Somehow, I was remiss in writing about my actual wedding.
My thoughts are many, but mostly they boil down to it being everything I hoped it would be. It's a little snow globe of happiness I return to again and again now that I'm back in the real world.
I've never felt happier, or more in love, or more loved. Not just by my husband, but by all the people who came, and who helped, and who celebrated. I am overwhelmed by the generosity.
I came up with some vows. They are not identical to the ones I toyed with previously, but they were close. These are them:
Message bodyIn writing my vows to you, I realized it is not enough for me to make a list of promises. It is not enough to say that I will honor you, be faithful to you and love you. I have to first understand what it means to keep these promises.
In honoring you, and our marriage, I will appreciate the moments that make a life together. I will make sure you know that, no matter how many times you come home from work - however late or early - it is one of the best moments of my day. I will devote myself to our family, but also to my aspirations and dreams, so that you will always have a partner who has something to share with you for all the years we are together. Likewise, I will support you in your dreams and your aspirations in every way that I can.
Being faithful is not merely keeping to a set of rules and expectations. Faithfulness is pushing all the gifts of my mind, heart and body to not only maintain the joy and happiness we feel today, but to constantly seek new ways to build upon it, filling our lives with kindness and affection, with security and adventure.
In loving you, I will always remember that love is an action. It is a choice we make every day, and the best choice I've ever made. It is a risk that demands fearlessness, to deliver your heart and your happiness into the hands of another, and no one has ever made me more brave. It is an act of creation, and I could not wish for a better collaborator and partner than you to make a home, a family and a life.
I recently learned the nearly the very first thing we do in life -- when we are little more than a clump of cells in our mothers' womb -- is we grow a heart. For me, that makes it the wisest organ of the body, and I am grateful that mine was wise enough and fortunate enough to find you. I love you, and I will for the rest of my life.
Friday, September 23, 2011
To my son
Hi there little guy -
We've been through a lot together this year. The few months before you, well -- I shouldn't lay all that on you. Let's just say, I was so scared there wouldn't ever be a you. Then, when I was least expecting it, you came along. You're like your dad in that regard.
I think about you all the time. And, if I stop thinking about you, you're good at reminding me with a little kick, which usually tickles. I keep looking for some pattern. Consistently, you seem to make yourself known when I'm hungry - which probably means you're hungry, too. I make guesses the rest of the time. For a few months, I called you dinobean. Because, unfortunately, that's what we all look like in the beginning - little bean-sized dinosaurs. I'll do my best to not call you that once you're born. But, it's been a long time since I called you that. Most of the time, I call you by the name that we will probably give you.
I want to know you so badly. I am guilty of assigning little personality traits to you, but you will show me in time who you are.
We're trying to find a new home for us. It's different looking at places now, because more than trying to see if I can imagine myself in them, I try to imagine you. I worry about you having enough space to play, enough room to grow. I want to bring you into a place that is happy and good. This first home won't be everything that I want it to be, but it will be a step toward that.
Your grandmother asks about you almost every day. We talk about the things we want to do for you, and what I was like as a baby, and what maybe you'll be like as a baby. We talk about the places we will take you when you're a little older, and how your pap-pap is going to be afraid to hold you until you're a little bigger. So many people have so many dreams for you. You don't have to do all of them. When you come up with your own, we'll work on those together.
I love you, little guy. I hope everything is going well for you in there. Just 14 more weeks or so, and it will be time for your life to really begin. Love you so much already, and I just know when I get to hold you, it's going to blow me away.
Until then, keep kicking away. Listen to the stories your dad tells you -- that's a voice that will stick with you. And rest up while you can!
Love,
Your mommy
We've been through a lot together this year. The few months before you, well -- I shouldn't lay all that on you. Let's just say, I was so scared there wouldn't ever be a you. Then, when I was least expecting it, you came along. You're like your dad in that regard.
I think about you all the time. And, if I stop thinking about you, you're good at reminding me with a little kick, which usually tickles. I keep looking for some pattern. Consistently, you seem to make yourself known when I'm hungry - which probably means you're hungry, too. I make guesses the rest of the time. For a few months, I called you dinobean. Because, unfortunately, that's what we all look like in the beginning - little bean-sized dinosaurs. I'll do my best to not call you that once you're born. But, it's been a long time since I called you that. Most of the time, I call you by the name that we will probably give you.
I want to know you so badly. I am guilty of assigning little personality traits to you, but you will show me in time who you are.
We're trying to find a new home for us. It's different looking at places now, because more than trying to see if I can imagine myself in them, I try to imagine you. I worry about you having enough space to play, enough room to grow. I want to bring you into a place that is happy and good. This first home won't be everything that I want it to be, but it will be a step toward that.
Your grandmother asks about you almost every day. We talk about the things we want to do for you, and what I was like as a baby, and what maybe you'll be like as a baby. We talk about the places we will take you when you're a little older, and how your pap-pap is going to be afraid to hold you until you're a little bigger. So many people have so many dreams for you. You don't have to do all of them. When you come up with your own, we'll work on those together.
I love you, little guy. I hope everything is going well for you in there. Just 14 more weeks or so, and it will be time for your life to really begin. Love you so much already, and I just know when I get to hold you, it's going to blow me away.
Until then, keep kicking away. Listen to the stories your dad tells you -- that's a voice that will stick with you. And rest up while you can!
Love,
Your mommy
Friday, September 2, 2011
A strange observation.
People who once loomed large in my life, but have passed out of it, have a habit of visiting while I sleep. Relationships that were at one point important in defining who I am, or at least who I was, but are now just memories crop up again and again in dreams.
They're less the people themselves, but these dreamtime archetypes. The dreams don't generally replay old events. They're not the kind of dreams made up of bits and pieces of the day, the brain taking all of the week's leftovers and making them into some kind of hash. Occasionally, there are dreams when I try to fix what was broken, and the repairs are generally poor and fall apart well before I wake up. Those are easy enough to understand.
But more often, the dreams are not even really about the specific people. Just whatever it is they've come to represent in my psyche. Which, in a way, is sad. These people who meant so much are now just heiroglyphics in my mind. Mental and emotional cuneiform. If I took the time to decipher them, I might be able to reduce them down to a definition. A word. A feeling. I try not to wonder for too long about their real-time counterparts, or if some heiroglyphic version of me enters their dreams, and what that me stands for, and if I would be sorry about that symbolism.
They're less the people themselves, but these dreamtime archetypes. The dreams don't generally replay old events. They're not the kind of dreams made up of bits and pieces of the day, the brain taking all of the week's leftovers and making them into some kind of hash. Occasionally, there are dreams when I try to fix what was broken, and the repairs are generally poor and fall apart well before I wake up. Those are easy enough to understand.
But more often, the dreams are not even really about the specific people. Just whatever it is they've come to represent in my psyche. Which, in a way, is sad. These people who meant so much are now just heiroglyphics in my mind. Mental and emotional cuneiform. If I took the time to decipher them, I might be able to reduce them down to a definition. A word. A feeling. I try not to wonder for too long about their real-time counterparts, or if some heiroglyphic version of me enters their dreams, and what that me stands for, and if I would be sorry about that symbolism.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Be where you are.
Years ago, I had an unfortunate flirtation with a social butterfly. This is putting it mildly. It was more like a social butterfly with ADD, no manners and a crack habit.
Anyway, I walked away from that with an appreciation for the idea of being where you are. Wherever that is. Be there. At least, do your best to be. Soak it in. Embrace that moment and the people you're with. Otherwise, you're never really anywhere. You're just on your way to somewhere else. There are no moments or destinations, just a series of bathroom breaks on a never-ending roadtrip.
I don't want to be your bathroom break.
I think that I am still sometimes guilty of over-scheduling myself. But I make every effort to make choices. Sometimes that means that there are three parties in a weekend, and I only go to one, because I would rather really enjoy where I am, I would rather really give the best of myself to people, than to be exhausted and preoccupied by the next stop on the schedule.
I am realizing as I get older this practice of flitting from place to place isn't just hazardous to the flitter. It's also just plain rude. If you've accepted an invitation, someone is planning on you. A brief drop-in doesn't really cut it. You are, essentially, asking your host to go to all the expense and trouble of having you there for the evening, without in turn offering your actual company.
Make decisions. Choose somewhere to be and be there. Trying to be everywhere is impossible, annoying and fucking rude.
Anyway, I walked away from that with an appreciation for the idea of being where you are. Wherever that is. Be there. At least, do your best to be. Soak it in. Embrace that moment and the people you're with. Otherwise, you're never really anywhere. You're just on your way to somewhere else. There are no moments or destinations, just a series of bathroom breaks on a never-ending roadtrip.
I don't want to be your bathroom break.
I think that I am still sometimes guilty of over-scheduling myself. But I make every effort to make choices. Sometimes that means that there are three parties in a weekend, and I only go to one, because I would rather really enjoy where I am, I would rather really give the best of myself to people, than to be exhausted and preoccupied by the next stop on the schedule.
I am realizing as I get older this practice of flitting from place to place isn't just hazardous to the flitter. It's also just plain rude. If you've accepted an invitation, someone is planning on you. A brief drop-in doesn't really cut it. You are, essentially, asking your host to go to all the expense and trouble of having you there for the evening, without in turn offering your actual company.
Make decisions. Choose somewhere to be and be there. Trying to be everywhere is impossible, annoying and fucking rude.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Some days...
Some days just start off crummy. I walked outside, into heat that already felt oppressive at 8 a.m. Then I tripped and fell in the driveway. Phone went flying. Little flower hair clip flung out of my hair. Hands skinned and burning. Knee bloodied and bruised through my pants. It's a miracle of textile construction - for which I am perpetually grateful - that allows me to rip my skin but not my pants.
I sprawled on the ground, near tears like a kid on the playground, feeling a little childishly miffed that neither the landlady nor the two workmen on the property noticed the downed pregnant girl.
Then I got up, got in my car and drove to work. A few productive work calls went a long way to making me feel better and feel more grown up.
There's no question, by the way, that at this point my body has been taken over by something else. Places that usually feel...well, softer than I'd like...feel oddly firm, like an over-filled water balloon. And the boobs are just completely out of control.
I sprawled on the ground, near tears like a kid on the playground, feeling a little childishly miffed that neither the landlady nor the two workmen on the property noticed the downed pregnant girl.
Then I got up, got in my car and drove to work. A few productive work calls went a long way to making me feel better and feel more grown up.
There's no question, by the way, that at this point my body has been taken over by something else. Places that usually feel...well, softer than I'd like...feel oddly firm, like an over-filled water balloon. And the boobs are just completely out of control.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Truth In Wedding Vows
Lydia said to me, before I was engaged, that if Jeff and I wrote our own vows, they would be the most eloquent vows ever. I laughed and said that's why I can't write them. I'd never be able to live up to that.
Now, I guess I'm trying. What is the best way to frame, in terms of a series of promises, some explanation for how I love this man?
The comical stuff comes easily. I've been thinking of it as "Truth In Wedding Vows." I don't think they'd work in a real wedding, but they're the truth. I can do better, but when I think of all the things that make a life, it's the little things that pile up most.
1. I promise to become only marginally crazier than I already am.
2. While I know my body image issues will never go away, I promise I will get naked with you every chance I get.
3. We're both kind of hopeless when it comes to housework, but I'll always volunteer to clean the toilets if you promise to stop making that face when I parallel park.
4. I miss you every second we're apart, but I will never make you feel guilty because you have to work late. You're working to support our family, and bosses tend to be less understanding than women who love you.
5. I promise to tell you when I'm upset and why. It's not a pleasant thing, and it's hard. But I'd rather suffer those small moments of discomfort than allow them to grow into something that could threaten the best thing that's ever happened in my life.
6. We will have vacations and adventures. We will continue to discover new things together.
7. If I am home before you, I will spring up off the couch when you get home, because I want you to know everyday that no matter how many times you walk through that door, it's still one of the most exciting parts of my day.
8. I will strive to keep my own life and my own interests, so that you will always have a partner who has something to talk about with you, who is interesting for all the years we have together. Likewise, I will give you space and time to pursue your art and your dreams, and support those endeavors in every way I can.
9. I will never smear cake on your face. Not today. Not any day.
10. I will love you. No matter what happens, I will love you fiercely and will for the rest of my life.
It's the first time I've ever truly had a partner in every way. I knew for the first time when we'd only been dating a few months. My car died in Rancho Cucamonga just a few blocks from my apartment. I called a colleague to help me out, and Jeff got upset I didn't ask him. "You're not letting me keep up my side of the bargain," he said.
It would be more than a year from that time when he'd finally get the guts to tell me he loved me, but I already knew. I really, really wanted and needed to hear the words, but I had to know. Because there was already a promise between us, unspoken or not, that if one of us was in any kind of trouble, the other would be the one to take care of it. Even late at night. Even 50 miles away.
Now, I guess I'm trying. What is the best way to frame, in terms of a series of promises, some explanation for how I love this man?
The comical stuff comes easily. I've been thinking of it as "Truth In Wedding Vows." I don't think they'd work in a real wedding, but they're the truth. I can do better, but when I think of all the things that make a life, it's the little things that pile up most.
1. I promise to become only marginally crazier than I already am.
2. While I know my body image issues will never go away, I promise I will get naked with you every chance I get.
3. We're both kind of hopeless when it comes to housework, but I'll always volunteer to clean the toilets if you promise to stop making that face when I parallel park.
4. I miss you every second we're apart, but I will never make you feel guilty because you have to work late. You're working to support our family, and bosses tend to be less understanding than women who love you.
5. I promise to tell you when I'm upset and why. It's not a pleasant thing, and it's hard. But I'd rather suffer those small moments of discomfort than allow them to grow into something that could threaten the best thing that's ever happened in my life.
6. We will have vacations and adventures. We will continue to discover new things together.
7. If I am home before you, I will spring up off the couch when you get home, because I want you to know everyday that no matter how many times you walk through that door, it's still one of the most exciting parts of my day.
8. I will strive to keep my own life and my own interests, so that you will always have a partner who has something to talk about with you, who is interesting for all the years we have together. Likewise, I will give you space and time to pursue your art and your dreams, and support those endeavors in every way I can.
9. I will never smear cake on your face. Not today. Not any day.
10. I will love you. No matter what happens, I will love you fiercely and will for the rest of my life.
It's the first time I've ever truly had a partner in every way. I knew for the first time when we'd only been dating a few months. My car died in Rancho Cucamonga just a few blocks from my apartment. I called a colleague to help me out, and Jeff got upset I didn't ask him. "You're not letting me keep up my side of the bargain," he said.
It would be more than a year from that time when he'd finally get the guts to tell me he loved me, but I already knew. I really, really wanted and needed to hear the words, but I had to know. Because there was already a promise between us, unspoken or not, that if one of us was in any kind of trouble, the other would be the one to take care of it. Even late at night. Even 50 miles away.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
My first lesson in parenting
Jeff and I had just learned we were parents. It was a Tuesday night, and we'd just finished working out with our trainer. I took a pregnancy test as a formality before starting my pills again. It was positive.
I traded my RX for birth control for an RX for prenatal vitamins. I picked an OB-GYN and made an appointment. Jeff hadn't formally proposed, but he'd asked my dad's permission, and we knew we were getting married. Jumping the gun, I went shopping with Anna and Lydia at David's Bridal. I tried on one dress, and it was the one.
It was the perfect moment. At last, I had my magic bridal moment. I was having a baby with the love of my life. I was surrounded by close friends. Everything was coming together the way I always hoped it would. After giving up hope when I turned 34 that I'd ever have a baby or be married, I was certain to have both before I turned 35.
After the dress shopping, we were at an Indian restaurant for a late celebratory dinner. Jeff was out with Greg, drinking beers and talking about fatherhood, being a husband, growing up and whatever else men talk about over cold beers.
That's when the bleeding happened. The toilet tissue was bright crimson, like my period had just started.
Or my new beginning had just ended.
I shouted for Anna, and on-lookers must have thought I was crazy -- tearful, with a wad of toilet paper summoning my friend to the bathroom. She came, and I showed her, already crying. In that moment, I was so scared that the miracle that had been the catalyst for all this other good was gone. She and Lydia said all the right things. We could leave. We could go to a hospital. We could do whatever I wanted. I paged my new doctor, who had never even met me. I was just a name on her appointment book. It was past 10 p.m. on a Friday night. She called me within 10 minutes.
The good and bad news was that there was nothing I could do. If the pregnancy ended, at that phase, there was nothing that could be done. Sometimes, though, bleeding was perfectly normal. It could be nothing. She wanted to see me first thing Monday morning, and advised me to lay low for the weekend.
I went home. I told Jeff as calmly as possible. We promised to go forward with our plans to marry, no matter what. We worried. I spent much of the weekend napping, and spotting. "Stay with me, baby," I kept saying to myself, and to the little life I hoped was still there.
Monday finally came. We saw the doctor, and as is her custom, first we had a consultation. We sat in an office - a regular office with a big desk, and family pictures and flowers. She gave me lots of information, and asked me if I had any questions. I only had one, and I was afraid to ask it: Am I still pregnant?
We'd find out by ultrasound. Holding on to Jeff's hand, we watched the screen, and there was our baby. At that point, a bundle of cells - a little gray smudge stuck to the side of my uterus. But in the middle of the little ball was a distinct heartbeat. Only six and a half weeks old. Just about the first thing we do in life is grow a heart. Everything else comes after. (I will try to remember this in the moments my heart fights with my head - one of them is older and wiser than the other.)
There was our baby. Real. Listening to the heartbeat, we were relieved and elated and sure that nothing would be the same - in the best possible way.
All weekend long, I fretted and worried. I was scared to death. It was the first time that my child kept me awake at night with fear and worry and anxiety. It was the first time I was overwhelmed by wanting nothing more than the health and safety of my child.
It will not be the last. It will not be the last time I'm scared to death over what turns out to be absolutely nothing. This is what I will count as my first weekend as a parent. I don't feel like a parent every single day of my pregnancy, at least not so sharply as this first lesson. But the first big scare is out of the way.
I have experience now.
I traded my RX for birth control for an RX for prenatal vitamins. I picked an OB-GYN and made an appointment. Jeff hadn't formally proposed, but he'd asked my dad's permission, and we knew we were getting married. Jumping the gun, I went shopping with Anna and Lydia at David's Bridal. I tried on one dress, and it was the one.
It was the perfect moment. At last, I had my magic bridal moment. I was having a baby with the love of my life. I was surrounded by close friends. Everything was coming together the way I always hoped it would. After giving up hope when I turned 34 that I'd ever have a baby or be married, I was certain to have both before I turned 35.
After the dress shopping, we were at an Indian restaurant for a late celebratory dinner. Jeff was out with Greg, drinking beers and talking about fatherhood, being a husband, growing up and whatever else men talk about over cold beers.
That's when the bleeding happened. The toilet tissue was bright crimson, like my period had just started.
Or my new beginning had just ended.
I shouted for Anna, and on-lookers must have thought I was crazy -- tearful, with a wad of toilet paper summoning my friend to the bathroom. She came, and I showed her, already crying. In that moment, I was so scared that the miracle that had been the catalyst for all this other good was gone. She and Lydia said all the right things. We could leave. We could go to a hospital. We could do whatever I wanted. I paged my new doctor, who had never even met me. I was just a name on her appointment book. It was past 10 p.m. on a Friday night. She called me within 10 minutes.
The good and bad news was that there was nothing I could do. If the pregnancy ended, at that phase, there was nothing that could be done. Sometimes, though, bleeding was perfectly normal. It could be nothing. She wanted to see me first thing Monday morning, and advised me to lay low for the weekend.
I went home. I told Jeff as calmly as possible. We promised to go forward with our plans to marry, no matter what. We worried. I spent much of the weekend napping, and spotting. "Stay with me, baby," I kept saying to myself, and to the little life I hoped was still there.
Monday finally came. We saw the doctor, and as is her custom, first we had a consultation. We sat in an office - a regular office with a big desk, and family pictures and flowers. She gave me lots of information, and asked me if I had any questions. I only had one, and I was afraid to ask it: Am I still pregnant?
We'd find out by ultrasound. Holding on to Jeff's hand, we watched the screen, and there was our baby. At that point, a bundle of cells - a little gray smudge stuck to the side of my uterus. But in the middle of the little ball was a distinct heartbeat. Only six and a half weeks old. Just about the first thing we do in life is grow a heart. Everything else comes after. (I will try to remember this in the moments my heart fights with my head - one of them is older and wiser than the other.)
There was our baby. Real. Listening to the heartbeat, we were relieved and elated and sure that nothing would be the same - in the best possible way.
All weekend long, I fretted and worried. I was scared to death. It was the first time that my child kept me awake at night with fear and worry and anxiety. It was the first time I was overwhelmed by wanting nothing more than the health and safety of my child.
It will not be the last. It will not be the last time I'm scared to death over what turns out to be absolutely nothing. This is what I will count as my first weekend as a parent. I don't feel like a parent every single day of my pregnancy, at least not so sharply as this first lesson. But the first big scare is out of the way.
I have experience now.
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