Friday, August 29, 2008

Birthday Blooms

dying
but still beautiful

(the house reeks of roses)

A Bit of Emily

I dwell in Possibility--
A fairer House than Prose--
More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--

Of Chambers as the Cedars--
Impregnable of Eye--
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky--

Of Visitors--the fairest--
For Occupation--This--
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise--

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Early Morning

Feeling so good today with my tea and the cool air through the screen. The baby's sleep patterns are regulating: every three hours or so, she kicks and kicks. At two, she woke me, and I padded barefoot around the house, but then we slept again, and five o'clock came, and we stayed in bed staring at the corner where wall meets ceiling before finally getting up and wandering into the kitchen. I thought of the way the light used to look in my Grandpa's kitchen. It seemed always early morning in his house, and he worked with the light on while the sun crept up into the sky. I remember most the smell of carbon paper and the color of his coffee and that sometimes when we stayed there he fed us ice cream for breakfast. In this early light, I miss him. I wish he could be around to meet the little one when she makes her way into the world.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Wedding Banter

One of my favorite things about weddings (beside, of course, the eternal promises of amor and the two slices of cake) is finding my seat and discovering who the bride has decided to seat me next to. My wedding was easy: Mom, you remember dad? You two were married in 1973. You'll be at Table 1.

Then there are the more tenuous connections: C. works with technology software, and X. once Googled his high school girlfriend; you'll get along smashingly! or...You're from the south, Nicole, and Y. gets a real kick out of Tennessee Williams; you'll have a humdinger of a time!

This weekend in Maine the connection was obvious within moments of finding our place cards: fellow Brooklyn homeowners. Yes, we talked about Lowe's, about tiling, about gutter work and sump-pumps, and then, oh lordy, my stories caught up with me. We like to call it the Great Flood of July 5th, I said, in that way you say things you always say. Wait, fellow homeowner female said, was your garden just featured on www.brownstoner.com?
The thing is we had sent our garden in to brownstoner but didn't know it made the cut. Read the riveting renovation story: here.

In the meantime, I'll try to come up with a few new stories lest, dear reader, I end up in a silent moment across the table from you as we sup on chicken a la king and bang our glasses to witness a kiss.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Gimme an E, Gimme a K, Gimme an EKG

A woman knocked on the door. Her feet were dirty from having walked around the city all day in sandals. If you need to urinate, she said, let me know. She was from the insurance company; I didn't need to urinate. I offered her a glass of water that she didn't want, and we pulled out chairs.

Can you do it now?
she asked. I nodded blankly. She handed me a cup and two small test tubes. Pee in the cup, she said, then pour into the test tubes.

C. was in the backyard, not smoking, just watering plants. Afterwards, she wired me up to take a look at my ticker. C. came in to get a picture (notice our newly painted walls: Sag Harbor Gray). The machine was uncomfortably silent. Does it look normal? I asked when she was done.

You're pregnant, she said. It shouldn't look normal. Looking normal would be abnormal.

Oh.


When she left, she gave me a bag labeled MEDICAL WASTE to throw away. Don't worry, she said. It's nothing. I sat it in the trash among Popsicle sticks and peach pits then went and washed my own feet in the basin of the shower. They too were filthy.

Monday, August 25, 2008

25.5

No, this is not my new age...though I must admit besides the painful relationships and crappy jobs, 25.5 wasn't a bad age to be. 25.5: weeks into pregnancy; 34: new age. The birthday was wonderful: a long walk on the beach with my love, sea air, fried shrimp, sunflowers in Mason jars, two slices of lemon cake with fresh blueberry sauce, and then, poof, another year older.

Over the past two days, I have become number and size obsessed. My mind is a third grade math class. If Nicole's uterus is the size of a soccer ball and will only grow larger, how big will it be in seven weeks? Fourteen weeks? After another slice of cake?

It is, it seems, all relative. Yesterday, traveling home, I complained for the first several hours how LARGE I was feeling, and then suddenly it struck me how small the baby will be.

What if we crush it? How will we take care of something so tiny? Why do I need to get so BIG to birth something so small? If the baby weighs 1.5 pounds (about the size of a rutabaga) and the woman has gained XX pounds, what accounts for all the other rutabagas? (Hint: the answer is not rutabaga.)

Now, I will move on to other numbers. School starts in eight (8!) days. C. has been smoke-free for seven (7!) weeks. If the room is very quiet I can feel the second (2!) heart beating in my body. I have just polished off a (1!) delicious peach. I may soon have another.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Dream 821

Dreamed I held a baby last night which is good since the number of times I've held a baby in my life can be counted on both hands. I didn't drop it, just held it and wouldn't let go. I whispered down into its head, towards its ears, but I couldn't hear myself speak.

Leaving again. To Maine this time. Trying to get all my running around done before the doctor puts the bolt on the door. When I return I'll be a hundred and four. Or thirty-four, really. Cake will have been had; a little song will have been sung.

Enjoy dwindling summer.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Birth Stories Needed

One of my favorite things about our trip to Italy (besides, of course, the requisite shot at the Leaning Tower of Pisa) is that now C. wants to name our daughter: "Luciana Allesandra Bonifacia Camila Caprice Ellenora Fiorella Gabriella Giuseppina Jacobela Letizia Mariola Michelina Severina Stella Violetta Zoila" Callihan. Sort of rolls off the tongue, huh? And so, after all the magic and pasta and magic and pasta, we're home, and it seems there is much to think about: where to put cribs and desks and blankets and aprons, what to buy, what to beg for, what to dismiss as totally unnecessary.

And then--and this is the one that's preoccupying me the most--there is the actual birthing process. Even though I know on the grand scale of time it's a blip, it's becoming increasingly important to me. My mind's been in a total whirl since the plane ride yesterday when, during the almost-nine hour flight, I read and re-read Ina May's Guide to Childbirth. I'm feeling torn about having so quickly chosen a doctor and a hospital birth. I feel like if I could have it my way (I can't--that whole marriage negotiation thing comes in), I'd have little Luciana Stella in a hot tub in the backyard, but maybe that's just something I want because I'm pretty sure I can't have it. (The ole nonsmoking hubs is a BIG believer in hospitals.)

I'm struck, though, by how little I know about how anyone was born. I was premature; my mom asked for no drugs but the doctor gave them to her anyway; I looked funny. That's about all I know. I felt ridiculous on the plane yesterday because I covered the birthing pictures as if they were porn anytime I heard anyone coming down the aisle. It just amazes me how little I know about birth, how everyone in the world has been born and how I'm (almost) completely clueless as to the process.

So, today, I ask for your stories. Tell me how you were born, how your kids were born, how the two-headed turtle in the pet shop up the street was born. Really, I need as much information as possible. Apparently, all these kicks I'm feeling will result in a very real thing before I can gather up enough breath to say "Luciana Allesandra Bonifacia Camila Caprice Ellenora Fiorella Gabriella Giuseppina Jacobela Letizia Mariola Michelina Severina Stella Violetta Zoila" Callihan.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Ciao Bellas!!!

We're off to Italy for a bit, and while it's entirely likely I'll end up in some smoky internet cafe blogging about ending up in some smoky internet cafe, there's also a chance I'll be wandering the crooked little streets with a mouth full of gelato, mumbling mama mia and forgetting entirely--at least momentarily--what it feels like to sit and stare at a computer screen. A presto, amico mio, a presto.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Is this what they mean by hormones?

So, I went into CVS to buy some dental floss. It was early morning; my back sort of hurt; the lights had that awful glare to them that all pharmacy lights seem to have, and then standing at the counter staring at celebs in their swimsuits and wanting to crawl into a hole and rot, the tides shifted, and I had what I'm certain was the most pleasant experience I've ever had with a cashier (at least on my end; she may very well have been terrified she'd run into another nutjob).

Her: How are you today? (but said with such deep, genuine concern I get teary.)

Me: I'm alright. Doing pretty good, I guess.

Her: Weather's beautiful. (but again said in such a way that she seems to truly care about the weather, worry about its ups and downs, hold an aching, heartbreaking investment in it.)

Me: Thank you so, so much. (Burbling, gushing, clearly crazed.) You are so kind and compassionate, and it's just so nice to know there are people like you in the world. (Blahblahblah)

And then the door dinged, and I was back on the street choking back tears the whole way home.

Hot Diggety Dog

Looks like my brother, the inimitable Joseph T. Hefner,
also fell under the spell of love this weekend!!!
He proposed to his very lovely girlfriend, Natalie,
and they too are going to walk down the ole aisle.
I always love the idea of another Hefner in the world,
especially one I like as much as Natalie.
Congrats! Can't wait to celebrate.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Wedding Extravaganza

Yesterday was so filled with love I'm nearly exhausted.
Two weddings, two towns, all sorts of happiness.
Here's Sanj & Fredrik from the morning wedding,
just after they promised their lives to each other:
Me feeling sari for myself;
hubs in shock that we've got twelve more hours to go:
After a three and a half hour drive to Connecticut,
Amy, another absolutely stunning bride:
Amy, Michal & friends cutting cake:
Back in Manhattan, for Sanj's reception,
me & the little one in a conga line:
Last shot after last dance after last wardrobe change:
All in all, it was one of the most memorable days I've ever experienced. Between the love and the dancing, the cake and the laughter, I just feel so fortunate to live in a world where happiness is something that--if I'm not careful--I could take for granted.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Week 23

Your baby is now over eight inches long from head to rump and weighs more than one pound. She is the size of a small doll.

Looks like the plum is no longer a plum...

Friday, August 8, 2008

Manicures & Mendhi

One of my dearest friends is getting married this weekend in a Hindi ceremony, and as part of the wedding ritual, we bridesmaids gathered yesterday for manicures and mendhi. I've never experienced a Henna tattoo before, and I must say, typing now, my hands seem like a stranger's hands, but I loved being part of something so ancient. I was reminded of a book of hieroglyphic poems that dates back to between 1567 B.C. and 1085 B.C.. Translated by Ezra Pound, I gave the book--Come Swiflty to your Love--to my husband when we were in our very earliest days of finding each other. This poem I love: The shrill of the wild goose
Unable to resist
The temptation of my bait.

While I, in a tangle of love,
Unable to break free,
Must watch the bird carry away my nets.

And when my mother returns, loaded with birds,
And finds me empty-handed,
What shall I say?

That I caught no birds?
That I myself was caught in your net?

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Confessions

Yesterday, sitting at a picnic table in Sag Harbor, supping on chowder and watching boats bob the way boats do, a few friends and I wandered into the most compelling conversation. What, one friend asked, do you compulsively do but rarely admit to?

We started out rather lamely. Yes, it's true, I can't see a clock that says 11:11 without rushing some wish, but it got better and better. There was the, uhm, dirty sock sniffer, and then another who shudders in delight whenever she finds herself inside a public restroom. I confessed that I can spend long hours trolling Weight Watchers message boards (yes, I really am that interested in the Fiber count of Kavli) and that there are times when I can think of nothing more relaxing.

Anyway, it got me going, and now I want to hear everyone's private compulsions (or public! Who cares--I'm hungry for confessions!). What is it, dear reader, that you compulsively do but rarely admit to?

Anonymous replies are welcome.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

To Be Young Again?

My sister-in-law sent me a picture of this "redneck tank top" yesterday, and it got me thinking about being young and how my cousin Melanie and I used to stretch the necks of T-shirts and then wear them upside down as we paraded through Myrtle Beach, sneaking eyeliner and pretending not to be twelve. Ah, homemade clothes and dirty bras--I can think of few things that epitomize the transition from girl to woman more for me.
A few weeks ago I sat having tea with a very young woman (early twenties), and I was so charmed by the dirty bra strap that hung loose from her wife-beater that I wanted to grab her and say, you know, I used to be young! I haven't always been this pregnant woman with a tea-cozy and a sugar bowl. I too wore dirty bras!

Instead, I arranged watermelon on a pretty blue plate and stuck toothpicks into the sweet, pink cubes. Lord knows we wouldn't want sticky fingers.

Friday, August 1, 2008