how we spend our time: waiting

Today I’m excited to welcome Peg Conway back to Mothering Spirit! Peg is the author of Embodying the Sacred: A Spiritual Preparation for Birth, a thoughtful guide for women who want to explore the spiritual journey of pregnancy.

Drawing from her wisdom as a mother, doula and childbirth educator, Peg’s book is full of prayers, reflections and creative activities for each trimester. She walks with mothers-to-be through pregnancy’s spiritual questions and concerns: Am I strong enough to handle labor? How will my life change once my baby is born? Who is God to me through this experience of becoming a mother?

Pregnancy is a heightened time of waiting, full of impatient expectation. But parents are always waiting for something. Waiting for babies to start sleeping in the night. Waiting for kids to start school. Waiting for teenagers to come home at curfew. Waiting for grown children to return for a visit.

Peg embraces the waiting of pregnancy as a spiritual practice. In a spring season bursting with new babies and pregnancy announcements, I’m reminded of how many people around me are preparing for parenthood through the practice of waiting. I hope you’ll enjoy Peg’s wisdom on how we spend our time as parents as much as I’ve enjoyed her writing on waiting and growing through life’s transitions.

. . .

1) What is one truth about time you have learned since becoming a parent?

As a mother of nearly grown children (two in college and one in high school), I’m especially aware that time is a gift. I’m thankful that I was home during their growing up years, though I perceive now that the motivation was as much from my needs as theirs. My own mother had died of breast cancer when I was 7 years old, and I began motherhood with a lot of unresolved grief that said, “Better be with them today — the chance might be snatched tomorrow.” By God’s grace, mothering brought deep healing and led me to a more balanced, less compulsive attachment, coupled with a healthy awareness that life is short, so important things shouldn’t be postponed.

The letting-go transitions of my present stage of parenting are teaching me further that time is a gift to be received rather than grasped. For a long while, moms with toddlers at the grocery store or a new mom nursing a baby at church made me teary with nostalgia. A lot of prayer and journaling shifted my view, to regard those earlier days as gifts I was blessed to receive; though in the past, they are still part of me. Likewise, today I savor the gift of friendship with my young adult children.

2) What is one practice of using time well that you have developed as a mother-writer?

Quite honestly, I’m not sure I have achieved this!  It took a long, long time for me to complete my book. I struggled mightily to balance priorities because I have a lot of interests and tend to underestimate how much time a particular commitment will require. My kids led busy lives too, so I was chauffeuring a lot. One practice that did help was to break down the book into smaller writing segments. This approach allowed me to be productive even during short blocks of time.

Now I really try to spend time writing at the beginning of each day, shortly after my husband and son leave for school and before checking email or Facebook or starting other tasks. My mind is most clear then, and no matter what happens the rest of the day, at least I’ve given priority to my writing. I focus on spending the time – the process – not a set number of words or pages.

3) What new insight about faith did you gain from writing this book?

Embodying the Sacred originated with a question about faith prompted by visiting a hospice for the first time:  Why is there so much theological reflection on death and dying but not normal childbirth?  The desire to articulate the holiness of birth’s physicality just grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. All I really wanted to do was write a magazine article and be done, but over time it became clear that a book was called for and that I would just have to keep at it.  Reflecting now on the whole meandering process, from first wondering to finished book, I see how the faith journey is really for the long haul.

4) What is your favorite way to spend time with your family?

The five of us have varied personalities and interests, so even when our kids were young, some of our best times all together were simply around the dinner table.  I think this evolved from very early days, when our older two were in high chairs and we began requiring that they remain at the table at least a little while past when they finished, while my husband and I continued to eat. Over the years, talking around the table became enjoyable for all. Now that we are all together much less often, dinner at home or a favorite restaurant becomes a ritual of reconnection.

. . .

Your chance to read! Peg has generously offered to give a copy of Embodying the Sacred to one lucky reader of Mothering Spirit!

Leave a comment below before midnight CST on Saturday, May 25th, to be eligible to win.

Be sure to visit Peg’s website for more of her writing or to pick up your own copy of her book – a perfect gift for any expectant mama in your life.

nurture your mothering spirit – kate

This winter I find myself not just a mama, but a pregnant mama.

This two-fold mothering is more exhausting than I ever would have imagined, and I find myself struggling, especially in the depths of winter, to find ways to nurture my mothering spirit.

What works best for me is to dabble in a variety of ways, allowing my energy level to determine what fits best at any given time. As a religious person, I find that each of these ways is also prayer for me.

1. I write. Writing helps me get my emotions out on paper (or on the screen, as the case may be). I write to my daughter in a notebook I started when I was pregnant with her; I write in another notebook for the baby that grows inside me now. I write blog posts, intimate emails, and personal journal entries. Every day, I write.

2. I sing. Throughout my life, song has been the most profound vehicle for expressing what lies deep in my heart. Psalms and table songs from Christian liturgy resonate with me, bringing back years of memories. In my sung memories, I find solace and hope.

3. I read. I read my daughter’s favorite books aloud, savoring each word and basking in her joy. I read for my own pleasure, taking a half an hour on public transit or an hour after work (when my husband is up for it!) to do nothing but steep myself in a story or an idea.

4. I create art. A dear friend of mine introduced me to collage journaling recently, so I have saved scraps of this and that for creating page after page of colorful, multi-layered visual art. I also sketch, albeit poorly, and sometimes my favorite art is the kind I make with crayons on plain paper with my daughter.

5. I walk. In particular, I love to walk in areas bursting with trees, whether residential neighborhoods or forests. I love the scent of life long-lived, a smell even winter can’t break. The shadows cast by tree branches comfort me, and the light that dances around the shadows delights me.

6. I  take pictures. I remember one snowy winter evening in my childhood when I went outside, armed with a film camera (digitals didn’t exist back then!), and I snapped photos of my backyard. The sinking sun glowed red and pink and orange, casting sparkling hues off the untouched waves of snow. I managed to capture startling beauty with that little camera of mine. Even now, when I am outside, I look for small wonders. When I seek them, they find me.

7. I practice hospitality. There is only one thing I  love more than dinner with my family: sharing a family dinner with guests. I love bringing the sacred liturgy of meal-sharing into my home, sharing the stories, tastes, touches, sounds, smells, and sights with dear friends. I love the preparation, the extra care, the special recipes, the ability to pull together a rich, familiar, memorable feast.

8. I laugh. And this is one of the many ways I know I married The One, because my husband manages to make me laugh every single day. He is particularly good at getting me laugh when I am grumpy (and as a tired mama, grumpiness develops more often than I’d  care to admit). In addition to the laughter that my hubby miraculously inspires, I have voice messages saved from my best friend who, in the first three seconds of any message she leaves, produces some bit of unique silliness that has me chortling for hours.

9. I pray to G-d as Divine Mother, Daughter, and the Love that binds them, reimagining the Holy Trinity as a wholly feminine Presence. (In keeping with Jewish tradition, which I greatly revere, I do not write out the vowels for the names of G-d.) I also love the metaphor of G-d as Father and Son, but by praying to G-d as Mother and Daughter, I find myself immediately and overwhelmingly in profound understanding of the way G-d is in relationship to the world. If G-d loves Her Daughter the way I love mine, I can imagine no greater source of awesome wonder.

These are some of my favorite ways to honor my holy, marvelous role as a mama without forgetting the rich person I was before I became a mama. Even in winter, if I take a moment for myself in one of these ways, I end up enveloped in warmth and light.

. . .

Kate Allen is a Christian mother of two: one outside the womb and one still in the womb. She writes about her mommying at Corn Dog Mama and writes about all her other favorite subjects at Life Love Liturgy.  She has an M.A. in Liturgy and Scripture from Saint John’s School of Theology*Seminary in Collegeville, Minnesota. 

carry the load

Laundry round here is eternal.

Diapers, dirty dishclothes, daily heaps of socks and shirts and pants and bibs and towels. It piles up in towering heaps overnight, and just when I slam the dryer door shut with a satisfying thwack and declare it tackled, I turn to find my boys covered in marker or yogurt or (worst) mysterious unknowns.

I sigh, strip them down, fill the tired barrel of the washer once more, and set it again to spin.

Laundry without ceasing.

. . .

I have a handful of friends who are pregnant, most of them expecting number three or four, none of them amateurs at gestation but all of their hands and hearts already full to the brimming. I’ve promised them prayers, dip into their days with a quick email to inquire how they’re doing, but it never feels enough, not when I know how dark and depressing and downright overwhelming the burden of bearing baby can be. I wonder what more I can do, especially for the far-flung friends, the dear ones far across the country that I can’t surprise with a casserole and a hug and a how are you really doing?

What can any of us do to help carry the load?

Of course it’s prayer, I know that’s the answer, but it seems so small and trite sometimes. An easy promise to hold up, to keep in mind, to whisper good thoughts and happy hopes to smooth the way. I’m still learning, slowly, stumblingly, what I believe about prayer, but I’m quite sure it’s nothing like the power of positive thinking or the secret that stops the universe to grant my heart’s desire. If prayer is about bending myself to the way of Christ, allowing myself to be changed, humbling myself back into the heart of the divine, what does it mean to carry other’s intentions with me as I go?

I’m still not sure.

But I do know one thing: prayer reminds. Even when it may not help or heal, it reminds.

. . .

I pause from the pile of laundry to read a favorite blog, clicking through the pages as I ignore the clothes around me on the couch, half stacked in neat piles of designated owner, half still strewn in a messy dump from the dryer. When I stumble upon the simple post about praxis of prayer, a tangible mindfulness of uniting intention with the everyday, the idea falls into my lap like a soft jumble of small socks:

I’ll carry my laundry for them.

How many times a day do I bend to grab the plastic handles of the bulky baskets, lug them up and down stairs, stagger them around corners, fill them to the back-breaking brim? How many times a day could I easily remember those expecting, each one of my friends who carry something much weightier and more wonderful than even clean laundry? What difference might it make – for them, for me – if I slowed to remember when I stooped to carry again?

The more I muse, the more laundry I fold, the more it seems right. This is how prayer becomes incarnate: in everyday actions.

. . .

Laundry seems endless in these early years: the late-night laundry, the soaked and stained laundry, the kid clothes and grown-up clothes all tumbling together in the dryer. Pregnancy can feel like that, too: endless and oh-so-bodily. Good work, necessary work, but so tiring, so cumbersome, so overwhelming.

I remember at the end of my pregnancies when my husband rushed to grab the basket out of my hands before I lugged it up or down the stairs, balanced on my basketball of a belly. Let me help! he’d say with exasperation. Let me carry that – you’ve already got enough.

I’d laugh to myself (what did he think I did while he was gone all day?) but without protest I let him help. Let him carry the load. Let myself rest for a moment and remember how much I was already carrying.

Maybe prayer’s like that, too: a willingness to carry and be carried.

To learn when to remember and when to rest in each other’s arms.

mary of the third trimester

I wonder how she felt in the final weeks.

Whether she was tired of carrying, exhausted from the extra weight and the swollen ankles and the restless nights and the ceaseless kicks. Or whether she loved wondering about the mystery of this babe, watching the strange, sudden stretch of skin across her stomach, limbs pushing out into every corner of their shrinking room, hint of the him they would become.

I wonder if she knew the time was coming. Even if hers wasn’t the customary calendar to count by, could she feel the readying, both the baby’s body and her own preparing for the passage ahead? Or perhaps she was surprised to find the end drawing near, one more shock piled on the growing heap of expectations set aside for another’s plan.

I wonder how she spent the last few days. Whether she sought the wisdom of women who knew, her cherished circle of a trusted few who hadn’t fled when the rumors flew. Whether she drew strength from their stories of passage, their steadying counsel and sage advice. Or whether their tales terrified, her body still so young itself, barely strong enough to survive what was demanded of her. I wonder whether she wanted to be alone or whether she confided in companions. Whether she prayed to her God in the darkest moments, or whether she spoke softly to the stranger-turned-spouse now strong and silent beside her.

I wonder if she loved being pregnant. One of the lucky few who glow as they grow, who glide easy through the months, who marvel at the wonder. Or whether she struggled with the weight and constraint of what was asked of her, to sacrifice so much so young – her plans, her love, her reputation. Maybe she was restless for the end, waiting for what’s next, wanting to be free of the burden of bearing. Maybe she was ready to push.

Or maybe she sensed, deep down, deeper even than dropping baby ready to birth, what was being asked of her. That she would have to give him up, her child, her baby, her precious only baby, give him up to more than the world outside the womb or the darkness outside her door. That she would have to birth him into the beginning of the end, a pain that cut deeper than pangs of birth, a wound that would only grow until the most terrifying transition, the final contraction of her heart and body wrenched in two as she watched what the world would do to him, wailing and weeping for God, screaming as mother-son both suffered – all according to a plan she herself set in motion with a whispered yes.

That redemption itself would rip him from her arms.

And bearing all this along with the baby weight, knowing just enough to hold all these truths, treasure them in her widening heart, now and ever-after beating for two, maybe she wanted to cradle him close, keep him safer than he could ever be again.

For a few weeks more.

uncommon birth day thanks

A first birthday is full of nostalgia, as it should be.

Where is the sleepy curl of a newborn, all milky breath and radiant warmth? Who is this toothy, mop-haired, grinning, babbling, climbing, crawling ball of a boy who took his place?

And was there really a time we lived without him?

My thoughts this birthday week have tended towards the usual thanks to God. Deep gratitude for the gift of life, the chance to parent times two. Blessed thanksgiving that his first year was healthy and fear-free. Extra joy for his happy nature and chipper smile, the icing on his charming cake.

But my thoughts of thanks became more particular as we neared this day. Faces of friends and strangers surfaced: all those who, knowingly or not, accompanied me on the journey of birthing this babe, one year ago this early morning.

Because none of it would have happened without God, of course.

But neither would it have happened without them.

The doctor who suggested new diet and vitamins before we leapt back into drugs. Let’s try this first. I’ve got a good feeling.

The grocery cashier who grinned as she rang up the pregnancy test on that snowy Saturday. Hoping for good news? I’ll cross my fingers.

The family whose loud whoops at our announcement met this baby with as much joy as his brother. Are you guys serious? Best Christmas gift ever, again!

The friends who kept calling, stubborn and faithful, for the dark stretch of months when I was too sick to get off the couch. L, it’s me again. Thinking of you, sending love, call when you can.

The husband who brought me bouquets on the worst days and made me smoothies on the best days and never once complained when I spent months complaining. It’s ok. I know it’s going to get better soon.

The yoga teacher who refused to relent with all those agonizing goddess poses, the squats that strengthened my resolve to birth naturally. You can do it, mama! You are strong. Your baby needs you.

The smiling priest who stopped before giving me communion one Sunday and made the sign of the cross in front of my belly before offering me the host. As if to say, Welcome to the family. We’re already glad you’re here.

The neighbor who greeted me with shrieks of delight every time she saw me waddling through the neighborhood that endless hot summer. Oh, honey. You are so beautiful.

All of you who joined me here as I waited and waited, who laughed along with this cheeky post, and this one. Thinking of you! Be patient – baby’s almost here.

The family and friends who started praying me through labor as soon as we made the calls. We’re with you. All our love.

The mother-in-law who showed up grinning at one in the morning to watch the sleeping sibling. Wow – you’re in hard labor! Am I ever glad I’m not in your place right now!

The nurse who paused on the phone with my husband when she heard me holler through a contraction from the passenger seat. Are you sure there’s no hospital closer? Sir, if the baby starts to come, PULL OVER.

The staff who met us at the emergency room door as my husband squealed the car to a stop, who wheeled me up to the birthing center, flying past the bewildered receptionist with admittance forms in hand. You’re going to make it. Everything’s going to be fine.

The kind-eyed, grey-haired doctor who glanced up at me over her glasses in the final moments, with a smile calm and steady. You’re almost done. Baby’s almost here.

The doula who showed up ten minutes after the baby was born, fast and furious and bigger than any of us expected. I’m so disappointed I missed it! But you did it – you had just the birth you wanted!

And the baby himself, the wee lad who’s now made one trip around the sun.

Thanks to you, sweet One - in the words of a favorite baby book - for trying so hard, for traveling so far, for being so wonderful,

just as you are.

to the woman i was three years ago tonight

Dear you,

All 28 years of you, fresh-faced from grad school, ready to take on the world. All 35 extra pounds of you, waddling around with an aching back and a bulging belly. All 37 weeks of you, still counting down days till the due date, still full of wonder and waiting and expectation.

You have no idea how life’s about to change.

Oh sure, you think you know. You’ve read the books, taken the classes, scoured the websites, questioned friends and family and frankly any unsuspecting stranger in the Target baby aisle who even looks like she might be a mother. You want to know exactly what it’s going to be like – labor, birth, nursing, newborns – because you’re sure it’s a life-altering change, this leap you’re about to take, this transition nature’s about to induce.

But the depth of this transformation? You’re clueless, kiddo.

As a microcosm of how mothering will continually defy your expectations, the big birth day you’re anticipating? It’ll look nothing like you expect.

Your water’s going to break in an hour, but you’ll have no idea what’s going on. You’ll spend an hour googling “how to tell if your water broke” before your wise husband (who, coincidently, NEVER consults Dr. Google) advises you to call the hospital already.

You’ll spend another hour hemming and hawing on the phone with one nurse, then another, then a doctor – who all agree that your water probably didn’t break since you’re weeks away from your due date but you better come in and check, just to be sure.

So you’ll grab the (mostly unpacked) hospital bag, give one glance at the (still unfinished) nursery, and laugh to your husband that we may as well leave the porch light on, since we’ll be back in three hours after our first-time-parents-foolish-trip-to-the-hospital.

But as you’ll turn to go, something inside you – not the kicking baby, something deeper – will tell you to waddle back upstairs and give the dog a last, fierce hug around his warm neck. Because even though all the experts are sure it’s a false alarm, you’ll sense suddenly that your pre-parent world, as a couple of crazy lovebirds with a crazier beagle, is about to end as you know it.

And you’re right.

Dear mama-to-be, lots of people would argue you’re already a mother. That you have been since day one of baby one, the first instant the spark became life inside your own. And you believe that, too.

But the truth you’re about to discover, from the second you hear the sharp shriek of little lungs gulping in air for the first time, is that it takes much longer than nine months to become a mother.

That becoming is a journey that will take you years, maybe a whole lifetime, to understand.

That parenting is a calling you live into, day by day, as you fling yourself into the unknown of loving another wild, mysterious, beautiful, maddening creature closer to you than your own bones.

So enjoy that giddy ride to the hospital tonight, the one you’re sure is just for practice. The last ride of just-us-two.

Let the night air whip through your hair as the car zips through the dark of a hazy August night, humming with promise. Laugh together and wonder aloud and puzzle and scoff and gulp back your fear and pretend you’re ready.

Because you’ll never be ready.

But you’re already becoming.

parenting in advent: 4th sunday

In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a town of Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the house of David, and the virgin’s name was Mary.  And coming to her, he said, “Hail, favored one! The Lord is with you.” But she was greatly troubled at what was said and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. Then the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. Behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall name him Jesus.” (Luke 1:26-31)

The announcement of a child’s arrival rarely comes the way we planned.

For some it is an utter shock – unexpected, unplanned, unprepared. For others it is the culmination of years of trying – astonishment, delight, but still surprise.

Sometimes the news is revealed in the quiet of one’s own home, a breathless waiting for the lines to appear on the test. Sometimes it is announced in the sterile light of the doctor’s office. Sometimes it breaks into everyday life with a phone call or a letter that the long-awaited child is here.

But the news is never quite as we expected.

When we are far from parenting’s beginning, we picture how the announcement might look, feel, or sound, and how we will share it with others in turn. But the reality – the years of infertility, or the recurring miscarriages, or the “oops!” baby, or the failed adoption – can be darker shades of grey than we ever imagined. And even when the child is hoped for, longed for, prayed for, we still find ourselves overwhelmed by emotions. Joy. Fear. Love. Anxiety. Wonder. Despair. Hope.

Parents often find themselves younger or older than they would have liked. They don’t have the money or the job or the partner or the resources to raise the child in the way they wanted. They ask, “How can this be?” They wonder how they will bear the news. They grieve the loss of their former life even as they prepare for the future to come.

“The world is never ready for the birth of a child,” wrote one of my favorite poets. It has always been such: parents have never felt fully prepared, completely ready, absolutely certain that they knew what they were getting themselves into.

Zechariah was troubled. Joseph was troubled. Mary was deeply troubled. Each had to lay aside expectations of what a child or a family or a parent should look like. Each had to give themselves entirely to trust in a strange and surprising God. Life was never the same after the news.

Is this Advent’s reminder to us, year after year? That Christmas is never quite what we expected, either. That our plans are not always God’s plans. That we can only prepare so much before giving over to trust in our surprising God, for whom nothing is impossible.

Our hopes and dreams for ourselves, our children, our lives all exist within God’s greater dream of love for us. A love which we will never fully understand or grasp or even imagine. A love which will challenge us and demand from us things we never wanted to give. A love which asks us to trust what we cannot see.

May delivery be easy,

may our child grow and be well.

Let him be happy from time to time

and leap over abysses.

Let his heart have strength to endure

and his mind be awake and reach far.

But not so far

that it sees into the future.

Spare him

that one gift,

0 heavenly powers.

 - from “A Tale Begun” by Wislawa Szymborska

letters to my unborn child, week two

August 16, 2011

Dear Baby,

I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to write you another week of letters. But here we are.

Last night at yoga, my teacher ended class with Exactly The Meditation I Needed To Hear. All about letting go and ceasing to struggle against what you cannot control and being open to grace and did I mention letting go? I tried to be all zen after that. I rocked out to good tunes as I drove home with the windows down on a beautiful summer evening. I scarfed down second dinner while your father told me he “had a good feeling” about you coming that night.

But then you woke me up at 1:45 am and I couldn’t get back to sleep till 3:45 am. Nary a contraction in sight. And well, that kind of sleep should be reserved for mamas with cuddly babies to nurse. Not aching backs and bulky stomachs.

So Oscar’s got nothing on my grouch this morning. Now I know there are many bigger problems in the world to be concerned about. I also know there are many women who would do anything to be in my (swollen, aching) shoes.

But I also know that in my small world, I can think about little else than little you in my big belly. So I (and this hysterical commentary) give myself permission to complain. For a little while, anyway.

Back to work. The only place I seem to be productive these days. Sigh.

Love, Mama

August 17, 2011

Dear Baby,

People love to comment on you. Your size. Your lack of arrival to the outside world. Like any pregnant woman, I have amassed my share of both funny and obnoxious commentary from perfect strangers. But last night may have taken the cake.

I walked up to the cashier to pay for my gas, and she raised her eyebrows at my stomach. “When are you due?” she growled. “Monday,” I replied sweetly. “Can’t come a day too soon.”

“You ever heard of Hypnobirthing?” she asked in a low, gravely tone. My head snapped up from the credit card swiper. Talk about a non sequitur question for a grimy gas station.

“Yeah…” she drawled, raspily. “I wonder if that’s what I did to myself. Cause I was in labor for 36 hours with my daughter. And they wanted to do a C-section. But I refused to sign the papers. They wanted to put me under and I said ‘No way.’ I waited nine months to see this kid come out and I wasn’t gonna miss it.”

“Wow,” I replied, eyebrows raised. “That’s impressive.”

“Yeah, and she was 10 pounds, too. Once they told me at 7 months that she was gonna be big, I just started smoking again. I mean, imagine how big she would have been if I hadn’t stated smoking?! Good thing.”

Hoo boy. From Hypnobirthing to nicotine-regulated birth weight, all in the span of two minutes. I could barely hold in my laughter until I made it back out to the car.

Doctor tells me you’re big, kiddo. Bigger than your brother was, at least. But I think I’ll lay off the Marlboros, if that’s ok with you?

Love, Mama

August 18, 2011

Dear Baby,

Today is the birthday of both of my grandmas. Between those two good Catholic women, they had 13 children. Wouldn’t today be a lovely day for me to birth and you to be born? Lots of good karma floating around us. (Catholic karma, of course. Try to scratch your little newborn head about that one.)

But something tells me both of those fine ladies would smile ruefully and tell me that if they knew one thing about having babies, it was that they never showed up when or how you expected. Darn grandmothery wisdom. Still, I’m banking on their intercession.

Last night we visited with our doula for the last time. This was the visit that was not supposed to happen, because you were supposed to be here already. “Supposed to” is a snarly little turn of phrase, isn’t it? But the evening did pump me up for your arrival. It’s going to be its own snarly affair. But I can’t wait for the hour to come. Because it’s going to bring you with it.

And I am plain sick and tired of picturing you in my head. (Plus I had a crazy dream the other night that you turned out to be twins, and one of you had a full set of teeth. Shudder.) I want to see you in my arms. I want to laugh at your screaming, squished, sweet newborn self. I want to take the first pictures that you will refuse to look at as a teenager, and I will trot them out every birthday and let your siblings laugh at your messy naked self in the bassinet. Then I will remind you it was the Hottest, Most Humid Summer of My Life when I was 100 months pregnant with you, and did you say you wanted to give your sainted mother a foot rub? But I will content myself an eye roll instead. Such is the beauty of motherhood.

Did you know that one of your great-grandmothers once requested a styrofoam to-go cup for the remainder of her luncheon wine at the country club? That’s the kind of chutzpah (well, Irish chutzpah, anyway) that I’m hoping you inherit.

Love, Mama

August 19, 2011

Dear Baby,

Guess what? I’ve changed my tune. I’m actually delighted that you haven’t shown your face yet.

Because late last night a dear, dear friend surprised us with a visit (one that required a 6-hour road trip, no less). And because you’re still cooking, I was able to enjoy a perfectly lovely day with her. The weather was gorgeous; the contractions were few. We shared lots of long chats and laughter and looking ahead to the huge life changes that are to come for both of us. It was a gift you gave to your brother as well, because he got to jolly around with his godmother all day and impress her with his partial memorization of the Nicene Creed. (Latest freakish party trick of which I was unaware.)

So dare I say it – thank you for taking to heart your mama’s mantra of “showing up early is boring.” You come whenever you want to come. Because I can now see the graces of these extra weeks in a whole new light. You are healthy and full-term, and my God, that is no small thing. (Then again, neither are you, but we’re done worrying about your larger size. I never liked smoking anyway.)

See you when you get here.

Love, Mama

August 20, 2011

Dear Baby,

Remember all that nice stuff I said yesterday about you coming on your own time? It doesn’t matter, because I have decided you are NEVER EVER GOING TO COME OUT OF MY BODY.

No, this is not the irrational and cranky conclusion of a woman who woke up at 3:30 am this morning with a hooliganish soccer player doing interpretive dance inside her (and – honest truth here - James Taylor’s “Something In The Way She Moves” inexplicably stuck in her head) and then never.got.back.to.sleep. This is not the hormonal roller coaster of a mother who was counting (yes, she can admit it now) on holding a 3-week old in her arms by this point.

This is an intelligent and rational position, and one that I maintain will enter us into the Guinness Book of World Records as the record-breaking everlasting pregnancy.

I have filled a freezer with one month’s worth of dinners. I have rearranged and cleaned every room in this house. I have washed every possible piece of clothing you could wear in your first three months of life. I have made homemade baby food from the garden. I have even turned to my nemesis the sewing machine and refreshed a whole stack of your brother’s diapers for you. There is nothing left for me to do. And the combined neediness of the toddler and the beagle are slowly draining the dregs of my sanity.

I really wanted to lay off the whine, sweet one. But you’re not making it easy. Off for caffeine…

Love, Mama

August 21, 2011

Dear Baby,

When I was preparing for the piano recitals of my youth, my teacher would always caution me about practicing too much in the week before the big day. “You don’t want to peak too early,” she’d counsel. “You want to still be working on climbing up so you hit the top on recital day – not before.”

The dryer died last night. A sad, overheated, complete and total death. For a home that’s about to add a fourth member – and double its cloth diaper laundry – this was unwelcome news, to say the least. I now fear that nesting has peaked, and we are about to enter into a slow decline of things falling apart. Including, but not limited to: major appliances, my sanity, and this body’s ability to nourish you.

Please, baby, come soon.

Love, Mama

August 22, 2011

Dear Baby,

It’s D-Day. Your due date. Which I know means little to you, and shouldn’t mean much to us either. Especially in a home where we easily drink expired milk (if it passes the sniff test) and happily overlook “best by” dates on yogurt.

But oh. my. sweet. Jesus. in. heaven. and. all. the. saints. I am unbelievably overdue with anticipation to meet you and don’t know how much longer I can wait.

Plus, I waddle now. It’s official. And unattractive.

Also: the whole family is going to have to redo their “baby pool” as of today, because NO ONE THOUGHT YOU WOULD TAKE THIS LONG TO GET HERE.

The oven timer is beeping, little one. The alarm clock is ringing, and the day is calling. Let’s get this show on the road.

Love, Impatience Personified

letters to my unborn child

August 8, 2011

Dear Baby,

A lot of women wax eloquent about the beauty of pregnancy. I do not think they threw up for five months like I did.

But I do think it is a mind-boggling process. And it’s very weird to me that you are growing in the same spot that your brother grew. Two babies, each started out from two tiny cells, grew into two whole human beings inside me. That is “Alien” freaky. (You cannot watch that movie until you’re 18. So take my word for it. On second thought, you will roll your eyes at the wildly outdated special effects. Forget it.)

Sometimes I wonder if you leave each other a parting note, a word of wisdom scribbled on the wall of that dark cave, should anyone else come after you and be baffled by the strange process by which you are shoved out of your warm and lovely home. Or maybe you write a secret letter to your successor like the presidents do. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a nice mahagony desk in there, given how huge my stomach is now.

Either way, get to graffiti-ing. Your eviction notice is coming soon.

Love, Mama

August 9, 2011

Dear Baby,

This has been the most humid summer on record in your home state. Did you happen to notice that, in your perfectly climate-controlled 98.6 degrees? I wish I could say I will not trot out this fun fact as a future guilt trip for you, but I will. At least the electric company loves me.

Love, Mama

August 10, 2011

Dear Baby,

Your mama slept well last night for the first time in, oh, months. Today would be a really good day for you to arrive. I realize that I have no say at all in the matter, but apparently some chemical in your brain starts the whole process, so let’s fire it up.

Also, in a few months I will start to teach you that the best place to dance is on the kitchen or living room floor. Not on other people’s internal organs.

Your big brother continues to pray for you at every meal. Much more endearing than his other current sibling-related-habit which is to yank up the bottom of my shirt whenever we are out in public and ask to “see the baby!” An action which inevitably leads to a cheeky grin and inquiry of “Mama naked?” Which leads people around us to think he is raised by nudists. See the fun you have to look forward to in this family, post-utero?

Love, Mama

August 11, 2011

Dear Baby,

You didn’t come last night. I even vacuumed the whole house in a burst of nesting energy, hoping that would ensure your arrival. At least the joint is clean now.

Then I realized this morning that you wisely held off to ensure that you and your brother have entirely separate Birthday Weeks. Smart move, if compounding discomfort for moi. Your father and I share a birthday, and this house needed no more of that. Everyone deserves their own cake.

Did I mention that this was Not The Summer to be hugely pregnant, though? Off for ice cream…

Love, Mama

August 12, 2011

Dear Baby,

Still not here yet? Swell. Oh wait, those are my ankles.

Love, Mama

August 13, 2011

Dear Baby,

A short poem for your consideration:

Full moon,

date night.

Why not

come tonight?

Our best-laid plans await to go astray. Consider this your standing invitation. (Although before we would sprint to the hospital, I would be sure to finish the tub of popcorn I’ve been dreaming about since your father suggested one last movie night.)

Love, Mama

August 14, 2011

Dear Baby,

I’m starting to think that you and your older brother may emerge from different ends of the gene pool. He came three weeks early. No one on my side shows up early to ANYTHING. I begin to fear you may be three weeks late. If this is accompanied by the Irish temper as well, heaven help us all.

Then again, I’ve made it this far with both. So I’d still love you to bits.

And just another update: your father has forbade me from making and freezing any more baked goods. Apparently my attempts to deal with the “situation” of zucchini from our garden has led to a “situation” in the downstairs freezer. Nesting has gotten out of control round these parts. Please come soon.

Love, Mama

August 15, 2011

Dear Baby,

Today is the Feast of the Assumption in our Catholic tradition. I am going to assume that you will want to do something as nice for your mother today as JC did for his. I’m not asking to be taken up to heaven, body and soul intact. I just want my body to be a little less…rotund? Uncomfortable. Overripe. That would do wonders for my soul, too.

But lest I be accused of all-cheeky-complaining and no-genuine-gratitude, I will leave you with this one lovely theological thought. This morning I was praying for patience to wait for you to come on your own time. And as I rested my hands on my belly, I noticed for the first time that I could feel you breathe inside me. Now I know there’s no air inside, but your lungs do practice the in-and-out. I could see the gentle movement, feel it rise and fall under my fingertips.

And I realized that you will forever have your own rhythm that does not match my own – not my breath, not my plans, not my expectations. The same Spirit gives life to us both, but at our own pace and time. So keep practicing in there, keep me waiting, keep us both breathing patiently. I’m sure it’s good practice for each of us down the road.

Much love, Mama

you know neither the day nor the hour

Waiting can seem so passive. What is a waiting room for but sitting impatiently, staring at the clock, flipping idly through a magazine, wondering when your turn will come?

And yet we all know that times of waiting quickly fill up with lots of activity.

We wait for Christmas or birthdays to arrive with all the shopping, planning, cooking and decorating that accompany celebrations. We wait for news of a loved one’s safe travels or successful surgery by busying ourselves around the house till the phone rings. We even fill our time waiting for the train/plane/bus to arrive or the light to turn green by checking our phone or flipping through our ipod. Waiting can be active and busy as well.

Waiting for a baby to arrive is no exception. Every day I busy about my life and wonder when the time will come. But I can’t wait passively. There is work to complete. There is a toddler to feed and amuse. There is a house to keep clean. My waiting is full of work and activity.

Living in a constant state of waiting leads my theologian mind to drift to the waiting we all do (or should be doing) as Christians: waiting for Christ to return. Because that is what this whole life is ultimately about, n’est-ce pas? Preparing ourselves to be ready when that final day comes, knowing we will be held accountable for the lives we led and the people we became in the process.

But honestly, who really thinks about Christ’s second coming or the day of judgment all that often? Not many people in the circles I run in. Sure, we have those couple of weeks during Advent when we’re supposed to be preparing for the second coming of Christ at the end of time, not just awaiting the arrival of the sweet babe in the manger. And Lent is supposed to keep us mindful that we are not made for this life, but something more, something coming, something not-yet.

We know this as Christians, right? But rare is the person who actually thinks about the possibility that this very day, Christ could come back again. It almost seems an eye-rolling notion. We mock the sects and the crazies who predict the end of days with such certainty that atheists are left to laugh when tomorrow rolls around.

But spending my days (and restless nights) in a constant state of waiting reminds me that perhaps I should give more thought to this other kind of Waiting. If today were That Day and That Hour, would I be found to be the kind of person I hoped I’d be? How would my life, my work, my flaws and faults be found wanting? And what would it mean to meet face-to-face this person, this God I claim to follow?

Thoughts terrifying enough to send me back to that nest of pillows I call a pregnancy bed. But in small ways, the unknownness, the fear and the wonder of meeting my baby evoke some of the same feelings. What will it be like to meet this new person face-to-face? How will my mothering – with all its flaws and faults, its hopes and dreams – be found wanting? Can I rise to the occasion and be the parent this child will ask me to be?

Waiting is a time of “already-and-not-yet.” We live partly in the future and partly in the present. And it’s hard to live our lives any other way. But if we get too wrapped up in the busyness of preparing, of filling every spare minute so we don’t have time to think about the daunting possibilities of what lies ahead, then we can miss the beauty of what it means to wait.

Namely, that we are always people on-the-way, people who are becoming. That there is always something new before us, something strange and wonderful and unpredictable, something that will challenge us, something that invites us to become more fully the people we are called to be.

So perhaps this is my own call to stay awake, to keep watch amidst the waiting. To try and slow down while my body fuels the hormone-driven need to cook and clean and cajole this whole household (as well as my own heart) into readiness for a new arrival. Because there is no telling what this day, this hour will bring – for any of us. A truth of equal parts delight and terror, but the waiting we’re called to, nonetheless.