling on the walls, the two-tone wood tables and chairs, the tall counter of the librarian's desk, the beanbags in the kids' area, the boxy white microfiche readers and the long row of shelves where the encyclopedias and Kelly Blue Books were stored. Books can transform any child who takes the time to let it happen and I was no exception. I set out each day, book in hand and loved the feeling of finally taking a break, only to discover that it was almost dinner time.

I still frequent the library just as much, but in a very different capacity. These days you can find me hunting down the board book with the most puppy photos (NOT illustrations) and skimming the cookbooks where I carry out as many as I can hold. I check my library account every day and can't remember the last time that my requests dropped below 30. I am that crazy person who gets it, renews it 3 times, grudgingly returns it, comes home, requests it again. After 7 or 8 months of this I sometimes buy it. So you can imagine how my long-standing relationship with the Dewey Decimal system has influenced my opinion on fancy e-readers.

I've spent a lot of time forcing myself not to think about the amazing abilities of the Kindle, the Nook, the horribly named iPad. Part of my aversion stems from my refusal to bring any item into our home that doesn't, a: Get rid of arm jiggle b: Make my eyes look less puffy c: Allow me to sleep right through diaper washing/bean soaking day or d: Glue my cowlicks down for at least 3 hours but whenever the gadget lust kicks in I see the face of my favorite childhood librarian and poof! just like that...it's gone. I think of how she looked the other way when I'd bust out my Fun Dip packet and discreetly steal licks from the front pocket of my backpack, the day she solemnly set "War and Peace" in my too young hands and said, "Now, this is probably too old for you, but you may want to give it a try." These are the words that all kids dream of hearing and from then on I felt a new sense of purpose to my reading.

I recently popped into our neighborhood Barnes & Noble so the boys could play with the fancy train set and practically fell over the giant table in the entryway that overflowed with Nooks. Behind the table a salesman said, "Hi! Would you like to try one?" I think I covered my mouth with my hand and shook my head quickly. Then he went in for the kill: "Are you sure? We haveallllll these new colors to choose from..." As we bolted for the kids' section I forced myself not to look back. I am that old female cliche when it comes to color choices, after all.

For now, I study my cuticles while my Amazon wish list loads to avoid seeing the big Kindle on the front page, but I'm guessing later this year when Kindle allows the loaning of library e-books I, too, will break down and be one of the many moms coordinating my Bensimon sneakers with the fancy pattern on my e-reader cover.

A Bowl from Way Back

I've been waking up at night feeling antsy and out of sorts. I'm sure part of it is due to the little one who must be attached to me at all times (I've woken up with hickies, yes, hickies on my arms) but part of it is also a feeling of disorganization in an area too neurotic to mention without feeling embarrassed. My digital photos. I'm definitely a fool for organization and whenever my husband or son can't find something they look for it for 5 minutes before asking, "Did you throw it/give it away?" Sometimes I get indignant at the question, usually I just pretend I didn't hear and sneak over to the trash can to make sure the clump of dog hair I used to cover said item is still firmly in place.

I decided to tackle my photos today and found one that instantly made me so happy. It was the photo below of a very simple brown rice and kale dish. I know, nothing special. This photo instantly took me back to this exact time last year when at the end of my pregnancy I was eating this at least twice a day to satisfy a very intense sushi craving. It's also a marker for the beginning of my culinary love affair with the Cut n' Clean Greens Pre-Cut Rainbow Kale. I know some people bag on pre-washed greens but all I can say is...whatever. I choose my domestic duties wisely and standing at the sink endlessly cleaning and de-stemming kale is not my deal. I love it too much to make it a chore! This is easy, healthy and goes well with a huge piece of cake or pie.

Buddha Belly Rice Bowl

3 large cloves garlic, thinly sliced

2 heaping handfuls pre-cut kale or sliced kale from 1 large bunch

Juice of half a lemon

Salt and pepper to taste

1 cup cooked brown rice (I prefer long grain)

Avocado

Soy sauce to taste

Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in pan over medium/high heat, saute garlic until slightly crispy and just starting brown. Toss in kale and mix with the garlic for 30 seconds. Reduce heat to medium, squeeze in lemon juice, add salt and pepper and cook kale until just started to wilt. A little crunch is best.

Pile kale, avocado and any other add-ons on top of warm rice and drizzle with soy sauce.

Add-ons: grated ginger, black sesame seeds, grated carrot, steamed peas, cooked chicken, chili paste, fried egg.

The Birth Heard 'Round the Canned Goods

I'm convinced there is a moment in every pregnancy when one realizes that what goes in must come out. For some, this moment comes as you anxiously pour through your first pregnancy book and make the mistake of wandering too far towards the back. For others, this moment comes while you're "takin' a 10" during the graveyard shift at 7-11, go to pee after having a smoke and realize that you didn't eat too many churros, you were just pregnant. It's apparently a very common mistake.



The best way to describe this sensation is that it's a cross between realizing you forgot to pick up your elderly grandmother from the airport 6 hours ago and that scene from "Raising Arizona" that involves a child and the roof of a car. You know the one. I don't remember the exact moment specifically during my first pregnancy, but this time around I have a distinct memory of brushing my teeth, sometime during my fifth month, when my eyes shot open, my hand instinctively went to my stomach and I shouted, "Oh fuck!" through a mouth of toothpaste. As I cleaned up the mess I thought how ridiculous it was that I seemed to have forgotten this key part of the process. Of course I knew I'd be giving birth, but somehow I'd managed to speak and think about it in the abstract, not allowing myself to recall the preparation, the anxiety, the packing of the bags, the first ride home with somehow who, until recently, resided between your kidneys and was now dressed and wearing an ill-fitting hat. And maybe there was good reason for this denial. If you and your infant are fortunate enough to make it to the end of the line, then the odds are incredibly good that the baby is coming out, one way or another. And odds are also good, given modern technology, that you'll be bringing home a strong, healthy and incredibly dazed person. I suppose it shouldn't matter how this happens, that the end result should justify almost any means to get there. Sadly, it matters a great deal.



I now think back to the hours of preparation and consideration I gave to my first birth experience. I thought I did everything right; hired the best doula, researched every scenario until my eyes bled, asked endless questions at every appointment, etc. If the measure of a successful birth was measured in the form of a checklist, then I was Tracy Flick. And then it happened. I was nearly a week overdue, puffy, miserable and not sleeping. Chris was gearing up for an incredibly grueling and emotional sentencing involving victims he'd become quite close to. I went to my appointment on a Thursday and was told that I had until Monday to muster up some descent contractions or I'd need to be induced. The next day I had acupressure performed to get things going, bought some herbs to aid the process, went to the sentencing and informed my exhausted, drained husband that I couldn't be pregnant any longer and that I was going to swallow the magic pills. His shoulders slumped as he packed his bag and asked, pleadingly, if he could please just have "one night of descent sleep." Because I was also overdue for a feeding, a compromise was reached and I agreed that he could have a night of not falling asleep at the desk with a highlighter in hand...and I could have an entire plate of nachos. Of course, I went into labor at 11 that night with contractions that seemed to be just intense enough that neither of us could sleep and we essentially stayed up all night. And for the next 2 1/2 days.



I don't think I need to go into details, other than to say that I panicked and completely lost my shit. I curled up on the couch and went into a place so freaked out that I can only liken it to my first experience tripping acid. It was at a techno show at an old theater and started out quite pleasant, then took a turn for the worse when Carol Burnett's daughter (seriously) climbed on stage and an entourage of Michael Alig look-alikes, led by Richie Rich, flounced in wearing too much makeup and 6-inch calunka-chunk platforms. My mouth dropped, I got the chills and I fell into a chair. My dear friend Jack, also my caretaker of the evening, sat down beside me and sternly told me, "Listen girl, those are just really terrifying people who love costumes. You can either be terrified and let them ruin your night, or you can keep dancing and have a flawless time!" I chose Option B and other than keeping a leery eye on the huge mound of feathers pulsating near the front of the stage I did have a flawless time and danced my little heart out.



Since there are no glow sticks or drum and bass loops involved in natural childbirth, such a moment never came. By the time I'd gone through 24 exhausting hours with no real progress to show I was so defeated that I actually started to feel indifferent to even having a child. All it took was one veteran nurse to casually suggest that some drugs might help and I was able to rationalize my way into every medical intervention at the buffet, minus a C-Section. 10 hours after that and our healthy, red, screaming son was born. We would comment endlessly on how perfect he was, unlike "some newborns" then look at the pictures again six months later and realize that not only was his head completely cone-shaped, he was also the spitting image of Wallace Shawn.



Given our first experience, I suppose it was only natural to have a fair amount of anxiety and determination as I considered my options for the little being we've come to refer to as "Baby Minty." While not necessarily opposed to hospitals, we agreed that the thought of staying in a hospital for 2 days was horrifying, as was being away from Wallace...I mean Flynn. So very late in the game we opted to have our baby at a birth center. Which is conveniently located just out of arm's reach of the hospital across the street and the drugs housed inside. Making that decision was so exciting and comforting but as I sit here, 7 days from my due date with a baby hiccuping very (very) low in my body, I have my moments of doubt. Most days I feel strong and prepared. I think of all the women I know who have made this decision, who have supported me and cheered me on, who have given bits of wisdom and actually smiled when they recall their birth experiences. But all it takes is a moment of feeling tired, a moment of recalling contractions so intense they rattle your molars and you feel as if they're going to split your body in half, each fiber of your being making a brittle, crackling sound as it falls to the floor and I can't help but wonder what the hell I was thinking. In these moments I crank up fight-songs by The Clash and Sonic Youth, I watch Ricki Lake give birth in her bathtub, I visualize how I'll breath when "the moment" comes, I remind my husband that nothing makes me more irritable when I'm in pain than bad breath and toss another tin of Altoids in his bag. More than anything, I think about what I remember most from that first birth experience. Not the pain, not feeling afraid that "something" may go wrong, but feeling like I'd spent months studying for a test only to show up and find out I'd been using the wrong chapter. This birth may end up the same as the last but I think about how much more excited I am for the entire experience this time, knowing with my entire being that I'm bringing home a healthy baby with at least two working fingers. I don't need to spend two days with only the scent of aromatherapeutic oils to soothe me and a strap to bite on to make me feel like a better mother. I need for my son to see this process come full circle, to introduce him to this new person who's been turning his world upside down for the past 10 months and will likely continue to do so well into old age. The most I can say right now is, "we'll see..."

oop! Ricki's baby is about to crown!