mama monday: ok already

Over the past weekend, three separate people kindly reminded me of the state of my blog.  Principally: not updated.  Shout out to Helen, Rebecca, and that wonderful girl that Andrew bumped into at a Starbucks near Orangeville.

Since last we met, Baby Gaz and I graduated Week 13:

And Week 14: 

Week 14 is here represented by a 3.5 inch jalapeño pepper which, trust you me, I am not in the habit of eating.  In fact, anything spicy has been so far off limits for me since I end up feel it dance around my esophagus a few minutes after eating.  Like a spicy Cuban rumba party in my throat.  And the kind of party that you wish you hadn't spent the $15 cover charge to get in for because the guy to girl ratio is 1:10, the drinks taste like Drano, and the walls are perspiring.

In other news, I believe I can say that I've received my first piece of fan mail.  Mid-last-week, a package came to the door which Andrew accepted and then asked aloud, to no one in particular, if anyone had been purchasing more shoes online.  I swore I hadn't.  Then checked recent memory to make sure it was true.  

Within the oversized bubble envelope was a beautifully crocheted (really? that can't possibly be the way to spell something so wonderfully handmade: CROCH-et-ed?) baby quilt in a perfectly chosen dark teal suitable for Baby Gaz no matter if Baby Gaz turns out to be a Miss or Mister.

The gift was sent, along with a beautiful card, from a friend I know from camp - eons ago - named Charis.  AND SINCE CHARIS READS MY BLOG I CAN CONSIDER THIS FAN MAIL.  Thanks so much, Charis!  You completely made my week!  The blanket is now proudly displayed in the not-even-remotely-ready room set aside for Baby Gaz.

Speaking of Baby Gaz's nursery, one of the sure signs that I had passed over into the promised land of Second Trimester was that three weeks ago I woke up and instead of feeling like human slime putty or gagging while I brushed my teeth, I took a look at our two upstairs spare bedrooms and decided: I need to move all this furniture.

All of it. 

None of it can stay as it is.

I'm moving it all.

Now.

And I did.  I slowly and awkwardly moved a secretary desk, a dresser, a filing cabinet, an ironing board, a rocking chair, a desk chair, an oversized upholstered armchair, two large bookshelves, two small book shelves, a few boxes, and a single bed to rearrange both rooms.  One room is now our guest room slash studio room where Andrew's keyboard can reside and I can write (HA! who are we kidding? I write on my lap on the couch in the living room, more often in my pajamas than not), the other is the Nursery In Progress (or NIP).

And by "in progress" I mean it currently houses a single futon, a wicker chest, a dresser we may end up using as a change table, a Swiffer, and Charis' beautifully CROCH-et-ed dark teal baby blanket.  

mama monday: weeks 9, 10, 11 and 12

First, let's answer some fan mail.

Yes.

My intention, once I announced our pregnancy to the world, was to update Mama Mondays weekly with information about how far along I was, etc.  In fact, the intention behind Mama Monday itself was to post about pregnancy and motherhood.

But first trimester had other plans.

Each day of my first trimester played out the same as the one before:

Wake up after 10+ hours of sleep, hungry.
Pee.

Breakfast.

Pee.
Snack.

Pee.

Lunch.
Pee.
Nap.
Pee.

Dinner.

Pee.

Relax in the evening with Andrew.

Pee twice or three times more.

While I snack.

Pee.
Bed by 10:00 p.m.

So here's a rundown of recent events.

Week 9

According to website research, Baby Gaz is now about 1 inch which here is represented by this partially eaten pickle.  Mmm, pickle.

In fact, the number one thing I have been craving over the past few weeks has been sour things.  Grapefruit, pickles, vinegar, tziziki sauce.  Oh, and salty things but that's not much of a break from tradition.  Andrew claims that he'll get me a salt lick for Christmas one year.

Baby Gaz and I are both doing fine.  In fact, I meant to include a video Andrew made for our small group when we announced the pregnancy - in it, Baby Gaz makes its first film debut and you can hear the heartbeat: 

Week 10

Baby Gaz is now the size of this delicious Reece Peanut Butter © chocolate egg my mom bought us for Easter which, although I have sworn off caffeinated drinks for the first trimester, I have no qualms eating in handfuls.  Baby Gaz is also already begun making demands:

I don't like meat.
I don't like greasy foods.
I don't like complicated sauces or dressings.
I don't like when mommy smells meat, greasy foods, complicated sauces or dressings.
I don't like when mommy looks at billboards of meat, greasy foods, complicated sauces or dressings.
I don't like it when mommy brushes her teeth.
I don't like it when mommy stays awake for too long.
I don't like it when mommy doesn't eat every few hours.

I want someone to hang out with from 3:00 a.m. until at least 4:00 a.m. every morning.

This uterus is too small.
This bladder is crowding me.
This stomach needs to take up less space.

Week 11

As I rummage around the house for various items that represent the growth of Baby Gaz I recognize that I will have to employ creative tactics.  Like opening an entire 900 mL bag of farfalle to use one piece for this shot at Week 11.

My primary pregnancy complaint (other than nausea which, praise Him, has begun to abate) has been regarding Baby Brain.  Simply put, I am suffering from mild amnesia as it pertains to vocabulary, direction, names, dates, multitasking of any sort, and purpose of entering a room.  My once proud University of Toronto degree still hangs proudly in our living room declaring that I achieved a degree in English, although I now frequently have conversations with Andrew about "that thingy" and how "what's her face" was so "you know" with "whatever" and...hmm?  Nevermind.  I forgot.


Week 12


This week, May 2nd, marks Week 12 on Mama Monday which also heralds SECOND TRIMESTER!  Actually, second trimester starts around Week 14 or something, blah, blah, blah.  I'm interested in speeding up this first trimester as much as possible.  And all the gagging with it.

I have...

...I forgot what I was going to type there since I raised my head for a moment to watch part of a Community episode.  Great show, by the way.

OH.  I have made my peace with all food items that once breathed.  This little velociraptor is back!

It's difficult to tell from the picture, but Baby Gaz is now the size of a two inch dried mango.  For the past two and a half months we've been compiling a list of things to register for.   Now I can't imagine owning a stroller that didn't have a chariot-optional setting to pull Baby Gaz on a sandy beach.  HOW WILL BABY GAZ ENJOY THE BEACH WITHOUT A CHARIOT-OPTIONAL SETTING?

mama monday: +

That's right, my patient little pumpkins: all the missed posts and writer's block can finally be explained.

I happen to be quite knocked up.

Oh yes, there is much more to the story.  Too much for one post so I'll have to keep you coming back for more over the next few weeks.

I'd have thought announcing our pregnancy to the world would feel more glamourous but it's hard to feel glamourous when meat makes me nauseous (MEAT, of all things...Andrew thinks that it's hilarious that his "little velociraptor" of a wife is a temporary vegetarian), I'm on a strict diet of beige - and occasionally green - food items, I'm experiencing bouts of insomnia for the first time in my life, and I now take sudden and unexpected trips to crazy town.  Oh, and my bladder is the size of a ping-pong ball.

Speaking of size, however, Baby Gaz (who will be debuting on or around November 12th of this year) is now the size of a salted cashew:

Mmm.  Salted cashew.

I most definitely ate the stand-in for Baby Gaz after this photo.

At this point, my favourite thing to announce is that no gag reflex, no sleepless night, no hormonal surge,  and no inconvenient pee schedule could possibly dampen my excitement and joy.  We've been waiting for Baby Gaz for a year and a half, and we don't mind waiting a few months more.

mama monday: mamacita!

Since last Tuesday I have been in México, first for five days in Cancún with Andrew (here) - which, by the way, was such a welcome romantic retreat for both of us that I'm having a hard time enjoying the luxurious hotel in which I now sit since a) Andrew's not here, b) it's not Cancún, and c) Andrew's not here - and now the next seven days will be in Cuernavaca with the rest of the pastoral team from our church.

Which would be marvelous, except that Andrew's not here.

Those of you who often spend time away from your significant other, for business or other, might be rolling your eyes at me but I DON'T CARE, YOU'RE A POO FACE.  And each of you had your first week away from each other so just think back to that time and try to lend me some sympathy, OK?

One of my favourite things to do while traveling is watch people - in airports, on the street, in hotels, in church, in the mall.  Some of the cutest scenes I've spotted have been Mexican mothers with their kids.  There is something so motherly about Latino women and they have no fear of disciplining, feeding, changing, or cuddling their children in public...and the children have no shame of their mothers.

I remember looking up the word "mamacita" a few months ago, because I often used it as an exclamation of incredulity but had no idea what it meant.  Here is what I discovered: 

Mamacita - slang

Meaning: As opposed to the diminutive “madrecita,” or “dear little mother” (an affectionate term for one’s mother), mamacita refers to a “babe” or a real sweet chick. It’s a very common come-on, or pick-up line. Examples: “Oye mamacita, que buena estás.” (“Hey, baby, you are so fine.”)

Which thrilled me since it looked to be the Spanish version of M.I.L.F.  ¡Go Spanish!  Brilliantly, Spanish has recognized the respect, adoration, and desire deserving of mothers.  Sure, they give birth, nurture, and raise their young but, unlike the stereotypical Western mother, a mamacita is all the sexier for having given birth, nurtured, and raised.  

It reminds me of a scrumptious post Melissa wrote back in November, entitled "Hot Mamas".  Go read it for yourself - it even stars my own hot mama!

I, for one, hope that motherhood won't diminish but will rather increase my overall confidence, body image, and sexiness.  There's nothing quite like watching a beautiful creation being used for a purpose it was created for.

mama monday: brood

I'm now receiving friendly reminders from people on Facebook:

So here's the thing.  Now that I work from home I have approximately 60 extra hours a week that I haven't had at my disposal since...infancy.  It's been wonderful to eat when I want, nap when I want (AND I WANT), read when I want, clean when I want, and write when I want.

Which is the problem.

I don't often feel like writing.

Or, rather, I feel like writing but I have all this time to make it GOOD.  And the more guilty I feel about not writing, the worse it is.  I had hoped all this free time would inspire me to write and write and WRITE my little fingers to nubs due to the overflow of passion and insight and optimism and revelation.

Instead, all this free time has inspired me to brood.

brood (verb)

1. think deeply about something that makes one unhappy : he brooded over his need to find a wife.
2. (of a bird) sit on (eggs) to hatch them.
   (of a fish, frog, or invertebrate) hold (developing eggs) within the body.
3. (of silence, a storm, etc.) hang or hover closely : a winter storm broods over the lake.

So it's not surprising as I sit around and "think deeply about something that makes me unhappy" that I would also be hatching, holding, and hovering over my writing without having much to show for it.  I guess it's the same as motherhood sometimes.  Lots of time spent brooding before you have a brood.

"Mother doesn't like me playing Beethoven.
She says I'm always peevish afterwards."
- Lucy Honeychurch

(A Room With A View, E.M. Forester)

mama monday: mormon blogs

My apologies for last week.  While Andrew and I completed a multi-ring circus week, you may have wondered what happened to my posting schedule.  I had time.  I did.  I just didn't have the inclination or inspiration.  Typical writer mumbo jumbo, but it's true.

Thank the Government of Ontario for Family Day.

So, where were we?  Mormonism?

Andrew sent me an insightful (and witty) article from Salon.com a few weeks ago entitled: Why I can't stop reading Mormon housewife blogs.  Since my hero in the wife/mom/comic/home decor/writer world is Heather Armstrong, aka: Dooce, who hails from the Church of Latter Day Saints - or LDS (she abdicated membership in her 20s although she still lives in Utah to be close to her family) - I figured I'd read into the popularization of Mormon mom blogs a little.

The author of the article, Emily Matchar, writes like a member of A.A. airing her dirty secret.  "I'm your standard-issue late-20-something childless overeducated atheist feminist," she reasons, "yet I'm completely obsessed with their blogs."

The explanation lies in a kind of backlash against the backlash against motherhood (some might consider it to be anti-feminist, but I think it's hypo-feminist: the right to choose and the respect of your choice).  Here's a quote:

It seems that a lot of popular culture wants to portray marriage and motherhood as demeaning, restrictive or simple, but in the LDS church, motherhood is a very important job, and it's treated with a lot of respect," says Natalie Holbrook, the New York-based author of the popular blog Nat the Fat Rat. "Most of my readers are non-LDS women in their late 20s and early 30s, college educated, many earning secondary degrees on the postgraduate level, and a comment I often get is, 'You are making me want kids, and I've never wanted kids!'

I'm sure feminism never meant to narrow women's freedom - well, widen it in one area for the sake of another - but that's exactly what it did.  Options were made available (educated women, women in the workplace, working moms) but, in our excitement, we may have thrown the baby-making out with the bathwater.

Why is stay-at-home mom preceded with or followed by a disclaimer, apology, or anecdote to cut the tension?

I, for one, am interested to see how feminism (in the true sense of the word) matures through this season. I'm eager to encourage the renewal of freedoms we once had: the freedom to be a wife and mother, the freedom to stay at home to raise children, the freedom to home-make.  I'm supportive of my brilliant and creative friends who are doing the same and using technology to help spread the word, like Melissa B., Ruth, Jess, and Melissa L.

And, in the meanwhile, I'll leave you with a few Mormon blogs to check out. because:

The basic messages expressed in these blogs -- family is wonderful, life is meant to be enjoyed, celebrate the small things -- are still lovely. And if they help women like me envision a life in which marriage and motherhood could potentially be something other than a miserable, soul-destroying trap, I say, "Right on."

The Rockstar Diaries

The Langs

Say Yes To Hoboken

Nat the Fat Rat

(grand)mama monday: scarves, aprons and hankies!

Sometimes, in order to understand motherhood, it's helpful to go back a generation.  To grandmamas.

I grew up quite close to my mother, who became a sister-mom to me in later years, in a way that many girls-with-only-brothers do.  Other than mom, and Dodie, I had few other close female relatives.  My paternal grandparents (along with an uncle and aunt) lived in Halifax and visited annually, another uncle and aunt, along with their kids - my first cousins - lived in London, Ontario and we didn't grow up celebrating birthdays, holidays and occasional for-no-other-reason-than-we-haven't-eaten-together-in-a-while get togethers like Andrew's Italian family.

So boys were my main point of social contact.  Boys were great.  They were funny.  They liked to build things with Lego*.  They were uncomplicated.  Well, until I hit puberty (ie: my 20s) and then boys became very complicated.  But I digress.  My Sistas From Otha Mistas will attest to my initial awkwardness towards a girl until I feel like I can jump in to girlfriendship without falling flat on my face, as with double-Dutch.  Which I was also crap at.

* Lego is, and forever will be, an uncountable noun.  Like money, cutlery or hair.  You do not "brush your hairs".  You do not "play with your Legos".  If you say this, I reserve the right to punch you.

Incidentally, this may be why I have only pictured having boys.  When I dream about a baby, it's always a baby boy.  When I think about designing about a baby's room, I think blues and greens and trains and Lego.

However, my mother's mother - grandma Grace - and I were close until her death in 1988.  And my memories with her were decidedly girly.

I am the eldest of my cousins and was eight when grandma passed away, which meant that I was lucky to have spent the most number of years with her.  But, at age eight, I didn't fully understand how much we had in common or, indeed, how much we would have in common as I matured.

Last week, I acquired a tote bag of her old things and went through it delicately, neatly, documenting each item like an archeological discovery.  The contents of the bag were scraps of my own DNA, preserved for over 20 years.

First the scarves, which (from what I can surmise) are vintage from the 50s, 60s and 70s.

Detail of one scarf.  Who puts coral, mint green, khaki and azure blue together anymore?

What surprised me was the colour scheme.  Grandma and I had the same "seasonal colour" (does anyone go by this anymore?), Spring, and, if these scarves are any indication, we also shared the same taste in patterns and tones.

Then the aprons!

COULD THESE BE ANY CUTER?!!

Finally the hankies.  O, the hankies...

One was delicately monogrammed with an "L", for Lois: my little mom's little hanky.

As I took the last photo and stared at the hankies - fine linen, lace, floral-patterned, embellished, embroidered in pinks, lilacs and spring greens - I thought about my mom's little hanky, and her mom's choice in hankies, and how much I adored them both.  I thought to myself, I'd like to pass these hankies on and tastes on.  I might even like to pass them on to a little girl.

Solomon crept up to comfort me and I took a decorative hanky to use.  A hanky that, as I brought it to my eyes, still smelled of grandma's perfume.  I felt as consoled as if grandma had offered it to me herself.  A mother who, as only mothers can, understood what it was like to wait for motherhood.

mama monday: rent-a-baby

This morning Melissa, mother of Noah, called up and asked if I would like to babysit Noah for a period of two hours this afternoon.

WOULD I?

I managed something to the effect of, "Well, if it would help you out, by all means..." since I didn't want to creep her out with my enthusiasm.  I will chronicle my Adventures With Noah here on Mama Monday.

12:55 p.m.  
Oberon and I excitedly await Noah's arrival.

1:27 p.m.
Realize that I am still in my pyjamas and housecoat.  Change into normal people clothes and make myself presentable.

1:51 p.m.
With extra time on my hands, wash Solomon and Oberon.  Solomon shakes himself dry after he comes out from behind the shower curtain.  Twice.

Give Oberon a mohawk.

2:07 p.m.
BABY ACQUIRED!

Melissa gives me a quick rundown of the diaper bag's contents and goes off to volunteer at the Romero House.  Isn't she great?

2:17 p.m.
Notice how difficult it is to do everything with one hand whilst holding an infant.  Including, but not limited to:

• Open a Tupperware container.  
• Place contents of Tupperware container on a plate.  
• Place plate in the microwave.  
• Take plate, along with cutlery and glass of water, to the table to eat.

2:23 p.m.
Piece of broccoli misses my mouth and falls on my jeans.  I consider dabbing the spot with a napkin.  See that we are out of napkins.  Consider using toilet paper from the bathroom directly behind me.  Figure that will involve me getting up, with Noah, and attempting to rip toilet paper from the roll with one hand.  Leave broccoli stain on jeans.

While I'm eating lunch with Noah, Oberon takes his revenge for the mohawk and types this:

nhbnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn


2:35 p.m.

Change Noah's diaper.  Noah starts fussing.  Shirt gets momentarily stuck on Noah's head while I'm changing him.  Noah voices his grave displeasure.

2:50 p.m.

Drive Solomon crazy by using "his" voice with Noah.  Terms that have previously been used solely for Solomon must now be shared.  Baby, Beebee, Coco, Bean, Cocobean.  Also: "Are you hungry?" which we taught Solomon and I just used on Noah.  Solomon looks hungry.  So does Noah.  Noah is noisier about it.

2:53 p.m.

Place bottle in cup of boiled water for five minutes.

2:58 p.m.
Remove bottle from cup of boiled water.

3:05 p.m.
Going...

...going...

...gone.

3:19 p.m.
Best:

Oberon still cleaning himself from offensive bath.

3:38 p.m.
Andrew comes home.  Noah wakes up.  Andrew graciously offers to take Noah to relieve my arm.  I have only been holding him for a half an hour.

3:51 p.m.
Melissa arrives and Noah is all smiles.  Baby successfully babysat!

mama monday: kangaroo care

Last night we went to visit our friends, the Boergers, which included some serious snuggle time with their adorable 3 month old son, Noah.

Since the weather here in The Great White North has been akin to this:

And I haven't felt truly warm since mid-October, it was a treat to sit down on a couch with a sleeping newborn and steal some of his toasty-warmness.

It reminded me of an New York Times article Andrew sent me a few weeks back on something called "Kangaroo Care".  Kangaroo Care started as a solution to overcrowded and under-budgeted hospitals in Columbia.  Without the money to provide for enough incubators, doctors began bundling newborns, including premies, to their mothers' - skin on skin.  The drop in infancy mortality was so significant that medical communities in more "developed" nations began to take note.

"The babies stay warm, their own temperature regulated by the sympathetic biological responses that occur when mother and infant are in close physical contact. The mother’s breasts, in fact, heat up or cool down depending on what the baby needs. [...] Feeling the mother’s breathing and heartbeat helps the babies to stabilize their own heart and respiratory rates. They sleep more. They can breastfeed at will, and the constant contact encourages the mother to produce more milk."

Although most of our medical approach to pregnancy and childbirth, including incubation, is for the safety and well-being of mother and child I wonder if we miss the forest for the trees.  Having just spent the last nine months (or eight, or seven...or, in some cases, five) gestating in their mom's womb, which is nine months longer than they've spent in any other environment, wouldn't being close to her be the most natural transition?

It makes me think of how fearfully and wonderfully made we are and how much creativity goes into the birth of a new person.  And how those people grow up and become scientists, doctors, researchers and New York Times bloggers who can tell us incredible facts about childbirth.

mama monday: margin

I'm not sure where or when it became cool to answer "Tired" to the question "How are you?".  I don't know what I ever gained by quoting a 60 hour work week.  I've lost track of how many times I've used the word "busy" in the last five years or so, or have apologized for it.  Somewhere along the way, preoccupation became the new peacefulness.

Someone sent me Rick Warren's post on margin, called Build a Buffer Around Your Schedule.  In it, he ends by saying:

You don’t have to live on overload. You don’t have to live in survival mode. Begin today to build a buffer around your schedule. Then enjoy the benefits of margin -- and see what God does next!

Which sounded all well and good, but surely that was advice for really busy people.  The workaholics, glued to their PDAs, marching their power suits in and out of meetings, guzzling their caffeine, missing their kids' sports games and recitals...the bad guys who occasionally turn into good guys by the end of a movie through epiphany or catastrophe or comedy.  THEY needed margin.

It could have been trying for a family, it could have been my overall grumpiness and irritation, it could have been that, in a daze, I once took transit all the way home and was walking down my street when I received a text message from a friend cheerfully telling me that she had secured a table by the restaurant window for the dinner that I had forgot I was having with her that night (sorry, Amy!), but somewhere along the line I noticed: I had lost my margin.  And I wanted it back.

So I put in my two-week notice at work.

Join me in counting down the days!  To spend the time, download and listen to this excellent series on margin from Liquid Church.  I've only listened to the first three podcasts...because I've been busy.

mama monday: left vs. right

Having very little to do with Mama Monday and everything to do with what I feel like writing about today (spontaneous and unpredictable like a right-brainer!).  I found this quiz on my brother's Tumblr's account and since I love quizzes, and quizzes about me no less (a narcissistic right-brainer! groundbreaking!), I figured I'd find out what type of brain I have.

In high school, I loved biology as much as I hated chemistry.  I suppose 49% of a left-brain wasn't enough to keep me interested in the math required to study the latter.  Genetics fascinated me most: learning about dominant and recessive genes, how a red and a white flower will produce a pink flower, and how genes from previous generations work their way down the line. 

I have my father's blue eyes, I have my mother's snubbed nose, and I suppose the nearly balanced left- and right-brain (since Seth's was 48% left, 52% right and I have to assume Simeon, my other brother, would have similar results) is a mixture of them as well.

One would assume that the left-side came from my father, a carpenter, who has spent the last 30 years measuring twice and cutting once.  Likewise, my mother, who attended OCAD back when it didn't have a "D" - art only! - may have easily donated the right-brain portion.  As their daughter, however, I know that my storytelling skills come from dad and I keep lists upon lists just like mom. 

Whatever the DNA cocktail I consist of, I'm happy for it.  I love even more that I can pick out interests and propensities from stories of grandparents and great-grandparents, some of whom I have never met. 

And here I am, my genetic makeup tracing back for generations, married to Andrew, with his own trail of genetic signatures.  I daydream (daydreaming! how right-brained!) about what our kids will be like.  I wonder which dominant and recessive features will emerge, like a developing Polaroid.  Until modern science makes it possible for us to creepily design our offspring (Andrew's perfect teeth! my 20/20 vision! his musical skills! my freckles! his sensible attitude! my imagination!), I'm happy to let genetics work its magic. 

mama monday: guts

If you haven't acquainted yourself with the phenomenal site I Heart Guts take a moment or two to check out a few profiled organs.  I love any initiative that takes regular objects and animates them.  Like Marcel the Shell with Shoes On.



In keeping with the mama theme of Mondays, and the patience/hope required along the way to pregnancy, I've been thinking a fair bit about guts.  All those internal bits of us that (usually) feel nothing and (seemingly) do nothing.  They're just...inside.  Like the guts of a computer or a car.  Few understand how they operate and even fewer know how to fix them if something is amiss.

When I had a kidney infection, and because I had never before experienced the particular surprise associated with a kidney infection, I couldn't figure out what was wrong.  I'm not hungry...I guess I have a stomachache?...sort of a side cramp...but in my back...OK, now I need to assume the fetal position to keep the pain at bay...and now we're at the hospital and they're administering morphine and antibiotics and it's all over.  That was weird.

A scrap or cut or bruise is obvious, and the pain is acute.  Internally, things tend to work out on their own or send you muted, cryptic messages until a specialist is able to translate for you.  Guts are obscure, vague, enigmatic.

In African culture, I'm told, what we in the Western world refer to "heart" is not located in the chest but in the belly.  In Hebrew tradition (including translations of the Old Testament), heart and soul are intermixed with liver, stomach, and guts.  There was no separation for them: body, soul and spirit was one and the same. 

I know this to be true because when I'm sad I feel it in my stomach, and when I'm happy I feel it in my chest, and when I'm frightened I feel it shooting through my veins. 

Somewhere in my guts, I believe, God is sorting out the mystery of conception.  Somewhere in my guts, I believe, I harbour the hope that we'll meet the babies of our future.  Somewhere in my guts, I believe, I'll find the strength to bridge between the two seasons: waiting and welcoming.

---

"And the knowing in her guts

Something's still gonna grow

She ain't leaving 'till it does"

(Brooke Fraser, Crows & Locusts)

"By the God of your father, Who will help you,
and by the Almighty,
Who will bless you with blessings of the heavens above,
blessings lying in the deep beneath,
blessings of the breasts and of the womb."

(Genesis 49:25, Amplified)

wifercize wednesday: princess hair

I'd like to tell you of a time before wifedom.

When I was but a wee thing, my parents would read me Disney's Sleeping Beauty before bed.  The version, published by Disney Editions, included the original 1959 illustrations:

And, yes, I was a die-hard romantic at age 4 (although I really had a thing for Snow White's Prince Charming instead, because of the whole "Prince Buckethead" thing...anyone with me?)

(click to enlarge)

And, yes, I loved the mice and the fairy godmothers and the dragon-slaying and such, but what I was really fascinated by was Princess Aurora's hair:

The big honey-coloured locks, tapered down into a finely sculpted curl.  THIS was princess hair.  I had to have it.  Problem was: I had fine, pin-straight hair that defied all curl.

I became obsessed with princess hair for a 6-8 year period after that, sketching page after page of princesses with hair that I began to call "eight curls".  This was, simply, because I drew them using figure eights:

(I'm not making any of this up)

When I was eight years old I persuaded my mother to give me a perm* and gave her the strictest of instructions: "I want it to look like princess-eight-hair." 

* Error message: do not perm your hair if you only have a bob to start with and expect it to look like long, flowing Princess Aurora hair afterwards.  It will, instead, resemble Little Orphan Annie:

While I waited a few years for my clown curls to grow out, I resigned myself to the fact that I was born to have straight hair.  Not princess hair.  Not eight curls.  Just straight, straight hair.

. . .

UNTIL MY WEDDING DAY when Melissa attacked my mane for a few hours and unloaded half a bottle of hairspray on it and I came away looking as close to Princess Aurora as I ever had previously:

It was obviously perfect timing to celebrate the fact that I had found my Prince Buckethead Charming:

Most days, I use a curling iron to keep my princess-eight-hair looking princessy:

I have been officially approved by Adelaide Hardy, age two-and-a-half, who came to our church one Sunday and pointed to me throughout the service, whispering to her parents, "Princess!  Princess!"

Thanks, Addie.  xoxo