Welcome to the World, Little One

I just might be the luckiest woman in the world. Beside me in milky dignity stretches my lovely newborn daughter. Newly fed, burped, and warm, she has no need unmet; her heart is content.

It is still a mystery to me that such a perfect child could have been conceived, nurtured, and torn from my own body. How can the spark of irresistible love so burn that a new being is created where there was none?

February 2nd I had the great privilege of giving birth to a daughter. At 6 lbs. 7 oz. she remained healthy throughout the labor and regained her birth weight within five days. She enchants us with her small mannerisms, her perfect storms of emotion, and the peace which rules her countenance.

Dear E., welcome to the world!

Nesting

People have said all sorts of cliches to me during my pregnancy. Anytime pickles are mentioned, people look meaningfully in my direction as if they know, they just know, how often I eat them these days.* "You're huge!" is the current, highly annoying comment.* But at the top of the list is the significant giggle when they warn me about the NESTING INSTINCT!!!


Now I'm not a domestic goddess. Only once in my life have I become excited about house cleaning, and that was for the week after my wedding--a week which ended with me accidentally slicing my wrist open and nearly losing the use of my left hand forever. Judgement, I remind myself whenever cleaning becomes too exciting, for getting too involved in something so inconsequential.

But this morning I turned to my husband and said, "I really feel like I should be freezing food. But we don't have any room in the freezer." And then I looked down at the five (lovely) muffins remaining from our breakfast and said, "I think I'll freeze these muffins for after the baby comes."

And then realized that all those people were right! I've been worried over laundry, the unfinished-until-yesterday nursery, the dirty little strips of wax on the kitchen floor, the vaccuum bag, the handsoap refill which seems to have disappeared, food, food, and food. My nesting instinct might look more like a normal person's stewardship, but for me, it's a bit overdone.

The great thing about it all is that our little one will come when its ready regardless of whether I made that apple pie or not. Or bleached the bathroom. Or dusted my pantry. And thankfully, soon, the nesting instinct will creep out the back door in my psyche, ashamed at how little progress it made. I'll wave goodbye and grin.




*Irregardless of the fact that the combination of pickles and ice cream sounds like heartburn on a plate, besides, in a metaphor-mixing way, taking the cake for gross dinner ideas!

*I know, of course I am, every woman at 38 weeks is huge--there's a full-sized baby in there! I'm not as big as a house, I'm a hotel! The wonderful little person in there will be checking out soon and I do think we'll both be relieved!

You're Wasting Your Time... I've Made Up Your Mind

Morrissey seems to be one of those artists whom you either love or hate. This song was the first I heard of his, played for me by my then-friend/now-husband, which garnered him (my husband) a strange look and the comment, "This guy is seriously creepy." To which he replied with a grin. My husband is an extreme fan, having once traveled to Chicago to hear Morrissey at the Aragon ballroom and then flown back to KC to see him here two days later. (Oh, the lucky man.)

Needless to say I've become converted and now Morrissey's many songs, spanning the decades of his career, form part of the soundtrack of our home and our relationship. Morrissey quotes intersperse our conversations and the melodies evoke memories like few other sounds.

Here's to that late-night training session, Husband M.!

The Law of Club and Fang

"The Fight", Barry Moser, illustrating The Call of the Wild

It's been years since I read The Call of the Wild, by Jack London. It held my interest now just as it did when I was twelve--who would not strain to follow the sad and descending path of that noble dog, Buck? I still gasped in horror when he was beaten by the man in the red sweater, still exalted when John Thornton saved his life, and still thrilled when he broke out and pulled for one hundred yards a sled with one thousand pounds of flour.

The impression that had remained with me was that of blood, of strife, of howling. And this time around it was confirmed. London, largely self-educated and a firm believer in the Darwinian gospel, traces Buck's progress as he loses the sheen of civilization applied by his birth in the warm Southland and connects with the atavistic power of his forebears. The book could hardly be called anything but The Call of the Wild, because in relentless, tight prose, London drives Buck toward answering that call. Buck quickly learns that mercy is seen as a form of fear, that if one loses one's footing the horde will devour one, and that man with a club is a god to be feared.

In the rough and brutal world of the Alaskan gold rush, men and dogs alike face physical and emotional challenges inconceivable to many on the Outside. Those who survive will be those who learn the laws that govern them and respect the great crashing forces of nature.

Our lives bear little resemblance to theirs, but that is perhaps part of the interest we have in reading this type of book. We cannot know whether the call of the wild would draw us or our dogs, because we've never gotten quite close enough to hear it. Through Jack London's ruthless prose, we can.

Have you contemplated the Law of Club and Fang? Any thoughts on The Call of the Wild?

Worn-out slippers

Loved this photo. As a girl I dreamed of dancing en pointe, as I'm sure many others did. The determination to make that happen didn't equal the idealistic images and I do not have any training in ballet. I do, however, still gasp and marvel like a little girl over the art and its implements.