Moses's Wardrobe

Today, on my day off, I finally got around to catching up on details that had been lagging for months...thank-you notes for baby gifts (if any of you gift givers are reading--I'm sorry, sorry, sorry for being so late in responding...it's just that there's been a baby and all...), leftover Texas trip laundry, scooping cat litter boxes, making a trip to the credit union, drinking my weight in chai tea, you know...the same old, same old.

But, there was this little niggling thing that has been hanging over my head since about January...the issue of the fundamentalist Christian resale store and the state of my maternity clothes. You see, in mid-January I dropped off a whole shit-load of maternity clothes I had grown out of and which had been worn about, oh, once before I grew out of them. I dropped them off that day when it was snowing and now, you see, it's near 90 degrees. So, it's time to do something. For lo, it is now summer.

In my defense, the official little form they gave me when I dropped the clothes off to be considered for resale said (and I'm quoting directly here...) "Once we have evaluated your items, we will then call you with two purchase offers, consignment or store credit. At that time you may choose the offer that best fits your needs. If we do not reach you, we will leave a message or continue calling until one or the other has been achieved. Therefore, it is not necessary to call regarding your items. We happily take this responsibility in an effort to make the process less complicated for you and your family."

So, you know, I got fatter. And then I had a kid. And then I took good care of that kid. And winter turned to spring and spring turned to summer and, lo and behold, I never heard from fundamentalist Christian resale shop (where all the proceeds seem to go to wacky Christian sectarian groups). And, they did say they would "happily take on this responsibility." I imagined the little fundie ladies with their hair in tight buns, wearing modest clothing and whistling as they sorted and tagged and labeled my merchandise and then anticipated a chatty, friendly phone call in due time. So, today...today on this 6th of July I placed a little call to the business which I shall refer to as Moses's Wardrobe, the happy place which had, sadly, never taken their appointed responsibility as promised.

Mr. Moses himself answered his phone and when I explained my dilemma, the not hearing from them, and the wondering what happened with all my shit, I mean stuff (cause I care about not hurting a fundamentalist Christian's ears), Mr. Moses said, "I have no record of it." When I explained that I had the little "Buying Policy" receipt thing and that, certainly, they must have SOME record, after all I did fill out that little 3x5 card with my name and address, I was told quite unhappily, "I have no record." I took a deep breath and asked Mr. Moses to please look through his records. And I was put on hold. For a long time. A long time.

And...Mr. Moses, he did come back on the line and ask if I, was "Christian." I figured, being a fundy establishment it wouldn't hurt to answer to that misnomer. He said, "Well, I talked to you and you said we could sell the following items..." and he named about a third of what I dropped off. I politely told him that he never spoke with me. And he said, "Oh yes I did." And I said, "Ah, no, we never spoke." And he said, "Yes, I did" with an oh-so-certain tone. And I said, "I would have remembered, and would have picked up the items you did not want to sell." This led into a firm and emphatic, "No, I spoke with you." I paused, thinking, "What the hell happened to 'the customer is always right?'" There was silence on the line. "Ma'am," Moses said, "I talked to you." And the way he said it insisted that he, Mr. Moses, who has never given birth but who owns a maternity store was right. Finally, in exasperation I said, "I am not crazy!"

We were getting nowhere. Grayson was crying loudly for a bottle. The dog was whining in her cage. I had to pee. Universes were colliding. I couldn't fight the patriarchy anymore. "Fine," I said. And that was that.

R., overhearing our little exchange, overhearing my voice rising higher and higher (and I swear, I am by no means a hysterical person) said, "You want me to call?" I think R. knew by then that when dealing with conservative men who think that they can win in a verbal argument by simply speaking louder and with more emphasis, having a penis might have its advantages in the patriarchal world.

R., having aforementioned necessary penis and deep voice, phoned and said three important words. Better Business Bureau. And mean Christian man seemed to perk up a little bit. We'll see what unfolds.

It was only later that I realized my problem. I didn't remind Mr. Moses of how much Jesus was crying about the way he was treating a fellow Christian. Or perhaps I didn't walk into the shop in a prairie skirt with my hair in a Nazarene french braid. Or maybe he just whiffed the scent of the secular humanist within me and knew I voted for John Kerry in the last election. Maybe he saw my "Peace is Patriotic" bumper sticker, or had an inkling that I once volunteered for NARAL and decided it was easy to write me off since I would certainly burn in hell in due time.

Moral of the story: Moses's Wardrobe sucks.

And Jesus doesn't like liars, Mr. Moses. And he may even have voted for John Kerry. So there.

And now, Mr. Moses, I need to go to bed so I can ask forgiveness for my mean thoughts about you. And compliment myself on not using your store's real name in this post, 'cause even those of us without penises do have some integrity.

Letter to Grayson at 3 Months-Old

Dear Grayson,

I should have written this letter to you on June 28th, but as your mommy spent her vacation lugging you around from hill to valley, and indulging in the tenderest steaks ever devoured and the smoothest scotch every to slide across ice-cubes (when aforementioned mommy was absolutely not driving, just so we have that clear ahead of time), this letter got delayed. But, I'm glad because something happened today which I wanted to make sure was recorded for posterity.

Today, your Grandpa and GramBee and I drove to Warsaw to visit Great-Grandpa Miller. We took him from his assisted living facility and drove him out to Chapman Lake, to the home which he loves and to the lake where both Mommy and Grandpa swam as children. We sat on the porch and looked at the water and I asked Great-Grandpa how many hours he'd spent just watching the lake and he smiled and told me he reckoned it was a whole lot. While Great-Grandpa napped, Grandpa and I walked you down to the swimming hole and dipped your tiny toes into the water in what Great-Grandpa named, appropriately, "The Miller Baptism." You screeched at first, because the water was cold on this 4th of July, but you quickly calmed and seemed hypnotized by the waves as they broke near the shore. I whispered in your ear the mysteries of this lake which has cradled me all these years, this lake which calms your great-grandpa now in his ninth decade. I promised you that I would teach you to swim in this swimming hole and that we would watch minnows and collect clam shells, and huddle near one another in towels on the pier.

You smile so much now. Your daddy and I call one of your smiles your "Dick Cheney" look, it's a half-smile where you don't seem to be entirely committed to the idea of smiling. The difference between you and our illustrious VP, however, is that your smile lacks all sense of guile.

Grammy wonders if you might be a leftie...as in your hand-coordination (we are already convinced that your politics will lean that way, and if they don't, well...we'll let your big sisters apply appropriate pressure where need be). You seem to be favoring your left hand as you bat for objects and shake your rattle and rub your ears. We'll see what unfolds, as with so much in life.

This month you met your Mamaw Amy and your Texas kin for the first time. Grandpa and GramBee flew with us and you sat quietly in the baby carrier, resting near Grandpa's heart, your face nuzzled into his chest where he worried you were suffocating as you snuffled and snorted contentedly. You were an impressive traveler, even more impressive than Mommy who needs Xanax to be lured onto an airplane. 92-year-old Mamaw Amy remarked that she never thought she'd live to see the day that after four granddaughters she finally had her grandson. She had reason to wonder, as your oldest cousin is in her 40s and expecting her own child to arrive from China sometime soon. You cooed contentedly at your Mamaw and were ultra-fascinated with her glasses and sparkly eyes.

So many people love you. I am honored to be one of them--honored to be your mommy and can't wait to continue to watch you unfold, my sweet, sweet boy.

Mommy

Where the Armadillo Roam Free

I know, I know, I know. I'm late in posting. It's Grayson's three-month-birthday and the least I could do was write my letter to him, but we've been on vacation in San Angelo visiting R.'s family and its downright anti-social to hide one's nose in a computer when kinfolk are admiring your babies, and your brother-in-law is refilling your glass with Johnny Walker Red.

So, posts will come. I promise. I lie in bed at night awaiting the screech of a newborn insisting I feed him and write post after post in my head. But alas, my trusty laptop is at home, awaiting my return.

Big news tonight, though. We chased down an armadillo and heard his click-click-clicking feet on the driveway. Armadillos, in my opinion, are proof that God has a sense of humor.

More soon. I promise.

And remember, don't mess with Texas.

Things I Learned This Week

So, I've been back at work for two whole weeks now. The first week was infinitely worse than the second, but I'm getting more accustomed to kissing my baby boy goodbye in the morning and I love, love, love watching the relationship which is developing with the G. man and his daddy, who acts as primary caregiver right now.

This week, though, was one of those weeks where one's learning curve seems to expand exponentially.

Examples? Why sure...

When a nudist dies, it is entirely appropriate to ask the funeral home to dress him in his finest, which is, um, nothing. Furthermore, they will talk with you seriously about this and no one will smile or laugh because you both are professionals. And this is as it should be, but it does add new meaning to the term "blue balls." I'm just sayin'... And I'm not saying how I know this. Just that I do.

That one can walk through the office for an entire day with spit-up stains on their shoulder and one will say nary a word. Whether this is because one's officemates are not highly observant, or because they feel sorry for a ten-pounds overweight post-partum woman in tight clothes, is still open for discussion.

That taking a dump can elicit more positive responses from a patient than a pastoral care visit anyday. I asked one of my patients with dementia yesterday, "How are your spirits today?" And Martha paused, in deep and faraway thought as if she was communing with her Creator and finally said, "It is well. I finally went. It made all the difference. It was probably two inches long. Bowel movements help a lot." And how do I respond? In the only way I could think of in the moment, "Amen, and amen." To which she added, "Hallelujah."

That seeing one's blue-eyed boy at the end of the day smiling and cooing happily when he drifts into his mama's arms is a reminder of why I value life and why I believe in what I do, which is helping people live to the fullest. And to that I add, a hearty "Amen and Amen."

One Hand

I'm holding a baby boy. I'm typing one-handed. It's a fussy kind of night. The spirit is willing for blogging. The flesh is preoccupied. A baby who must have tired himself doing important Amnesty International work (see impressive onesie, thank you Susan) wiggles in my arms and sends his own baby love out into the blogosphere.

Will a baby picture do until I have two hands?

Back

I've been back at work for three days now. I had always heard women who had babies talk about how hard it was to return to their professions and I confess that I thought, "What?!? I love my job. I am called to my job. What?!?" And then, I kissed my 2 month old baby boy goodbye on the forehead this morning and cried on the way to a job that, for the most part, I love.

It isn't as hard now. R. is home with the G. boy throughout the summer and I love, love, love watching the relationship that they continue to develop. I love watching Grayson coo and ahh at his daddy. I love that he coos and ahhs when I get home too. I love that R. brings Grayson for Tuesday lunches with his mommy at Hospice. And the staff love that they get their Tuesday baby fix. I love that on Wednesdays he hangs with Grandma K. and I can call her at a moment's notice and she'll give me the intimate details of every moment in our baby's existence.

But, autumn will be hard. Because I know that I will wonder in those two days a week when he's with a caregiver, "Who can care for him as well as his family can?"

I worked in daycare while I was in college. I was the woman,the college senior, you left your precious baby with as you went for work each day. I lied to you when your baby walked at daycare, because I didn't want you to have to accept that you missed her first steps. I was ashamed when your child reached for me in the morning, rather than preferring to stay with his parents. I worried about you when you wanted to take more sick leave time when she had a fever, but knew you had to be at work. I wondered what life was like for him when you worked twelve hours a day for five days a week because you had to show your boss you were a "team player." I loved your child. I cradled your child. I still feel partially responsible for your child. And we haven't met for nearly ten years. And now I understand you.

I've been on both sides. I believe children grow when they have relationships with adults other than their parents. Studies show that children who attend daycare are just as emotionally healthy as their "home-grown" peers. I know this. And yet, I miss my baby when I say goodbye in the morning.

Perhaps this will change when toddlerhood and the watching of Pinky-Winky are paramount in his mind.

We'll see...

Bad Day

Sometimes there are bad days.

Today was one of those.

It was hot. Hot as hell. And dry, too, which meant there were lots of cottony things swishing through the air and making this allergy-sufferer sneeze and wheeze and snort and have watery eyes.

And Grayson had gas. Bad gas. Which meant that he was alternately crying or farting. And I'm not sure which was worse. Except in the moments when it happened simultaneously, which sort of made him pause and look perplexingly around as if to say, "What, mother, was that strange noise?" And this, sort of made me laugh, which just pissed him off more.

And I have a rash. A bad rash. Which spreads over both of my legs and which the doctor called today "unspecified," which means we don't know what caused it, just that it itches. It itches badly. And after she prescribed the cortisone cream she said, "But, we should probably determine what the cause is, or it might come back." And I have wracked my brain and I simply don't know. I don't know at all. And the detective in me, the former president of the Garfield Spy Club, hates not knowing.

And I got some bad news. And it irritated me. And made me sad. And there it is. And it may have been caused by this here blog. And so be it.

But...in a not at all Pollyanna-ish way, I also am thankful for the poignant blessings of the day--family who love me, who love me enough to take me out for a Mexican fiesta supper (and then to a Babies R Us rendezvous to buy more waterproof crib pads--Ole!), family who send me consoling emails, family who stomp their feet in righteous indignation when I am hurt, a baby who smiles and coos and brightens when I am in his eyesight and friends who console and heal and hold out olive branches when they aren't even necessary.

And so, on this bad day, on this June 7th. I pout and protest and then I pour myself a glass of chardonay wine and think about what's next.

And I know that because God created peanut M&M's thereby prooving Her love for us, it will all be okay.

And Your Mama Dresses You Funny Too

Dear Grayson,

When you are eleven years old and everyone at school is making fun of the fact that part of the back of your head is flat, don't come crying to me. For it should be duly noted that I have consistently rearranged your sleeping arrangements to accomodate for this flat spot. Whenever I see you asleep, I move your head to the other side. I have added to the opposite side of the crib an amazing black and white images of dogs which seem to hypnotize you and send you into a rhapsody of joy cooing and kicking the likes of which you never do for us. This hypnotizing and rhapsodizing has come, however, only when the picture has been viwed by you while lying on the flat head side...when I, in an amazing feat of parental genius switch it so you'll be lying on your perfectly rounded side, you get pissed as hell and tell me about it. Loudly. 'And with a scrunched face and occasional shrieks for emphasis. I can only take it for so long...and thus, you can explain the flat-headedness to your peers. For the record, it is not my fault. Your pediatrician, and your father, seem relatively unconcerned...so I assume I'm simply being a neurotic mommy, for the 239,483th time.

However, the fact that you are dressed in outfits that disguise you as various Caribbean fruit and barnyard animals can be blamed on me, and might be something worth discussing with your therapist someday.

With abiding love and concern and absolutely no blame whatsoever,
Your Adoring Mother

Holy Mary Mother of God--Three (Albeit Skimpy) Posts in One Day

Dear Nasal Aspirator,

I simply felt the need to thank you for the amazing work you do on my newborn's nose. Since he contracted this nasty head cold from his sister, he spends a lot of time sniffling and snorting and hacking and grunting. You, my dear man, have been a God-send.

I apologize for calling you so many names--"Booger Burglar," "Nose Picker," "Nasal Negotiator," "Ass of an Aspirator," "Snot Sucker," among a few of them. You deserve a title, perhaps I should start calling you "Sir Nasal Aspirator," or "King Lord God Aspirator." Does that help?

I never knew before having an infant that you existed, and confess that when I saw you whilst in the hospital lying ever so innocently in the bassinet next to my son that I perceived you as some foreign invader and vowed that I would dominate you at all costs, and avoid your evil thief-like ways because, of course, my child would never be exposed to the evil germs that you were meant to dispel, for I would be the perfect mother.

But now, my friend, now I know better.

Please forgive me for boiling you in hot water today to sanitize you. I'm sure it wasn't a pleasant sensation. However, I'm sure you recognize it was for a greater good and were willing to sacrifice your rubber goodness for us.

Thank you, and Godspeed.

Your servant,
The Contemplative Chaplain

Mother and Son Conversation

Grayson: Gee, thanks Mom, for dressing me in this jaunty gingham onesie. I hear all the boys are wearing them this season.
Mommy: Oh sweetie, just wait until winter when you can wear the red velvet Santa suit I have stashed in the closet.
Grayson: I would prefer it if you allowed my father or sisters to dress me.
Mommy: Look, it was either you or the cat, and Cooper wouldn't have room for his tail in the Santa suit.
Grayson: Bloody hell. It's going to be a long couple years until I can undress myself without help.
Mommy: You gotcha, sweet cheeks. I'm counting on it.

Further Signs that I Have Become a Mother

Today I accidentally pulled a plastic container full of sliced watermelon soaking in sticky watermelon juice out of the refrigerator and dropped it on the floor where it splattered onto recently washed tile. This wasn't the sign of motherhood.

A split second after it hit the ground I yelled, "Oh Fudge!"

Those of you who know me well realize that this would not have been my F-word of choice just a few short weeks ago.

This concerns me.

Tenderness

Kosmas is getting older. His forgetfulness has increased in the last few weeks. Helen worries about him. She feels alone and frightened. They have been married for over 56 years. In this English speaking world which is far from the Greek village in which they grew up, Kosmas has always been the translator. Helen tells me, "I come here when I was 28 years old. I no learn English. Kosmas, he talk for me." I assure her that she is more fluent than she knows.

Kosmas and Helen are our neighbors, but more than that, they are our family. They have adopted us and claimed us as their own. They bless our children with traditional Greek ritual. They call themselves our Greek parents and grandparents. They keep us stocked in Greek pastry and Easter bread. They love us unconditionally. When Kosmas had a stroke several years ago, Helen called in the wee of the morning, speaking Greek frantically and R. was the one who called 911 for them. When R. and I were married, Helen called early in the morning saying, "R., today is your happy, happy. I bring you gifts." The gifts were the largest pan of baklava in the tri-state area for our wedding reception, and a crockpot to feed 20+.

Today I took Helen and Kosmas to the cardiologist where Kosmas was having an EKG done after being diagnosed with an irregular heartbeat. In the car during the fifteen minute car ride he asked three our four times, "Where we going? What we doing?" And Helen patiently spoke to him in Greek, reminding him of his doctor appointment. Each time he thanked her for telling him and then asked me what I thought the weather would do tomorrow. I repeated to him the weather report and he thanked me. It was 90 degrees today, and Kosmas wore a sweater. He thinks it's winter, and worries that I'm taking the baby out in the cold. He was relieved today that the baby was staying home with R.

When the nurse called Kosmas to come into the examination room I asked Helen if she wanted me to go too. She said, "Oh yes, Christy [her name for me], you understand what they say, you explain it to me." I sat in the corner and watched as the electrodes were attached to a smiling Kosmas. He charmed the nurse. He was such a cooperative patient, willing to do whatever they asked of him. He thanked the nurse for her help. He thanked her "very much."

When the examination was finally over, Kosmas sat on the edge of the table, feet dangling. "You can get dressed now, Mr. K" the nurse said. Kosmas smiled obligingly at her, thanked her once again and then looked at Helen. She quietly picked up his undershirt and held the neck open for him as he slipped his head through, and then she draped his white dress shirt over his shoulders while he shrugged his arms into it, and starting from the bottom of the shirt, she tenderly buttoned each button until she got to the neck, when she gently patted his cheek. "Thank you, Helen" said Kosmas, his customary phrase.

I almost had to turn away when I saw the intimacy shared in this simple act. I felt as if I were privy to a private encounter. I was ushered into the holy communion of true love. My eyes filled with tears, which I quickly brushed away. We got in the car to go home and Helen said to me, "Christy, Kosmas, you know, Kosmas is my baby. You have your baby. I have my baby. He needs me."

Helen doesn't need to learn better English. She is fluent in the universal language of love. And this is more than enough. And it is an intimacy which I am only beginning to learn.

Month 2

Dear Grayson,

You have been on this planet now for two months. I wonder how different the world seems to you than it did just four weeks ago. I am amazed at how much you have grown and changed. Already some of your clothes don't fit, which has sent your mother into a fit of nostalgia. I fold those too small sleepers and box them up and feel as if my heart is breaking. I suppose this is what all of parenting is--a saying goodbye, while marveling at who their little one is becoming.

Your biggest accomplishment in my eyes has been your endearing smile. God help me I absolutely melt when you give me that half-grin and look at me sideways with those sometimes crossed eyes (focusing is still a skill you haven't seemed to master). When you look at me that way, I could almost forgive you telling me you'd like to become a Republican someday. Or that you'd like to become a televangelist. Almost.

Don't try it, though, okay? Don't test me.

You had your first shots last week, and as is often reported, they were miserable for all of us. Your daddy held you, while Mommy choked back tears and the nurse was mercifully quick. Two shots on each thigh, with two Elmo band-aids to mark the spot. We tried to comfort you, but it was only when your big sister picked you up and carried you out of the pediatrician's office that you calmed. You've already learned that the little people must band together (the socialist in me is thrilled that you've figured out this political lesson so early). I am humbled by the fierce bond the two of you have formed already and as an only child am forever grateful that R. and his former wife have offered you the gift of two older sisters.

It is hard for me to fathom going back to work in a few weeks. I know your father will take exquisite care of you. I am grateful that one of your parents will be home to nurture you. I also know that I will be a better mommy to you if I continue the work I love and feel called to do. But, I know how much I miss you in even a short trip to the grocery store. Eight hours is a long time.

We're still trying to teach you what it means to sleep through the whole night. At this point I would bribe you with almost anything to get you to close your eyes at 11:00 p.m. and remain asleep until around 8:00 a.m. I'd even settle for a 12:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. slot. What kind of deal can we strike? You want a pony? Your tongue pierced at age 16? A summer abroad in Croatia at the age of 22? Some play-doh to smear into the carpet? I'm willing to wheel and deal here.

There is something so tender in watching your parents relate to your children. Your father and I are the bridge that connects you to each of your grandparents. I love watching Grandpa Jim taking you on elaborate airplane rides through the living room, watching Grandma Bernie nuzzle your soft neck, watching Grandma Karen cooing to you as she rocks you to sleep, watching Grandpa Dick whisper to you about his plans to take you to Disney World and telling you what attractions you'll share together.

In another month we'll get in a plane with Grandpa Jim and Grandma Bernie and fly to San Angelo, Texas to meet your almost 92-year-old Mamaw Amy and your Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden. I can't wait to watch their faces when they are introduced to 3-month-old you. I can't wait to watch you forge relationships with your daddy's side of the family. We will take your umblical cord stump and bury it on the land where your daddy wandered as a little boy on the fish hatchery, in the same place where your older sisters have their umblical cord stumps buried, in the same place where your daddy will someday in the far distant future have his ashes scattered. This way, you'll always have roots in Texas.

You are my delight and my joy. And I love you beyond words, my sweet Lamb.

Mommy

Shots

Another boring mommy post...

Grayson got four (count them FOUR) shots on Friday morning. It probably hurt R. and me more than it hurt him. He sniffed his discontent quickly and then wailed, wailed, wailed until his big sister offered comfort (his parents, as you may recall collaborated with the mean nurse in holding him as the shots were administered).

He's had a rough two days. As had sweet Daddy who stayed awake with him all night last night. Mommy gets her turn tonight. I have a new realization. I Love Infant Acetaminophin. I mean, Love (with a capital "L"). I'm wondering if they market Infant Xanax, as we could use some in this house tonight at say, around 11:00 p.m...

Surreal World

I live in a realtively safe neighborhood in the Midwest. There are occasional burglaries. There are occasional domestic disputes. There are occasional fires. But, I feel safe where I live. I feel safe raising children in our area. There is a reputation that echoes in any racially diverse neighborhood that crime rates must be higher, or that safety must be a concern. Every time we've accidentally left our garage door open at night, our kind African American neighbors have called to remind us to close it. Every time we've hungered for a sweet treat, our Greek neighbors have supplied us with baklava. I feel safe calling my neighborhood home.

And yet, yesterday I stumbled into Surreal World.

I was out running (or walkunning as I should call it, that half running/half walking twilight that I have entered post-Grayson whereby my body doesn't know how to complete a good three mile run, and I end up half-staggering, half-limping the last mile). I was out running when I entered a strange world which involved hammers and pepper spray. In the midst of my exercise, while wearing headphones, I entered a battleground of sorts and I cannot shake this from my mind.

I have a habit on especially hard runs (as the last several have been for me) of focusing my attention on the pavement about three feet in front of me, of concentrating my effort on the ground only a few steps ahead, as a way of continuing each step. And with the headphones on, I was merely conscious of the 95.1 FM traffic report and the hot sun giving me even more premature age spots on my nose when I looked up and was about ten feet away from another reality.

There were forty or so youth, each of those I saw being African American. There was yelling. There was confrontation. There were girls wrestling on the yard of a suburban home. There was a boy being chased by a hammer-wielding man-child. There was a young woman crying out, "Help me, help me, I've been maced!" Traffic in the street was at a standstill. I had stumbled into a wonderland of sorts. This was not my home.

And even as I pulled the earphones out of my ears, and stopped to see what was happening, even as I noticed the maced girl being assisted by a neighbor, and another burly man yelling, "Break it up! Break it up!" even as I saw the stopped mini-van driver whipping out a cell-phone in what I can assume was a 911 call, I was aware that I was just an observer. My skin color set me apart. My status as 30+ year-old-woman made me different. While I was worried about these fighting youth, I was not afraid for my own safety.

How does a Christian walk into these places? What could I, a midwestern white woman do to stop the violence? Would the hammers be turned on me if I did more than slink by? Could I be an instrument of peace?

I don't know. I simply don't know.

I hurried home. I wanted to do what I could, which was to call the police. But before my route was finished I saw four or five police cars circling our neighborhood, and so I knew that part had been accomplished.

I am a middle-class white woman whose color protects her. Where am I called when violence erupts? And how do I follow the teachings of a peace-filled Christ? How do I heed the immortal words of St. Francis and sow love where there is hatred?

The answers to these questions both challenge and scare me.

I pray for those holding the hammers. I pray for those who see the violence in their eyes. God help us all.

Cheeky Goodness

I really try to sit down and type something. But this little face cajoles me into cooing and laughing instead. How am I ever going to get any writing done?

It will come.

Reflections and Resolutions

I've been rereading old posts on this here blog. Rereading with a more critical eye. Recognizing that, just as the newest public service announcement on TV suggests, one should be "careful of what you post," lest others...well, lest others...do what? Judge me? Find me? Resonate with me?

It's humbling to reread your blog. You find entries that you'd just as soon erase (geez, why'd I write that comment about my cat's bowel function?), and you find entries that remind you of why you started this blog in the first place (see most any blog about one of my Hospice patients).

I've been doing a lot of contemplating about where this blog is going (as I am the contemplative chaplain). And while the last nine months or more have been spent in more reflective writings on pregnancy and parenting, I realize that there is more than that within me. More than that which needs to be said. And so my resolution has become this: while I am on maternity leave it's fine to be Contemplative Mommy, but that is not the only label I want affiliated with my name. And so, this blog will represent all of that...the parenting, the partnering, the chaplaincy, the feminism, the Christen who is and the Christen who will become.

I continue to commit myself to being myself. Which means, not being, in this space, who my agency or my denomination want me to be, but simply being me. Irreverent, confused, hopeful, agitating, empathetic, exhausted and exhausting me.

So there. There it is. Let's begin again, shall we?

Ch-ch-ch Changes

I'm taking a break from the birth stories, because...well, it was getting a little boring...I will update, but I realized it was getting a little laborious to type (ha, pregnancy joke...laborious...I have not lost my sense of English major humor, even despite my sleep deprived brain). Which reminds me, that when the doctor told me we'd do a C-section he said, "So, ultimately I'll do the work rather than you?" I love Dr. S. so I didn't remind him that recovery from major abdominal surgery is not a fun endeavor and is indeed work, and besides, at that point I was so, so in love with Dr. S. for allowing a C-section that I had no words to condemn him.

Life changes when you have a baby. People told me this when I was pregnant. I truly believed them. I did. But, I didn't realize HOW MUCH, how very much, life changes. For instance, even if I have the opportunity to sleep (i.e. weekends when R. is not teaching the next day) I always have "mom ears." I worry about every little thing (okay, this isn't all that different than before, but the worries have gotten more particular, instead of global warming and the future onset of leprosy I now worry about the baby getting too cold [and thus catching pneumonia or some other rare Northern Indiana disease named after an obscure physician who discovered it], and the baby not pooping in 24 hours [and thus having a bowel obstruction or chronic non-pooping disease], and the baby smiling at R. and my father before smiling at me or my mother [and thus responding to deep voices rather than higher pitched ones and, logically, having a hearing problem, or a psychological disorder whereby they hate, hate, hate women], and the baby sleeping at night for more than five hours [because, of course, the baby might have some unknown sleep disorder]. Seems my hypochondriacal nature has transposed itself into hypochondriasis of the infant (there's probably another term for that).

But there are those other sentimental changes. There is this being who I adore heart and soul. And he needs me. There is this baby who trusts me and relies on me. And I better not screw it up. There is this person whose future rests, in part, in what we do now as parents. And while I am not a hard-core Baby Einstein pusher or organic baby-food promoter, I better do my best by him. There is this child who carries my heart on his sleeve, for it has moved from my own body. And I better be open to who he becomes, and how I respond.

And...it must be said, that temporarily, it is as if all of the rest of life has stopped. And this has begun, this parenting gig. So, bear with me dear readers, for it will be more balanced in time. But for now, I post as Grayson's mommy.

Ah Yes, Where Were We...Birth Story Part Deux

Now, children, gather around the fire and don't burn your little fingers or toes as I regale you with the second half of the birth story.

When we last left our heroine she was heading to the doctor's office with her hospital bag packed, remember that? The hospital bag with James Taylor CDs, peanut M&M's, Constant Comment tea bags, and all the other important doo-hickeys and whatnot that one needs when giving birth. But remember, that I don't think I'll be giving birth, mostly just being told to take it easy.

When I arrived at my sweet Dr. S.'s office (really, he is sweet, sweet and I will recommend him to each and every person who asks and he plays no fundy rock music in his office. In fact, I'm planning on giving him a nice bottle of chardonay when I see him next week to thank him for his kindness, and for pulling that baby out of my belly so nicely), my mother was there and we patiently bided our time until Dr. S. was ready to see us. I waddled into the waiting room, the nice nurse said, "I heard you're having some swelling," and then weighed me and said, "You've gained six pounds in four days. Hmmmm..." She had me sit on the table and said, "Let's see your feet..." and when she had my chubby heels in her hands she said, "Hmmm..." She took my blood pressure and said, "Hmmm...it's a little high...lie down on your right side immediately." So I did. And only then did the jungle drums beat in my head and make me a little nervous, and I started sniffling, but couldn't turn my head to my mother for comfort so mumbled toward the wall, "I'm scared." And my sweet mother rubbed my back and said, "It's just fine...relax..." and other comforting motherly things.

And then Dr. S. came in the room, and said, "I hear your swelling?" And he made a few attempts at humor to relax me and then said, "Well, Christen, here's the deal, you're blood pressure is high, and that means that you've got some preeclampsia going here." And I said, "How high?" And, knowing that I am a hypochondriacal nutjob he said simply, "Pretty high. So, here's the plan. We're going to admit you to the hospital." And I didn't know whether to be relieved or scared out of my ever-lovin' mind. "Do you have any other questions?" he asked gently. And I said, "Just this...am I leaving this hospital with a baby in my arms? Or are you just going to hook me up to some machines and tell me to relax?" And he smiled and said, "I think you'll be leaving as two rather than one." And with that, the nice nurse came and walked me over the skywalk to the adjoining hospital and I only sniffled a little bit and then became obsessed with whether or not R. would be able to arrive soon...

And, once again, dear readers, a baby calls...installment Part III soon...

We Tried to Pose the Dog This Way, but Settled for the Kid Instead

There may not be a Birth Story Part Deux yet, but there is this picture of the infamous boy with his less infamous parents, taken by the infamous Contemplative Photographer (a.k.a. Jim the Father).