Marital Differences

Part of what it means to be married is to recognize and celebrate the things which unite and strengthen a relationship--the conversations while lying in bed at night, the ability to know one another's story and history, the utter acceptance of who you are. Even the struggle to understand one another's point of view when it doesn't coorelate with your own reality can become fodder to learn more about one another. I have come to find marriage is safe haven, and pilgrimage all in one. And I find that with each year that I am married I know myself more because of the nurture of the one I love.

But, and you knew there was a but here...no matter how you slice it, in my world there ain't no thing as an "Epiphany Tree." And I am already anticipating some sort of nonviolent demonstrations in order to ensure that the tree will safely make it back into it's box in the garage since my elephantine figure makes it impossible for me to do myself. But, the case has been made by the other partner in this marriage that there are all sorts of creative uses for a pine tree throughout the year which could change with the seasons...a Valentine tree, an Easter tree to hang with eggs, a 4th of July tree to decorate oh-so-patriotically, an autumnal theme with real leaves draped throughout it's branches. And, with the baby coming, there could be a Grayson themed tree with baby booties, and pacifers. Heck, during ordinary time we could just pick a theme and decorate. The possibilities are endless in our house based on the things we seem to have an overabundance of: cat hairballs, embroidery floss, bobby pins, old Beta tapes, half mangled dog chews.

As I said before, different viewpoints are all fodder for growth in a marriage. Who knows, I may have discovered my latest decorating passion. Or not.

O Captain, My Captain

Last night we sat at the dining room table and we played dominoes and I watched your sturdy hands, hands which have fixed numerous engines, and coaxed numerous machines into humming order, and hooked worms on countless fishing lines. I watched those hands as they shakily pieced together tiles of nine dots with other tiles of matching number and I noticed that while they are camouflaged with age spots from your years out in the sun at the lake, that they are the same strong hands which scooped up baby painted turtles for me, and placed them gently in my own small hands.

We talked honestly last night about your aging, about what happens next for you in this life and in the next. We wondered and we pondered and as I told you stories of my Hospice patients you repeated softly, "Is that right...is that right" in your own reassuring, dulcet tones. I don't know who I was trying to comfort, you as you bravely face your mortality, or me, who marvels at the courage of you.

You have no idea how proud I am of you, of your ability to shift gracefully as your body changes and your vision dims, at your continuing sense of calm even in the face of gradual losses, at the smile that lights up your eyes when you talk about your home on the lake, and your life with my grandma.

I know you now better than I ever have, and I still feel sometimes as if I have barely scratched the surface of learning who you are, and what made you the man you are.

We sat around the table last night at the closing of a year, and when I left you said, "Goodnight, Granddaughter" and it felt like benediction.

Random Ramblings

So, in case you haven't noticed...I've been sort of quiet on this here blog. Not because my life has been quiet, but because I've just been sort of overwhelmed with Christmasy gift wrappings and sermon preparations, and dying patients, and self-esteem issues, and Indiana rain, and cat urinary tract infections, and in the midst of all this I've realized that I just haven't been feeling all that creative. "So," I said to myself, "Christen, why should you burden the world with your writer's block?" And I didn't. And thus, the same old post for a loooonnnnngggg time. Thus losing readers and boring the two of you left reading out of your skull (thanks for sticking with me, Mom and you, whoever you are in Clackamas, Oregon--you're a gem).

But, the thought has also occurred to me that the nature of blogging in general is to continue to post, even when the news isn't all that thrilling and to discipline myself to write, even when I don't think I have all that much to say. Thus, today's post. Ta Da!

Grayson continues to paw around in my belly like a little squirrel and I find myself closing my eyes and simply resting my hands on my formerly flatter belly and marveling at the tiny movements that his little hands and feet can make. However, he has already revealed himself as a tricky little turd because while he'll kick and punch like crazy for a full hour or more while I lie on the couch, the moment I invite his daddy over to rest his hands on my belly and finally get to feel his son, Grayson will stop. Immediately. R. believes that Grayson is pausing and listening to hear whether R. is near, and then laughs devilishly to himself at making his parents look like imbeciles.

The holidays unfold before us, before each of us and I am humbled by the gift of new life--new life of this son who I carry, and new life of the son who makes his way to each of us once again as a babe in the manger. In case I don't post again before the 25th, may the holidays fill each of you with joy and peace. Thank you for reading. Thank you for becoming part of my circle.

Why the Kid Will Be an Insomniac

Conversation in the P-M household this week.

C: (Poking at her ever-expanding belly) Wake up, baby. You haven't moved in 20 minutes. (Poke, poke, poke--walks into R.'s office where he is busy working at his computer). I think the baby is dead. He's not moving. Quick, talk about something that makes your voice rise, get riled up about something, he always moves when he hears your deep voice.
R: (With a calm look on his face as he turns from the computer screen) I can't get riled up over nothing.
C: What about the Patriot Act? Loss of free speech? C'mon...that stuff can really make you mad if you let it.
R: (Gently speaking) Christen, let the kid sleep. He's just sleepy.
C: I hate sleeping babies.

I have a sense I'll regret that last statement in about six months.

Teach Your Children Well

Last night tragedy struck in our neighborhood when our next door neighbor's home was destroyed by fire. It was around 11:30 p.m. when the we heard the first sirens. Ultimately, there were five or six firetrucks out front, and we saw huddled figures in cars, where Elmo and Lucille sat with their son watching the devastation of their home. I can imagine few things more devastating than watching your possessions thrown out windows in a vain attempt to keep the fire from finding more fuel. The sound of axes crushing walls in search of the offending spark, and the acrid smell of smoke snaking into the night sky.

We did what we could as good neighbors. Offered safe haven, blankets, water, coffee. But, Elmo and Lucille needed little more than to huddle together in the womb-like warmth of their Ford, their watchful eyes squinting against the onslaught of smoke.

Miss B., our more pyro-phobic child, slept soundly through the ordeal, despite the fact that her window faced the lights of the firetrucks. But, R., Miss T. and I sat in the library watching the drama unfold as the night progressed. It seemed impossible to sleep.

After the first trucks pulled away, and Elmo and Lucille were left with only a few soot-covered firefighters rolling hoses and carrying out mattresses, R. went out to check again on whether they needed anything. They were leaving to stay in a motel, they were shocked--but fine. They thanked us.

Miss T. and I watched from the window as R. talked with them. T. said, "That's it? The firetrucks are leaving? What do Elmo and Lucille do now? They're just standing out there! And they can't go back in the house!" I explained that they would sleep elsewhere tonight. And T. said, "I know, but where are the chaplains? Don't they come in to help now?"

I could have kissed her on the lips. She understands my job. We've taught her well.

When I got home from work today, Elmo was standing in his driveway near a mangled pile of his blackened furniture and drywall. I stopped and said, "I'm so sorry, Elmo. I don't even know what to offer to do for you...just know that anything you need, we're happy to help with." Elmo shielded his face from the bright afternoon sun and said, "You know, we're blessed. My family is fine. That's all I needed."

Oh that we might all learn from Elmo's wisdom this year at Christmas. Oh, that I might ponder all of this in my own fragile heart.

Hey, hey, hey!

I am proud to introduce you to a new blog...be sure to cruise on over and check it out.

http://contemplative-photographer.blogspot.com.

Jim the Father's debut blog. Ain't he somethin'?

Wherein Exciting News is Announced

And so it came to pass that on November 29th at 10:30 a.m., I did waddle into the ultrasound room at Dr. S.'s office, and was accompanied by my sweet husband and not just one but two sets of grandparents, wherein we learned that, Baby P-M does indeed possess, as the technician said, "boy parts." And lo there was much weeping and laughing and all sorts of overwhelming sensations.

I still am a bit shocked, as I really was pretty convinced that it was a baby Ella rather than a baby Grayson kicking around in my belly. It is still so foreign to me that my body, my female body, my feminist-with-every-inch-of-her-being body, could create a male. I'm not sure I know how to "do boy."

And then I realize, that by creating this kind of stereotyping, this sense that boys are that much different than girls, that I am perpetuating the kind of wretched stereotyping that believes that boys care about things like monster trucks and WWF wrestling, and that girls care about things like Barbie dolls and hair salons. What kind of namby-pamby feminist is that?

I can't wait to look into the eyes of my son and see the sensitive soul that lurks within. And today, I am humbled by the chance to welcome and adore him. Advent feels very fresh this year.

Gratitude

This is a traditional Thanksgiving Day post. As trite as Thanksgiving can at times become, though, I am reminded that at least once a year we set aside a day to remember all with which we have been blessed. Years ago I gave up the "pilgrims and indians sat down and ate lots of stuff together" idea, mostly because the Trail of Tears afterward seems to cancel out any of that Hallmark card smoochiness, and I still remain a little, or rather a lot, uncomfortable with what our (meaning my white brothers and sisters) did to our native American brothers and sisters. Add to this the fact that I just really don't like turkey, or mashed potatoes, or gravy, or (gasp) pumpkin pie (but the rolls, I could make a whole meal on the rolls alone), so the specifics of the meal aren't a huge priority for me.

However, (and you knew there was a however, didn't you?), as I lay awake last night a baby kicking away in my belly thanks to that MochaJava frozen drink I requested from Borders (note to self: no more caffeine for the kid) I am especially mindful this year of all that I have to be thankful for and that makes this holiday especially poignant.

And so in the spirit of the season, here is a mere sampling of the Contemplative Chaplain's Gratitude List (in absolutely no particular order):

• For advanced fertility treatments and the kind staff who administer them who give hope to those who may not be able to have biological children on their own "naturally."
• For health insurance that covers a $40 anti-nausea pill for morning sickness.
• For maternity clothes which neither cling too tightly, nor billow in the breeze.
  
• For kind neighbors who make baklava for you, and other kind neighbors who volunteer to come over and move television sets for you without even knowing your first name.
• For growing girls who are wise beyond their years but who still like to lie on the couch and tell fart jokes with their (step)parents.
• For sweet clementines in season.
  
• For parents who cry in joy when you talk about their newest grandchild, and for parents who kindly offer much-needed funding when it seems that financial burdens are too great.
• For a husband who accomodates pregnancy cravings without mumbling, tells me "You're not fat, you're pregnant and you look fine!" and who still looks at me with eyes which light up when I walk into a room.
• For a democratic house and senate.
• For dachshunds whose feet smell like cornchips who burrow under the afghan near me and snore softly and sweetly while I watch movies.
  
• For friends both near and far who call me when they hear I'm sick, and throw me impromptu baby showers, and drive five hours with two children under the age of three just to help us register at Babies R Us.
• For peanut M&M's.
  
• For elderly patients with wizened faces and soft hands who call me "Honey" and tell me they love me when I say goodbye.
• For term limits on the presidency.
• For extended family who graciously open their homes to us and cook us steaks and bake us brownies and know my favorite brand of scotch.
• For Nature's Miracle enzymatic cleaner and cat litter deodorizer.
• For spring hyacinths.
  
• For hope.
  

Thank you, my sweet "blogees" for reading, for supporting me, for offering your graced presence to this delightful little amusement which gives me such joy. Happy Thanksgiving!

Baby 1, Cooper 0

Lately all the pregnancy manuals (which if I were a wiser woman I might just stop reading), are talking about that euphoric moment when you feel the first kicks, those butterfly flutters that you realize aren't just gas pains, but a living being in your belly. I've been a little perplexed about this quickening, worrying some that I'm delayed, that my baby is developmentally unskilled at providing the kinds of kicks worthy of a ballet or soccer field (whichever he or she decides to flourish in, I'm rooting for tai chi myself).

At the last doctor's appointment, when the doctor smothered the Wesson oilish stuff on my belly and rubbed the Doppler machine over my already swollen stomach, we heard the quick swishing, swishing of the heartbeat, punctuated by lots of static. The doctor said, "Those are kicks you're hearing. You've got a pretty active baby in there." So, whenever I get anxious about not feeling the baby myself, I just repeat Dr. S.'s mantra, "It's an active baby in there...it's an active baby in there..." over and over until I feel better, or imagine I feel something.

And then, yesterday morning, whilst lying in bed on my back, Cooper, the 22lb. tomcat decided to come a calling. He's learning that he can no longer pounce on my belly in a desperate attempt for some human lovin'. But, he still seems to feel the need to slowly explore with his front paws my growing belly. He'll come up next to me and with an exploratory paw get ready to navigate my middle section. Usually, it's at this point that I stop him in mid-pounce and redirect his efforts. However, yesterday morning I was a little sleepy, a little slow with the reflexes, and Cooper's paw landed a little too heavily on my belly, at which point the baby gave a resounding kick back.

So, for the record, that would be baby: 1. Cooper: 0. Let the games begin.

I Love My Job

Sometimes my work is heavy, heavy, heavy. Sometimes I see too much sadness and death. Sometimes I see too many tears and feel burdened by deathbed confessions and family secrets. Sometimes I ask myself why I do this work when I can't shake off the grief at the end of a day. Sometimes I forget why God called me here.

And then, sometimes, I have visits which remind me of the absurdities of life, and I giggle helplessly and imagine God winking at me with bright sparkling eyes.

My visit with Violet was one of those times, one of those times when I remembered that we as hospice workers must have a quirky sense of humor to stay fresh and balanced.

Violet has been on service for over a year. She is in her late 80s and when I met her, she was a firecracker, filled with spark and life. Violet was a housekeeper and she kept the homes in an urban environment of the wealthy and polished. Violet, being from a proudly working-class background, regaled me in that first visit with tales of the rich and famous and she told all the stories with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. She was an old lefty. Founder of a house church which practiced social justice. She had made the decision to come into a facility on her own, because she didn't want to burden her children. And she had carefully researched this specific facility. She liked it because it was geographically in between both of her children's homes. Violet had a practical no-nonsense streak to her. We hit it off right away. "Come back anytime, honey!" she called as I left that first day.

In the past year, Violet's become frail. Her mind wanders into places where she can't and won't lead me. She sleeps quite a bit. She's wasted away to less than 75 lbs. and we recently had to order a child-sized wheelchair to accomodate her shrinking frame. It makes me sad to see her. I often don't stay very long, which is okay, because she never wakes up to greet me anymore anyway. I leave my card on her bedside table and call her daughter after I leave to report that I was there. Violet hasn't been Violet much lately.

A few days ago I went to the nursing home to see Violet. I expected our normal routine. She'd sleep. I'd call her name. She'd sleep. I'd hold her hand. She'd sleep. I'd sing. She'd sleep. I'd leave.

But when I arrived in Violet's room, her bed was made and she was nowhere to be seen. I confess that my first thought was that Violet had died, and no one had called me. I asked the nurse in the hallway, "Where is Violet?" And she smiled a slow smile and said, "Guess what? She woke up today, so we took her to exercise."

The word "exercise" at most extended care facilities is a huge overstatement. And, this facility in particular has an "exercise program" which leaves a lot to be desired. It is run by two Women's Fellowship volunteers from the local Lutheran church who play praise music on a Jurassic boombox and sit back to back with their charges in wheelchairs circling around them. The "teachers" then recite a well-rehearsed litany in a monotone that goes something like this, "okay-now-m0ve-your-fingers-and-one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-now-circle-your-wrists-and-one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-now-wiggle-your-toes-and-one..." all spoken in the same droll monotone which says, "I really could care less about doing this, or about you." It was depressing to watch. And I immediately scanned the circle of white heads for Violet's.

I found her, slumped in her wheelchair decidedly asleep. I tried to wake her. No good. I tried to touch her hand. No response. Violet had opted for the easy way to tune out "exercise," and who could blame her.

I sat on the floor next to her and began doing my own version of the Lawrence Welk on Sedatives Exercise Plan led by Tweedle Dull and Tweedle Duller, the Jane Fondas of resident exercise plans minus the leg warmers and communist sentiments. I let the demented patient on the other side of me pat my head and say, "Good puppy." I considered panting happily and looking at him with begging eyes. "Exercise" (and I use that term lightly) went on for another ten minutes or so. As I was doing a head turn for a count of four, I was shocked to see Violet's eyes were open. "Violet! Hi!" I bubbled. Her eyes focused on mine and she smiled.

And then she leaned over and said to me with that sparkle in her eye and a smile on her face in a slow conspiratorial whisper which punctuated every word, "I... hate ...this ...crap. Get me out of here." Never had I seen her more lucid. I laughed and she said, "Really. Let's go. This is crap." And she spoke her second request a little louder, but still with the smile on her lips as if she knew she had found in me a kindred spirit. I couldn't have agreed more with her assessment. I happily excused us from our work-out session, feigning a pulled pinky finger muscle and wheeled her back to her room.

She fell asleep on the way there. But her moment of lucidity made me giggle all day. And as I planted a goodbye kiss on her sleeping forehead, I quietly thanked her for reminding me again how much I love my job.

Look! Up in the Sky! It's a Bird...It's a Plane...It's...

Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. I have been a bad, bad writer and an even worse correspondent to those who have emailed. Mia Culpa.

My reason has simply been this: the vomits have been back in full force, after a glorious five day reprieve which coincidentally occured right smack dab in the middle of my women's retreat in Michigan two weekends ago, ah, but the God/dess does smile upon a coven of laughing women. But lately it seems, I've again spent way too much time on my knees in worshipping the great white basin (or in the case of one of our 1970s style bathrooms the harvest gold basin). I have been completely uncreative, apart from my ability to combine a wide array of colors in my pukeage ("Look! Those specks of color swirling around in the water are the SweetTarts I had to soothe my nausea!"). And there has just been nothing to say, unless entire entries like the previous sentence provide you with vivid images upon which you'd have liked me to expound more. So, trust me, dear readers, I was sparing you.

However, there has been a sea change. For now, now dear readers, I have sucumbed to the power of my new drug of choice...Zofran. Zofran the wonder drug, able to keep short women from tossing their cookies for an entire day! Zofran. Say it with me. Zofran! It sounds like the name of a superhero. Zofran. Zofran, queen of the universe, a superhero whose superpowers may be, oh, I don't know, projectile vomiting great distances to gross-out her evil nemesis? And I love Zofran so much, that I can almost forget that it costs, hold on to your hats, about forty bucks a pop. Forty freakin' dollars a pill. So, there's incentive to keep it down, maybe that's why I've been puke-free since Monday night, because at heart I am a cheapskate afraid of wasting a single yellow tablet.

Seriously though, it feels good to feel good. I had so little energy for so long. I hadn't gained any weight in five or six weeks. I was weeping constantly and worrying that I was starving my child and then all the anti-choice Republicans would come after me and slap my wrist for harming a fetus and I would be hauled away to Gitmo or somewhere until I gave birth to a child who would be adopted out to a fundamentalist Christian family who could teach the baby "family values," and skeet shooting as I am probably an unfit feminist who will leave my husband, kill my children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become a lesbian.

Sometimes my mind wanders when I've been so isolated, as you can see.

So, where've you been?

Lonely

It has been a quiet week here in Fort Wayne, my hometown. For my sweet R., has been away in Texas visiting his family.

While R. and I are relatively independent, and by no means one of those couples attached at the hip, we really don't spend that many nights away from one another, and often the one who is gone is usually me. It's lonely in this big rambling house without him, and while I confess there was an excitement at the thought of some truly "alone" time, time when I could do all those things which R. doesn't like...wild and crazy things like ordering out chinese food, and burning incense (to which R. is allergic), and letting the cats sleep in bed right next to my head (another allergy no-no), and loading the dishwasher the way I want to (and the way God intended), and letting the dachshund squeak her Ellie the Elephant squeaky for as many hours as she would like, and, well, I guess that's as wild and crazy as I get, for I can't think of any taboo things I would need to do without R. here, the luxury of all that "me time" was short-lived.

Mostly it's just been quiet. There have been a few catastrophes, of course, there was the afternoon when the temperature dropped to below 30 degrees, and I realized the heat wasn't working, and had to take the girls to their mother's house to spend the night while I packed up the dog and my toothbrush and drove north to my parent's house to sleep on their couch. And, there was, of course the multiple vomiting incidences but those have become par for the course in my world.

Now it's Sunday afternoon, and the evening is slowly crawling upon us, and at 9:15 I get to drive out to Fort Wayne International Airport and see my sweet love, the weary traveler make his way back to a wife who loves him, and who realizes how lonely life is without her anam cara.

Lies, All Lies

Dear Readers,

The day will come when I am actually a consistent and contemplative writer again. I will pause thoughtfully before typing the first thought that comes in my head. I will write enlightening stories about the human spirit and the ways in which the divine and profane intersect in poignant exchanges. I will try to be worthy of my ordination. I will actually meditate.

But in the meantime...

That brief nausea reprieve mentioned in the last entry was just that. A brief reprieve. Damn you, morning sickness. Damn you.

All the pregnancy books say (and I quote from this morning's peppy advice in my daily pregnancy book), "Right around this week, your pregnancy sumptoms might have spontaneously disappeared. This typically--and thankfully for mothers who have experienced extreme morning sickness--happens at the end of the first trimester. For approximately the next three months, you should be feeling wonderful!" The operative word in the previous passage was the word might. And that jaunty exclamation point simply mocks me, me the woman who can now simultaneously vomit in a bag and drive.

So, now you all know why I'm not typing. And there's so much to say...the tale of the missing diamond ring, the madcap adventures of R. and I in Ann Arbor (a.k.a Nerds in Paradise), what it means to sleep with the enemy (and I don't mean R.), the three hour visit to the OB-GYN, the outcome of the Nutcracker auditions, choosing God-parents, new family traditions. Sigh. So much to say, but now I have to go throw up again. So, you'll just have to wait in breathless anticipation.

I'll be back soon.

Love,
The Contemplative Chaplain

July 2022 Comes Early

Holy Mary Mother of God! This morning when I woke up I felt...good. Like, really good. Like, not pukey at all. AND, I felt so good I made biscuits for R. and me. And, here I sit with my cup of tea (which smells good!), the sun streaming in the window and think to myself, "There's a whole day in front of you, little lady, what you gonna do now?" And because I don't feel sick the possibilities are endless...a trip to the library? A long walk or, dare I say, a run? Washing the family room windows which I've been staring at for lo those many days on the couch? Sky-diving? Pole vaulting? Hog tying? The possibilities stretch before me like a patient etherized on a table (alright English majors, who said it?).

And, I just had to tell my little blog community first. Because, well, because you're all so sweet to me and it was about time I had happier words to share.

I feel like it's Easter morning. Christ is risen, risen indeed!

Never Fear...

All is well.
Baby's fine.
I'm fine.
Dachshund's fine.

I haven't written because I can't keep my head out from the toilet bowl.

More posts to come when this phase passes.

Like maybe in July 0f 2022.

Neti Pot

There is so little to report on this front. I vomit. I take anti-nausea medicine. Then I sleep for many hours. I wake up with smeared mascara and bedhead. I eat. I vomit....you know, lather, rinse, repeat. Same old, same old.

I've become pretty accustomed to the whole routine by now and my staff have learned that when I walk out of my office door toward the bathrooms with my toothbrush in my hand and "that look," that they should all be really nice to me. I am blessed to work with colleagues who are empathatic in the extreme, and I came out of the restroom the other day, with my make-up smeared and a toothbrush in my hand only to find one of our nurses standing with a wet washcloth, a glass of ice water, and some crackers. I could not work for a more flexible and giving agency.

But enough about the 'ole emesis. Since I've already freaked you out with my vomitspeak, let me enlighten you on the most wondrous tool in the history of humankind. The legendary neti pot.

Now I know, when you click the link it's a little frightening, what with the blue nozzle shoved up the nice lady's nose and all, but let me tell you that as a life-long sinus sufferer, I have become a neti-pot devotee. And now that I can take absolutely NO sinus medication for the foreseeable future I am have become an apostle of the neti-pot. I am, dare I say it, a neti-pot prostitute. Lo, I remember the day when the neti-pot first came into my life, my ex-husband and I were in Washington D.C. visiting friends and happened upon a natural food store, and having read about the neti-pot in some obscure naturopathic literature which my ex-husband was often fond of reading, and being neti-pot virgins, had our first glimpse of the beloved pitcher. We took it back to our friend's home that night and poured salt water into our noses with wild abandon and never looked back. I would guess that no one else in the D.C. metro area had such clean nasal cavities that night. When we divorced, there was actually a Very Serious Talk about who should get the neti-pot. I still worry about poor K.'s sinuses.

R. is not a neti-pot devotee. He refuses to try it. He refuses to talk about it. He refuses to accept that the neti-pot is clearly the finest piece of medical technology ever invented. And I'm sure his sinuses cry every night in frustration. In fact, when I told him with glee that I was writing an entry on the neti-pot he said, "Oh, aren't the vomiting entries enough?" To which I say, "Hell, no!" And, I say it with clear sinuses and only a little bit of water dripping out of my nose.

And Dooce Called It, "The State of My Weight"

One of the phenomenal blogs that I read is dooce.com. Dooce is irreverent, honest, wickedly funny, and wise beyond words. I've been rereading Dooce chronicles from her pregnancy in the Dooce archives and found a brilliant post which she called "The State of My Weight." She bemoaned the many pregnancy books which go on and on and on in an incredibly prissy tone about how imperative it is that one not gain too much weight in the first trimester, and how incredibly annoying said books are because most women in the first trimester cannot keep anything down their throats long enough to convert to actual caloric gains.

In the first trimester, I have learned, it is a crapshoot. Eat what you can. Fend for yourself. Who knows what will stick (case in point, the greasy Quarter Pounder with cheese and large fries from McDonalds did NOT make me puke. However, the healthy watermelon and green beans barely hit my esophagus before they were rejected...go figure!). I am actually at a negative weight gain in the ten weeks of this pregnancy, despite the fact that I can no longer squeeze into my favorite jeans. So, dammit, I'll eat the Quarter Pounder, prissy pregnancy book. So there.

However, there is a larger truth here which I need to address. And I speak it in all seriousness and with all vulnerability. I am afraid of gaining too much weight. Throughout my life I believe I have flirted with an eating disorder. I have never starved myself, or exercised to oblivion, or thrown up purposefully. But, I have learned that sometimes eating disorders come through an unhealthy obsession and focus on what one eats, and perhaps I am like many other American women who struggle in this realm.

I am a feminist. I hate what our culture does to dupe women into believing that they have to be a certain size. I hate the airbrushed images which flood through the television, and magazines, and other print media. I hate that food has become an object to which we assign moral values (how many times have you heard someone say, "I'll pay for this tomorrow. This cake is so sinful!"). I work tirelessly at reinforcing positive self-image into my step-daughters and in hiding from them my own "body issues." Frankly, It embarrasses me that I care about weight and body shape. And it shames me that at a time in my life when my body is nourishing another life I worry about being too "fat."

This pregnancy is an utter gift from God and I am blessed to be able to carry a child. I know this. But the broken and damaged parts of me need to be reprogrammed through grace and I am slowly, and carefully learning to embrace my body as it is, rounded and whole. But, again, my confession to each of you is that this is still hard for me.

It is time for me to practice a radical acceptance, because this is no longer just about me. But sometimes I don't even know how to begin.

And If you Have a Weak Stomach...STOP Reading!

When I was a little girl, I got a terrible case of the flu after Easter one year. As is often the case when my temperature goes above 101 degrees, I began to get "a little squirrely" (as my father refers to my high temperature hallucinations )and began to believe that marshmallow peeps Easter bunnies and duckies were chasing me. To this day, I shudder when I see marshmallow peeps reappear in March or April in the grocery stores. I am haunted by the yellow and pink marshmallow creatures. Which I vomited day and night in the spring of 1978.

To that end, it now appears that I will be haunted to the end of my days by the following items:
Golden Grahams cereal, lime jello with pears, peanut butter toast, Ginger ale, Zesta saltines, and assorted other foods.

In the last week, I have tossed my cookies more than I have in the past twenty years. On top of which, I have a nasty virus, a temperature, a sniffly nose, aches, chills, and other related symptoms. I have been out of work for too many days to count and am living in fear of being fired, or worse for this people-pleaser, not believed.

I simply want my health back, even if it is just for long enough to feel like less of a burden to my sweet husband who has been patiently catering to my every whim. He is a Mensch.

My doctor prescribed an anti-nausea drug which seems to keep the pukes at bay, but which also seems to keep my ability to stay awake at bay...but for now, it's a welcome relief.

Cat Killer

All day I have been wallowing in guilt.

Why do I have to love animals so much? It just hurts. Even animals who don't own me end up affecting me.

This morning I left to go for a walk in the neighborhood and noticed that our friendly neighborhood stray cat, the tom cat who drives my cats to distraction by sleeping on our lawn furniture directly in front of the living room window where Cooper and Moses perch like sharks, tails wagging and voices yowling, was curled up in a ball in the neighbor's yard. "Ah," methought, "Mr. Tom is having a little siesta this afternoon." And with that, I began my four mile trek through the neighborhood (which isn't nearly as invigorating now that I've been banned from running).

You can see the end coming, can't you?

At the end of the walk, Mr. Tom was still curled in his kitty fetal position, and I wandered over slowly, not wanting to touch him because all the pregnancy gurus say, "If you're pregnant, stray cats are the enemy...beware of toxoplasmosis...danger, danger!" I got near him and whispered, "Hey, kitty..." and poor Tom opened his blood-matted eyes and stared at me with a pathetic look. I realized that Tom was a sick boy. He was breathing quickly and shallowly. It wasn't good.

I asked around to some of the neighbors whether anyone knew where Tom lived, what happened, what should be done, and from a conglomeration of sources learned that Tom was fine yesterday, but apparently had been hit by a car (the report of a four-year-old), and had been curled up near that same tree for the past day. No one seemed interested in pursuing the matter further.

R. and I chatted. It was, after all Labor Day, where could we turn? We didn't have the money to invest in getting Tom taken care of at the Emergency Vet, nor did we have a home for Tom to return to (my cats are fiercely protective of their turf and would attack a weakened male in a heartbeat, not to mention spray every conceivable surface with urine in the process). I called the SPCA, who had a nice holiday message saying to call the Humane Shelter and Animal Control. I debated. I hemmed and hawed. I went out to check Tom again. Still sickly. Not opening his eyes. Poor baby.

I called the Animal Control folk and explained the predicament. They were very helpful, said they'd send someone out to "help." And, they did. Three hours later. Which turned out to be fine, as Tom was in the exact same position, with a few leaves which had fallen out of the tree resting gently on his little yellow back.

Mr. Cat Catcher showed up with his cat catching paraphenalia. I showed him where Tom was sleeping. Tom didn't even wince or put up a fight when the cat catcher picked up mama-cat style by the back of his neck and placed him in the rusty cage. I began to cry. "What will happen now?" I asked the nice man. He smiled sadly and said, "I think you know. We just don't have the resources to help each cat."

It took everything I had not to interrupt him and say, "I changed my mind. Nevermind. I'll take him. Give him to me."

But I didn't. And I'm not sure I can forgive myself for that. I feel like a traitor. I feel like a skunk. I feel like I took the easy way out.

I came in the house and lay my weary body on the couch and continued to weep, and out of nowhere I felt tiny paws kneading my side. Moses had jumped onto the couch and offered his own little brand of cat sympathy. But I'm not sure I deserve it.

Thought for the Day

There is nothing dignified about puking in a grocery store parking lot. Nothing.