Unplanned Motherhood

I'm one of those women who have relatively easy, uncomplicated pregnancies. My worst complaints are the ones I am too embarrassed to admit in public and only mention in the vaguest of terms to my husband or doctor, and then only when under duress.

Uncomplicated, except for the one which involved a middle of the night ambulance ride and an emergency surgery in the wee hours of the morning to save my life. My life was saved, but my baby was already gone.

I learned there was no heart beat six days before Thanksgiving, six days before the "magic" week where it is suddenly safe to announce the pregnancy to the world. I had been dreaming of the various cute ways of making my pregnancy known during the family get-togethers at Thanksgiving. Instead, I spent the holidays trying to hide my tears while lying on the couch: too tired, weak, and in pain to participate in any but the barest of family activities.

I remember being surprised by the depth of anger I felt then towards the abortion industry. The lies perpetrated. The disregard not only for the life which has yet to take its first breath, but for the woman who cannot know what the act will take from her until it is too late. 

As much as I felt like the weeks of discomfort and inconvenience were in vain, as much as I felt robbed of the rewards of "putting up with" pregnancy, I pitied the women I knew who had miscarried earlier in the first trimester. Suddenly, each of the thirteen weeks during which my body made room for life other than mine seemed holy, sacred, privileged.

I'm not the only one to find renewed passion against the abortion industry in the wake of a miscarriage. I had the opportunity to read one person's account of her miscarriage and the initiation of a pro-life non-profit out of her grief. A friend reading the account couldn't make sense of the first leading to the second. I couldn't articulate the logic behind it, but oh, I could understand it.

Not too long ago I sat by the hospital bed of another mother who did not take the child of her womb home with her. This baby lives, though, given over for adoption. The baby I now carry has a similar due date to the one this teen mother birthed, and I cannot help but wonder what hardships of pregnancies we may have shared in addition to the greater health concerns she faced which prompted an early delivery.

Her protection of this small life seems monumental to me. I don't mean to paint her as an angel; mental illness, trouble with the law, and abusive relationships make her life too gritty to canonize her and set her as an example. Or perhaps she is an example—an example of the kind of woman with the most to gain or lose in this debate that, by its very nature, is so riddled with emotion and passion. Even with a supportive extended family and an involved adoptive family, seeing this baby to term and placed in his new home has been costly and complicated. The state paid for her maternity care, but both families will tell you the medical costs are only a small portion of what they've borne financially and otherwise. 

Though both families willingly chose this responsibility, a woman several steps removed from the situation confided in me that she had hoped for a much harder delivery for this mother... then maybe she would have been motivated to "get herself fixed" so she wouldn't be in this predicament again. 

Few would be so bold to state this opinion so plainly, but I feel as if I have heard it echoing in the pro-choice/pro-life debate frequently... from both sides. Is it her predicament we are worried about or ours? Caring for a baby from conception to birth and beyond is hard, but far harder than the physical toll on the mother's body is lack of sufficient emotional and practical support.

Like I said, our predicament.

Not quite a decade ago I wrestled with this broader context of pro-life action on a different, but still personal, level. I was sought out to provide encouragement and friendship to a teen mother who had chosen to keep her baby after an unplanned pregnancy. I was only a few years older than she and had no parenting experience of my own. During the months of Sonic stops and sitting on the couch at her parents' house watching telenovelas, I repeatedly asked myself, "What does she need? And can I give it to her?"

The intervening years have given me a wealth of life experiences and three unplanned pregnancies of my own, but still, a few weeks ago at the hospital bed of this other teen mother who chose life, I ask the same questions. What does she need? And can I give it to her?

She is asking questions, too. Do you like him? Do you like the baby? As if unplanned might just mean unwanted.

And that’s the great lie, isn’t it? That an unplanned pregnancy makes for an unwanted baby. May it never be.

This Mothers’ Day I am thankful for each of my unplanned babies: the one I am parenting, the one I will not meet this side of heaven, and the one who looks to be arriving fashionably late.

Anniversary Gifts Revised

Any of my faithful readers use the traditional or modern suggestions for anniversary gifts? Today SOS and I celebrate four years of marriage. If we want to go the traditional route in our gift exchange, we'll do the fruit and flowers thing. Or we could be modern and exchange appliances. At least, so says About.com.

Good thing I married a traditional sort of guy.

This, however, isn't why I'm writing. Associating specific kinds of gifts with certain anniversaries has a history far older than I had imagined, which is why I think it is time for an update.

Instead of the gifts being symbolic of the depth of the couple's commitment (and whoa is that a scary concept: paper? aluminum? Nothing says "Thanks for sticking it out this year, Honey," like a Dixie cup and Reynolds wrap), I want to propose a much more prosaic purpose: replenishing the worn or broken wedding gifts.

For instance, four years ago, SOS and I received glass water goblets, tumblers, and bedside carafe: 19 items in all. Today we broke the last one. What better excuse to get replacement glassware than our anniversary?

Yes, we are only four years into this, but already I see a nice little list forming. There was the year of the cheese slicer early on (why do those break so frequently?) and in another few years, I anticipate the year of the bath towels (Honey, you know that yellow towel... I mean, is that yellow towel a good one for me to dry off the car after I wash it?).

Around 50 years, we'll probably be needing new silverware and if we make it to 80, yes, I'll take a new diamond.

But don't interpret our gifts to be a symbol of the depth of our commitment. I'm hoping I still get flowers and fruit when my nose can't smell anything and I have to find my teeth before I can enjoy the fruit.

Vacation Day 3 (or so): Lost in Los Angeles

Have you ever stopped to ask for directions only to find that your confusion and rising sense of panic is worsened because you can't understand the "help" given to you? Maybe you don't even recognize the language you are hearing.

Such was the case on our most recent vacation day.

We were enjoying our Los Angeles vacation like any true angeleno would: tuned to AM 1070 listening for our doom as announced "On the Fives", that is the traffic report.

The Saturday of a three day weekend and our doom was pretty much sealed: the traffic report named each of the freeways on our planned route south. But we've considered the Greater Los Angeles area our home long enough... surely we could outsmart the poor, speed-limit-abiding, ignorant tourists clogging our freeways. Besides, if our wits weren't quite sufficient to get us from Point A to Point B along an alternate route, we always had our Garmin GPS for back up. So off we zipped.

Permit me briefly to provide an aside.

In some moment of desperate parenthood, our GPS became one of the best options for entertaining a small child on a long drive. The exact day of this desperate act has long been lost in the annals of history, but this particular item has become like unto a video game for CutieLittleBoy. And, as is true of many in his generation, he has found features we never knew existed. His favorite feature is the audiobook player that has nothing but the free demo of the first few paragraphs of the Dean Koontz novel By the Light of the Moon. Believe you me, there is nothing quite so startling to a peaceful country drive (or a lengthy phone conversation with a family member) as a voice booming from a space you thought only your two year old occupied, saying

Shortly before being knocked unconscious and bound to a chair, before being injected with an unknown substance against his will, and before discovering that the world was deeply mysterious in ways he'd never before imagined...

Even if I were the type to appreciate the occasional suspense novel, there is something deeply disturbing about the opening line being the first complex sentence heard from the carseat of my sweet, innocent, darling CutieBabyBoy.

So let me gather the purpose of this aside and move on: CutieLittleBoy uses the GPS much more frequently than do his parents.

It came as a huge relief, therefore, when he fell asleep before we reached the unfamiliar roads of our alternate route. I had no need for hesitation as I whipped out the GPS from its hiding place and flaunted it in triumph as I turned it on.

And that is where the triumph gave way to discovering that the world was deeply mysterious in ways I'd never before imagined. Somehow, sometime, CutieLittleBoy had changed both the text language and the spoken language to some unknown script... and not to brag, but I can recognize a fair number of languages. Polish? Czech? Who knows? Maybe it was Ruthenian or Kashubian.

And as I said, I don't use the GPS frequently enough to know my way around without English text. Sure the icons are the same whether in Russian or English, but I have yet to become fluent in the pictorial language of computer programers. I had no recourse but to try and err until I found some clue that could lead me to familiar ground. Unfortunately, the only familiar ground I could find for quite some time was the very Polish (or Czech or ?) phrase "Media Player". (If any of you are looking for parallel jokes to the "I can speak Spanish, look... taco, burrito!" there you go. You're welcome.)

For a brief minute I considered waking up the expert in the backseat to see if he could help, but I finally fumbled my way to English... and from there we made it back to known freeways and onto a more predictable vacation experience. But that is another post.

Results of the November Election

It really is impossible to know how one candidate's triumph over another during an election will affect your life.

Here is the straight truth: I have a flat loaf of too-strong Pepper Rosemary Bread cooling on my stove and cabbage in my fridge because Obama was reelected. But that is not all, friends. No, that is, by far, just the beginning of it.

Exactly three weeks after I made the short walk to my voting precinct, I heard rustling at my door and a purposeful knock. I opened the door to find an enormous box. My neighbor was smiling behind it.

"I've signed up for weekly delivery of local, organic produce. With Obama president for another four years, I thought I would do my part," she explained.

I didn't quite follow her explanation, only that she had more food than she and her husband could eat... far more than she could even fit in her tiny kitchen.

We were just beginning to see the bottom of our Thanksgiving leftovers, having a neighbor share their abundance with us seemed fitting and seasonal.

But then there was the week of the fennel (thank you, Mom, for the cookbook which included mugshots of this one), the bushel of parsley, and an unknown squash. I've been known to make some creative recipes all in the name of not letting good food go to waste, but with a rap sheet like this, I wanted to keep my distance. Glowing thoughts of sharing harvest abundance faded and instead I was reminded of the original sense of the gift of a white elephant: a valuable, yet burdensome possession.

Perfect timing once that occurred to me, really. I had been casting about for a suitable white elephant gift for a party and had come up with nothing better than a hand-me-down Barney toy. Call me an uninitiated parent, but Barney-anything has a way of taking me out of the Christmas spirit lickety-split.

I arrived at the party with my enormous wrapped box of harvest abundance and left with a prize for "Most Creative Gift". Not too shabby, eh? I learned later that the recipient of the fennel and parsley was so thrilled with it that she signed up for her own produce delivery. Who'da thunk?

Several weeks running, my to do list has resembled that of an overly domesticated environmental activist: Save the mint! Save the lemons! Save the rosemary!

And now you know why there is a sad-looking loaf of bread in my kitchen.

I'm still enamored with the concept of sharing an overly abundant harvest with others, but let me give you a gentle suggestion: until you hear that I've figured out how to use the dried purple corn, the three dozen cubes of frozen mint, the vega smoothie mix, snow belle radishes, and whatever tomorrow brings, you might want to come up with a polite way to excuse yourself from any dinner invitation I extend. Because regardless of your political persuasion, this is one Obama era outcome you will want to avoid.

Vacation 2013 Day 2

I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but we caved.

Friday night at 8:23 found us racing to the Disney Store to purchase annual passes so we wouldn't need to stand in line Saturday morning. Don't ask us exactly how we justified the purchase, but let's just say this month we are eating out of the abundance of our freezer and pantry supplies rather than accomplishing our normal grocery routine in an attempt to diminish the impact to our savings.

And look... standing in line to meet Winnie the Pooh:

And with the stubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff:

Really, believe me, it was meant to be... I mean... we just happened to be at Pooh's Thoughtful Spot for the only 15 minutes when all of our favorite residents of the Hundred Acre Woods were there to take pictures. I know this still doesn't quite justify a spur of the minute purchase of annual passes to Disneyland, but look at those eyes!

Pooh Corner was clearly a hit. CutieLittleBoy requested we ride the "Pooh Train" several times, which we figured was a good sign after we made the mistake of riding the Disneyland train through the prehistoric display of dinosaurs devouring each other and lava casting eerie glows on everything. For a brief while I was afraid our train-loving kid was going to be terrified of ever getting on another train again. Pooh Train to the rescue.

Mom and Dad each got a turn on our favorite rides, too, and knowing we have another year to get around to the other fun rides and caramel apples makes it lots easier to enjoy a slower day of kiddie-rides and napping on the monorail.

Plus, I tell myself, it really was a sanity saver for us to buy passes rather than just a one day ticket. CutieLittleBoy has switched out his request to ride a "bus/train" to a very specific request to ride the "Pooh Train". Our lives will never be the same.

When God Closes a Door

I've been thinking about the expression "When God closes a door, He opens a window." It is meant to comfort the frustrated, to assure that just because you aren't able to go or do the thing you had anticipated, God still has a plan for you.

Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Perhaps it is because the language purist and individualist that I am resents having a cliche applied to my life. Or that I am an over-literalist and the analogy of having a door closed on me and then trying to find a window that I don't mind climbing in, seems a waste of time and energy. It reminds me of one super stellar housesitting gig I accomplished where I locked myself out of the house. The only way I could come up with to get back inside was through the doggy door. Of course, the dog was of the purse-carrying kind and there was no way I was going to get into the house through her route of egress, but I did spend a good deal of time imagining scenarios wherein the doggy door was my path to success.

Needless to say, the phrase "When God closes a door, He shows you to the pet entrance," just doesn't do it for me.

Of course the best place to go when you have questions about the way God does things is the Bible. The first "door closing" I thought of was the Red Sea as it slammed shut behind the Israelites as they left Egypt. Forty years of wandering before the door opened to the Promised Land... and, as my husband helpfully pointed out, a generation had to die in the desert first.

Next example, please!

Garden of Eden... flaming swords and millennia of toil.

Next!

Moving towards the more literal: Noah's experience with the ark has both a door and a window, though  at least 40 days passed between the closing of the door and the opening of the window. Besides, only a few birds used the window to come and go.

The Israelite spies in Jericho got shut into the city and escaped by a window. Maybe we are finally getting somewhere with this story.

Otherwise, there seems to be many more examples of having a door opened by knocking and windows being reserved for the entrance of thieves and the falling out of the unwise.

Maybe I had better stay away from windows.

More figuratively, Paul's inability to preach in Asia and the subsequent dream of a Macedonian pleading with him to come: a much better outcome if you cut the story somewhere short of their prison stay.

In the end, though, it strikes me that God isn't much bothered by locked doors and the absence of navigable windows. Jesus didn't let a little locked door keep him from meeting up with his disciples. God accomplished a few jail breaks without much concern for explosives or secret tunnels.

If God's not much bothered by the closing or opening of doors and windows, I suppose I shouldn't be either. So with a few edits: When God closes a door, He opens a window. Yes, I think that should about do it.

When God, He.

Therein lies the comfort for any situation.

Vacation 2013 Day 1

There are many reasons to take public transportation, not the least of which is because CutieLittleBoy asks repeatedly to get on the "bus/train".

So we agree: Vacation Day 1 is all about riding the bus/train. 

For those of my readers who take public transportation every day, please stop laughing.

I once read an article by a man involved in urban ministry who preached the necessity of teaching children how to use public transportation. As a rite of passage he took each of his three children downtown at the age of five and assigned them the task of making it back home by themselves. (I could possibly be wrong about the age, but it was shockingly early.) As a postscript he included the comment that he secretly shadowed his children to make sure they were safe, but I always figured he included that only at the insistence of his wife who likely spent the entire day sitting at the kitchen table biting her nails and watching the second hand inch around the clock.

Not that I want to make this tradition a model of mine, but he made several good arguments about the benefit of knowing public transportation. And if I can teach my two year old the basics of riding a bus and subway, maybe he can avoid being stopped by the police in Italy for not realizing he needed to validate his ticket after purchasing: a little domestic vacation practice now and future international vacations will be much more enjoyable.

As a side note, if you don't know how to ride the Los Angeles metro system, now is a great time to do so. They recently updated their system of purchasing fares and so have many explicit directions and reminders to help the uninitiated.

So CutieLittleBoy got his ride on the "bus/train". We caught the bus at the nearest transportation hub and rode it until we could transfer to the Metrolink underground. While we had planned for a more extensive excursion, we kind of forgot that California has not yet attained speed rail systems. After a wee bit of window shopping and grabbing lunch at a downtown cafe (and hunting high and low for functional, available restrooms), it was time to make our return trip. 

An inexpensive metro day pass, a little boy's special request, and skipping parking fees and gas mileage? That'll do for Vacation Day 1.