Textbook

 "Textbook" has been the word that keeps coming to mind as I learn new things about pregnancy, birth, and babyhood. Before finding out I was pregnant, I thought it might be difficult or a particularly long wait to have children. It wasn't. 

I had a textbook pregnancy that started with textbook symptoms and ended with a textbook labor. As the experience progressed, I kept repeating the word "textbook" to myself like a mantra, reminding myself that my experience would probably be statistically sound, the middle of each bell curve, nothing to worry about. 

Our story is not harrowing, and I'm so grateful. 

Tessa is continuing the progression by hitting the teeny milestones to the day. Born exactly a week after her due date, she has grown within the center margins, she cluster fed at week three for 48 hours, which almost did me in, which is also normal. She smiled at week five-and-a-half, and cluster fed at week six for 48 hours. 

I give thanks to God for each normal day, each one both ordinary in a textbook and extraordinary to me.  

 

We Have a Daughter

 We have a daughter!

We have a daughter, can you believe it!?

She has big, trusting eyes, and Jake and I both swear she's smiled at us sometime in the last week, her fifth week of life outside the womb. 

Almost as unbelievable is that I went through labor. 

I labored at home from 1 AM to 10:30 AM, supported by Jake and our doula, then finally knelt on the backseat while Jake drove us to the hospital. There's a story in there I'd like to tell elsewhere, but this is the quick version. When we arrived at the labor and delivery room, we were surrounded by a team of health workers, asking questions, getting measurements, taking blood, testing for Covid-19. Contractions were on top of each other by then, so I don't remember a lot of that. The midwife said I was measuring at 6 centimeters when we arrived at 11:30. 

 By 12-something I was at 8 centimeters. I could not stand it anymore, though. I was in the thick of labor, throwing up and doing all sorts of things that I won't narrate to you. I was losing my concentration, getting scared, and I said so, "I'm afraid! I'm afraid! What do I do?" The nurse to my left kept coaching me to breathe out the contraction, breathe it out. The doctor offered an epidural, and I said, "yes, I want that!"

Jake reminded me that my goal had been to go unmedicated, a goal I made so I could recover quickly. I said I wanted the epidural. The doc had already called for the anesthesiologist, then measured dilation one more time. He said in a monotone way that I was at 10 centimeters. I recognized that as the golden number! Why was no one celebrating? "That's good, right!?" I said somehow. I was already pushing. A knock at the door and the anesthesiologist was sent away by a nurse, who said, "we're going to have the baby instead. Thanks!"

Pushing felt almost like a relief after the last two hours of ever-more-intense work. Five pushes brought Theresa into the daylight! 

They whisked her away because of a meconium scare, and Jake followed to the other side of the room to see our baby. He returned to my side, all awonder. I was shivering a lot, and worried about shivering, having never heard of it happening, and worried that something had happened to our baby. I had to ask a distracted Jake, and he told me about our Theresa, that she was fine and perfect as could be, and I shivered in joy as they stitched me up. 

We had been in the hospital for about an hour and a half before she was born. And so our new life has begun.

Missing You, Church

I don't have big events happening right now as I wait for our child to be born, maybe this week, maybe today. But I'm dying to write something down, anything, because I go back through my blog every now and then and wonder at the long silences: wasn't anything happening? The truth is, a sea change is taking place, but it's so quiet, there's no event to narrate, no pithy interactions with strangers to laugh at later.

So I went back through my Google Photos and chose a month and year at random to think and write about. From this exercise, February 1, 2015, I found pictures of a baby dedication! It seems fitting.

Maya, Josh, Nora, Andre, and Henry were being dedicated that day. They are all chubby-cheeked and beyond cute. Maya has these perfectly-shaped eyes and she stares off into the congregation from her father's arms, seeing her larger family from a new vantage. Josh, only a few months old, has his thick hair parted in the middle and is dressed in a dapper baby suit, complete with tie and pocket square. Nora looks at the Pastor with some curiosity at his touching her head, but is maybe ready to believe it is a blessing. Andre's mom, Janelle, holds him close and he looks positively angelic, even if half his face is covered by his pacifier. Henry might be the most baby-looking of them all, for some reason. His duck-fluff hair is barely settled on his sweet, round head. He is wide-eyed and alert, but quietly sitting in his father's arms, facing outward. 

These little babies are a bunch of five-year-olds now! I see them on their parents' Instagram and on Zoom and through the occasional email; they're doing wonderful things like holding snakes, going to school, making friends in new places, learning to feed their baby brother. I hope I never underestimate seeing kids growing up close ever again. It broke my heart when I returned from Morocco, the growing I had missed seeing weekly and monthly at church. And now! The pandemic separates us, and our recent move, and several months, and in one case, an ocean, and I tell you, digital messages are something, but they're nothing compared to looking around the room at West End Church, and seeing each little kid troop in from Sunday School with their sticker sheets to sit with their families not quietly. I miss you and your kids, West End. So much. 

14 Moves in 14 Years

I have just moved again, this time with my husband and unborn baby, which is certainly a first! I've never had so much stuff to move, and actually picked up so little, but that's the privilege (well, burden, if you're an Enneagram Two) of being 37 weeks pregnant. You just can't lift stuff very well at all. And climbing stairs!, a young man's game! 

Still, I've spent more energy on this move than any other, trying to think through what we'll need in Maryland, and what goes into storage, what can be discarded and how to discard it, what can be used by other friends for the time we're not using it -- months of decisions. I did a lot of the packing, but that didn't mean we avoided the scramble of the final week or the frenzy of the final two days. I'm so glad it's over, I cried. I'm so pregnant, I cried. 

Here's what I know about moving: with each new time or place, there are new rules and procedures. I note below that I moved back to Waynesboro twice after having lived there for most of my childhood. It wasn't moving back home, because as I've written about before, home is an unstable concept, hence the adage you can't go home again. Home is not geographical; it's anchored in relationships and expectations and maybe even resources. Each return to Waynesboro meant a different set of arrangements in the house, a different set of expectations from my family, and different ways of living. My bedroom moved from upstairs to nowhere to downstairs. Their style of eating together changed as my sisters grew up. Their way of allocating chores and responsibilities changed. Home changed. Then home became simply wherever my mom was. 

In Lancaster, I found a new place to call home. It became where my church family and friends were, the wider the circle, the better. Eventually this became too hard to manage, and I moved to Morocco seeking to pare down my relationships and my expectations for myself. What was God actually asking of me? How big was my family, after all? And where was home? In the last four years, God has reminded me to keep looking for home in his eternal body. Wherever he's being worshiped should feel like home to me. A gift within God's very big grace has been Jake. Jake has also become my home.

And now, the list.

 2006 

September: Waynesboro, PA to Harrisburg, PA

November: Harrisburg, PA to Tegucigalpa, Honduras

2007

April: Tegucigalpa, Honduras to Waynesboro, PA

August: Waynesboro, PA to Houghton, NY

December: Houghton, NY to Waynesboro, PA (I also "moved" to London, England for three months in here, but for the first time, I was absolutely sure I'd be moving back to Waynesboro, so I won't count it as a separate move.)

2008

August: Waynesboro, PA to Pine Street in Lancaster, PA (These were the happiest years I had in my life up to that point. Things have only gotten better, though.)

2010

June: Pine Street to College Avenue, both in Lancaster, PA (I also "moved" to Black Rock Retreat to be a camp counselor, but again, I was assured of a place again at College Avenue both summer of 2010 and 2011, so I won't count them as separate moves.)

2011

August: College Avenue to Lancaster Mennonite High School Dormitory

2014

June: From LMH Dorm to College Avenue

August: College Avenue to Plum Street (This move was because Joella was about to get married, and Carmen and I wanted to have Bethany as a housemate. Since Bethany owned her own place, it made sense to go to her.)

2016

August: Plum Street to Casablanca, Morocco

2018

August: Casablanca, Morocco to Plum Street (I moved out of Casablanca June 31st, and moved into Plum Street again in August, so I had one month as a houseguest in various places, though it was mainly Plum Street, where my friends endlessly made room for me, and invited me to rejoin.)

2019

July: Plum Street to Marietta Avenue (This was because I got married!)

2020 

August: Marietta Avenue to Granite, Maryland (This was because we can live with my in-laws rent-free for a year while I'm not working outside the home, because of our coming baby!)

Cat in My Lap

Cat in my lap
Baby in my belly

Rain in the trees
Tomatoes in the ground

There will come a time
when you need all my
attention, baby, even
more than the tomatoes.

But this morning we sit
breathing in unison,
quiet and content.

April Dedications

I have done this before, dedicated each day to something. It's a way I like to mark the passage of time, especially times when I make gratitude a practice for some reason... like being isolated in our house away from friends and family. But a few days I let get past me with no recollections whatsoever. I know that nothing is lost on the breath of God: not a day here or there, not a month of being in my head, not one single worry.

Wednesday, 1

Thursday, 2
Today is dedicated to Shelby, who told me her birth story, and still has the courage to go through it again.

Friday, 3
Today is dedicated to Pine View Dairy and their wonderful creamline milk.

Saturday, 4
Today is dedicated to all health care workers, including mental health care workers. Our anxieties soar, and you somehow make room to keep doing your job.

Sunday, 5
Today is dedicated to my family: birth, nuclear, extended, in-lawed, outlawed, and Church.

Monday, 6
Today is dedicated to women who have been pregnant before, for any period of time. I love you and respect you and need you to keep telling me it's alright.

Tuesday, 7
Today is dedicated to Isaac, who makes small group a priority and leads with grace.

Wednesday, 8
Today is dedicated to leftovers.

Thursday, 9
Today is dedicated to fresh bread.

Friday, 10
Today is dedicated to our betrayed Lord, who understands darkness.

Saturday, 11


Sunday, 12
Today is dedicated to our risen Lord!

Monday, 13
Today is dedicated to the man I've been married to for precisely nine months.

Tuesday, 14
Today is dedicated to coffee. I bet it still tastes great.

Wednesday, 15
Today is dedicated to this baby growing in me, who causes us to re-think everything and upsets our comforts.

Thursday, 16
Today is dedicated to Maggie, who made our lives extra beautiful for the two weeks she stayed with us.

Friday, 17
Today is dedicated to the student who kept working on the yearbook long after everyone else had lost interest.

Saturday, 18
Today is dedicated to the responsiveness of the earth to cultivation, as shown by the care of my in-laws, whose garden is shaping up to be magnificent.

Sunday, 19
Today is dedicated to the practice of Lectio Divina.

Monday, 20
Today is dedicated to the "Harry Potter and the Sacred Text" podcast.

Tuesday, 21
Today is dedicated to the thousands of children flying thousands of kites from the rooftops of Amman, Jordan.

Wednesday, 22
Today is dedicated to my very thoughtful book club, who so gently shows me my prejudices.

Thursday, 23
Today is dedicated to Murphy's Oil Soap: good for wooden floors.

Friday, 24
Today is dedicated to the winding country roads of Northern Lancaster County.

Saturday, 25
Today is dedicated to grilled hamburgers with tomatoes, onions, and pickles.

Sunday, 26
Today is dedicated to Sabbath rest.

Monday, 27
Today is dedicated to Jim Dale, narrator of the U.S.-English Harry Potter books.

Tuesday, 28
Today is dedicated to acrylic paint and unexpected company.

Wednesday, 29
Today is dedicated to the promise of summer. You hang in the air, waiting to join us, and I can tell you're on your way. 

Thursday, 30
Today is dedicated to the first cup of coffee I have enjoyed in 20 weeks.

Friday, 31
Today is dedicated to ultrasound technicians and OB/GYNs.

Dear Baby,

I'm used to writing about myself, but as a tiny baby, you should know some things about yourself.

First we are really excited to meet you, even nervous. Even though I'm your extroverted parent, and meeting new people is a joy to me, even I have some nerves. Your dad is cool with it.

Second, whatever name you have is a gift from God, because we have really struggled with that process.

Next, we always wanted you.

We didn't plan your timing.

You are growing in a weird time where not very many people will get to hold you and care for you... but so many people love you! You'll see them on video.

Video used to be something we wouldn't allow a baby to watch much, because it's so bad for your eyes and brain. But... people need to see you.

We are so glad you're coming into our lives.

We will enjoy you, help you, grow with you, teach you, and provide for you with all our hearts.

Love,
Your mom

"Why so desolate?" I want the earthworms to ask me

Desolate despite
the company of crickets spiders, cicadas,
thousands of earthworms busily plowing beneath the new grass.

The light rains beckon them upward to take long drinks.
I can tell they are laughing together and generally making merry
at a hundred parties for which I've received no invitation nor hope of one.
Like a king in his castle with not one friend nearby,
surveying the busy populace below, he sighs.

I recognize the rain, invite it as close as the porch roof,
and we are company for each other.

Why desolate, why lonely, God?
When your Spirit ministers close by. Just here, even beside me.

Essentials

What makes sense to me now is being close to you

with all of me,

no reservations
nor walls
nor unforgiveness
nor bitterness
for what you have left unsaid
nor what I have failed to tell you;

we bring just what we have in ourselves,
the essential that begs nothing more than
to be encircled, to encircle—
to be encircled, to encircle—
to climb together, and to rest.

So Little Contained in So Little

I haven't been in touch because I haven't been in touch. I have been in so much contact: with car horns and taxis, expectations and fears, airplanes and security lines. I have not touched ground except when I'm with a few—Jesus, Jake, Carmen, my mom... everyone else is so close, clambering... I am afraid I will get nothing done if I spend a night emailing here and there, because an email gets a response, then we pull out our calendars, and meet and connect, and plan to do it all again at the end...

...and it all feels like hemorrhaging.

I have a little to give, I feel, and I am desperately collecting rocks on the edge of this river, in hopes of creating a reservoir of time, place, things. I cannot. Slow it all down.
I cannot

go back and describe each weekend with Jake        seeing herons on a river
swimming in the quarry to escape the heat
churning ice cream          driving through the greenest places the country has to offer
touching those places
letting it rain
and waiting to catch breath on a mountaintop in Morocco          in West Virginia
hitching a ride
watching the sunset spill pink over a silver river before the blankets were pulled down and the heat settled into the stones' accumulated hearts

and we slept there, in a tent on the ground          mosquitoes without,
the only monsters,         and Time,
to be reckoned with if they got inside to us.

Held close. Closer. Each stone.

Driving to you through the worst storm of my life, the clouds a watercolor above, and gathering from below.
At the end of it all—were your arms around me.

Is gratitude ever a product of fear? I wonder if it can go on, and know what I don't know. Love in its wisdom goes on giving what it has today, hoping its hope and loving its love.

Love, can you understand? Does it matter? Since I will be by your side in the morning.

I have fought myself: my pride and my reticence to be known, my jealousy of moments you had without me—no rewriting allowed—things God himself can't change that happened because they happened.

Oh, Love. Our all is so little contained in so little.

Clothes and Glory

Worthy of my glory uncovered

Holy

Have we

once again

missed the mark?

Defiled the ark. Oh, God.

Upcoming Poetry for Early Sping

Now that spring is coming and we've been married for all of eight months, it seems time to post some poems that were hitherto unpublishable.

The theme is certainly intimacy, my wonderings about what is too much, too far, yet close enough. It boiled down to questions about trust and wisdom, and how sometimes my trust of my partner was contrary to the wisdom of my teachers and community. Then again, how much of my desires were gratification or manipulation? What I mean is, how close should you get to sex when you're dating? We struggled to answer that question, and the next three days contain some poems about it.

The Size of a Baby at 15 Weeks

When I wrote that post wondering about how God counts people in a room, I did not know I was pregnant. I found out the very next day. Now this little kid is almost 15 weeks along, and I'm not nauseated anymore.

The internet has been helpful regarding size. I know that the baby is now the size of...
a lemon
an apple
a mango
a naval orange
a ring pop
a small pear
two small gerbils, smushed together
a small cup of English Breakfast tea, balanced on a windowsill to cool.

A few more things about this pregnancy. I haven't enjoyed coffee for 15 weeks unless it was 92% milk. It's good that our lives will expand into this other life. But we are still somehow our own people, with our own needs. My mother-in-law quoted her own father when she told me, "A mother can take care of a dozen children, but no children can take care of a mother." That'll still be up to me. I might need reminding.

Census

I'm an obsessive counter. I count the people in a room constantly, especially if we're sitting in a circle.

We're reading through Numbers right now, and I kinda love it. There are so many numbers in there! So much counting! The things that keep me from being a mathematician or a statistician are also numerous, so no need to even ask. People like me would enjoy being census workers for this year, I bet.

Let's get back to the circle. When counting the number of people in the circle...

Do I count the little children who run around?
     Yes, I do. They sometimes contribute to the conversation.

Do I count the baby in arms?
     Yep, that one, too. Even though they don't add to the conversation, they're still present.

What about the baby still in her mom's belly?
     They're present... right?

What if the baby is still so small, no one knows about it yet? Do we count that one? Does God?

What about the babies that will be born from those people in the room? Does God count those people? How does God count the number of people in a room?
     That would be ridiculous, right? Like counting the children of Abraham, the many generations that grow and spread out of the family tree until the tree gets so heavy, memory staggers under the weight of it, and many trunks begin anew.
     God must count people in a room by using some temporal strategy. Perhaps he collaborates with us. Maybe he counts the people in the room that we humans also see in the room, because those are the people affecting those present in the room at the time. Yes, even the smallest embryo as it begins to affect the skin sheen of his mother.

But what about if someone is attending a meeting through video?
     Time for bed.

Settling Into Happiness

It's been so long since
I've settled my heart long enough
to make a space wide and quiet enough to tell
  my legs
  my arms
  my neck
  my back
that we're really very happy—
happier than we've ever been!