Sleeping

Lily is just over 20 months old, and only recently started sleeping through the night on a regular basis.  Coming out of a perpetual sleep-deprived state has been a revelation, to put it lightly.  For about a year there I convinced myself that I was okay, that I was somehow managing to make it through my days relatively unscathed by my mangled sleep pattern.  But then, as sleep returned to my world, so did the realization that I had made a HUGE FUCKING MESS out of MANY, MANY things.  I look back on reports that I wrote and see errors all over the place.  I remember fights that I picked with Jeff, triggered by the smallest and most random things.  I see pictures of myself and think “holy hell, Batman, who let me out of the house looking like THAT?”  I am beginning to understand why sleep deprivation is a form of torture.

But then, once in a while, still, Lily wakes up in the middle of the night, crying.  And I slip downstairs in the dead of night and fumble in the refrigerator for the milk, and I quietly steal into her room.  I lift her up, the sheer weight of her both a surprise and a comfort, and I settle down into the recliner where she drinks her milk and then immediately rolls over onto her stomach so that she is curled against my chest, her soft fuzzy hair tickling under my chin, her warm breath against my cheek, and I remember why I never fought the nighttime with her.  

 

 

On Facebook

I’ve noticed a certain trend amongst my friends lately, one that, at first, made me questions some of my decisions.  However, upon further thought, I have decided that I just don’t care.  This trend happens to be the “Facebook is dumb and I don’t spend any time on it” trend.  For a minute or two I questioned my own use of Facebook, considered that perhaps I was sharing too much of myself and my family, but this line of self-doubt didn’t last very long.  Because, my friends, I am here to say, for the record, that 1) I am very uncool and 2) I love Facebook.  It’s true.  I love looking at pictures of my far-flung family and friends, seeing their faces reflected in their ever growing children.  I love knowing what people are interested in, what makes them laugh and what makes them think, and while OF COURSE I would rather have these conversations and photo-sharing sessions in person, the fact is that I can’t, at least not that often.  And that’s where Facebook fills in the gaps.  People lament that social media has, perversely, made us more disconnected from one another, but I’m not sure I totally buy into that argument.  I feel closer to my friends after I’ve viewed pictures of their vacations, like I’m a small part of their lives, and I’m grateful to people for sharing these moments with other people, albeit rather anonymously.  I can watch my nephews lose their teeth, graduate from kindergarten, and eat pizza.  I can follow my favorite bloggers and know when they post something new.  None of this makes me feel less connected from the world, and since we’ve already established that I’m patently uncool, I think I’ll just keep on keeping on.

Besides, how else would I bombard people with pictures like these?

 

 

On Parents

I’ve found that one of the most interesting things about becoming a parent is how connected it makes me feel to my own parents.  As I watch Lily move from room to room or race across the lawn, I find myself identifying with both my mother and my father, as I imagine that, at one point, they stood and watched me explore my world, and I wonder if they, in turn, thought about their own parents, if perhaps this is the way you live forever, in the eyes of your children watching their own children, a long chain of mothers and fathers connected through the practice of raising small children.  And I say practice here because I believe that caring for small children has a spiritual element to it, requiring mindfulness and kindness and endless amounts of patience, all of which seem to me to be, if not religious per se, at least what you would hope to see in a religion of any sort. 

So now, at least once a day, if not more, I find myself existing in this space, this in-between state of tied-to-the-moment and a more faded state of existing-in-the-past, where I’m watching Lily and I’m also watching myself and it feels like there are many other people in the room with me, my parents and their parents and their parents before them, all connected by the exhausting love we have for these small people we have the privilege to guide and care for, their endless needs teaching us about our ability to give more even when it seems like you’ve already given all you have, cracking our hearts open with the fierce love they inspire in us. 

And it’s always this that is so surprising to me, to realize that this is how much my parents loved me, that this soul-deep love I have for my daughter is what my mother and father felt as well.  I feel bound to my parents through this shared experience, tied into this web of love and fear and hope and sleepless nights and sunny mornings, of balancing dreams and expectations with the daily tasks of just placing one foot in front of the other. 

Helicopters

It's the time of year when the maple trees drop their seeds, otherwise known as "helicopters." Generally I find them messy and hate how they track into the house.  However, yesterday Lily and I were in the backyard as a wave of them fell from the trees, spiraling down to the ground like winged confetti, and Lily sat, mesmerized, and for a second I forgot the mess and just appreciated the magic of seeds falling from the sky, the hopes of a tree playing in the wind.

Bacterial Communication

I read an article yesterday about a type of bacteria that creates snow and rain. The principle action here is that the bacteria promote freezing at a lower temperature, and therefore create little ice crystals around themselves (snow). The ice crystals damage the structure of plants, and this in turn allows the bacteria easier access to the plants. These bacterium can be swept up into the air, where they promote freezing and create snow, that then falls to earth as rain.

Now, aside from agricultural ramifications of this, I’m fascinated by what can almost appear to be purposeful action on the part of the bacterium. I was discussing this with a friend, Patrick, and I pointed out that most likely it’s just natural selection (an organism has a property that promotes freezing, this helps said organism get more food, organism can reproduce more, offspring have same property, it spreads and so on), but Patrick responded with the most interesting points: a) elephants communicate using subharmonics; b) one ant colony has colonized most of the earth; and c) there is so much about this world that we don’t understand.

And that’s the part that leaves me twirling, the mystery of it all, the idea of organisms communicating to one another in a language that is so different from ours that we can’t even recognize it as language. The poet in me imagines the trees whispering to one another, telling stories of leafy greens and blues to one another in the darkness, clouds of bacteria swirling toward the sky focused intently on the chill of ice and the fall of rain, elephants calling out across the plains speaking of water and dust and the joy of the rich, cool mud. This reminds me to take the time to walk in the world, quietly, and listen to all the songs I cannot hear, but that are surely there.

Memorial Day Weekend

This blog is such a hit-or-miss thing for me.  Between Lily, work, and life, I don’t know how to find the time to keep it up, but I enjoy it while I do it, so here we go…one more time.

We’re just past the Memorial Day weekend, and I couldn’t be more grateful to have it behind us.  I would call it a holiday weekend, but I’ve discovered that there is no such thing as a “holiday” when you add in an eighteen month old baby.  Basically, it boils down to the fact that Lily, while awesome, also requires an intense amount of work.  It didn’t help that the weather was utter crap, dreary and rainy and cold, so we were cooped up inside for the majority of the time.  Lily vacillates between extreme joy and extreme agitation, with a few brief stops at the Island of Calm along the way (they never last long).  I’d say I hit my metaphorical wall on Sunday.  We attended a party, which I had been looking forward to for quite some time as a chance to get out of the house and perhaps speak to a few other human beings and maybe enjoy an adult beverage or two.  We got there early because Jeff was supplying beer for the party and needed to see to the taps.  The party included a Bounce House in the backyard for all the kids attending the party, and because we were so early I had the “opportunity” to introduce Lily to the Bounce House before most of the other children had arrived.  I say “opportunity” but really I should say “HUGE TERRIBLE MISTAKE” because the second I put Lily in the Bounce House, it was like she was transported to Nirvana and she was never coming back.  She was giddy with joy and for a while it was adorable.  She bounced and tumbled and had a grand old time.  Then, the other kids started to arrive.  And they descended on the Bounce House like it was made out of frosting and sprinkles.  Lily took a few tumbles, and I decided that with so many kids crowding into the thing, it was no place for a toddler.  I took Lily out of the Bounce House (or Lily’s House of Pure Joy as she would likely call it) and tried to steer her in the direction of the bean bag toss.  Lily was not having it.  She ducked and swerved and made a beeline for the Bounce House at every turn, while I headed her off like a goalie.  I officially became Meanest Mommy in the World as I picked her up and dragged her back into the house.  My hope was that the old adage “out of sight out of mind” might actually be true (but when is that ever really true?).  Obviously, the second I set her down she assessed her options and, upon determining the shortest distance to get back outside to her House of Infinite Happiness, ran like her life was depending on it in the general direction of the backyard.  This went on for almost two hours.  Two hours of baby wrangling, two hours of a screaming, frustrated, angry toddler.  I alternated between scooping her up and gamely smiling at the people who were staring at me, all the while ignoring the advice that was given – “Why don’t you just let her go over there and play?” – because, honestly, the damn thing had about ten kids in it, ranging from the ages of five to nine, and I’d prefer to avoid a trip to the emergency room, thanks.  I felt horrible.  I had become that parent who spends the whole party ignoring their friends while chasing down their kid, hovering over here like a maniac, pulling at her, pleading with her.  I was not cool, I was not collected, I was close to losing it.  It was embarrassing and overwhelming.

Finally, after shoveling some food down my throat, I told Jeff that we just had to leave, and we had to leave NOW.  We got home and I was just overwhelmed with exhaustion.  Lily was summarily fed, bathed, and finally put down to bed (just as worn out as we were, I’m sure).  I think we watched a movie that night, but I promptly fell asleep, so I don’t remember much of it.  Monday was one of those days where we really needed something to do to get us out of the house, but because it was a holiday and the weather was awful, there was really nowhere to go.  Lily was stir crazy (as were Jeff and I), and we tried to get out of the house between rain storms. 

This spring has been particularly awful.  It snowed up through the beginning of May (to be exact I believe our last snowfall was on May 3^rd), and since then it has been gloomy and cold and rainy more often than not.  The few sunny days have tended to fall on the weekdays.  I’m hoping that June brings a turn in the weather and we can all get outside and enjoy ourselves after being cooped up since November. 

I just re-read what I wrote and I realize that I sound terribly negative.  I’ve neglected to write about the scent of blooming lilacs that hangs heavy in the air, the lush greenery that softens the dullest days, the sweet sounds of Lily babbling as she moves from room to room on a never-ending march of discovery, the neighbors who stop by to share a beer and share advice on the local schools, the walks to nearby coffee shops and restaurants, the small joy of having a glass of wine with Jeff while we sit on the front porch swing in the early evenings. 

Each day is one part exhausting, one part wonderful, one part mundane, all parts worthwhile.

 

 

One Year Later

I can’t believe it’s been a year.  Over a year, actually, at the time that I’m writing this.  A year since my father passed.  Passed into what, I have no idea.  My faith is both buoyed and strained by the complexities of caring for a baby.  Buoyed, because watching the spark that is inside of Lily positively GLOW has me certain that there is so much more to her than what I can actually see, and strained because I don’t have the time or the energy to contemplate matters of the spirit for more than a few moments at a time. 

But no matter, he has still passed on, to wherever we might go, and the fact is that I miss him.  I miss talking to him, I miss his laugh, I miss sharing bits of my life with him.  I can still conjure up his image, his voice, if I try, but it’s a poor substitute for the real thing.  Platitudes like “he lives inside you” never really make up for the lack of having him ACTUALLY here.  He can go on living inside of me, if that’s how it works, but I’d rather sit and listen to him poke fun at the republican party or share some debaucherous story from his college years. 

On the one year anniversary of my father’s death, we traveled to Muskegon, MI, to inter his ashes and have a small memorial service.  I read a piece that I had written, and seriously, it was HARD.  Probably one of the harder things I’ve ever done in my life.  I practiced it and practiced it the night before, and thought I had it down.  And then, when it came time to read it, I just…it was like it just hit me that this was actually happening, that little urn in front of me was all that was left of my father and we were putting him in the fucking ground, and he’s not going to jump out from behind a tree and yell “gotcha!” and I felt like I was falling through space.  I kept glancing at Lily, hoping it would ground me, but instead all I could do was stare at all these people surrounding me, listening to me, crying with me, as I shook and garbled through, until at last it was done and I had to stand there and throw flowers on the urn and try not to stumble on my way back to the car.  And then I was TIRED.  Bone tired.  But we still had to go to a dinner with our guests, and then we had to head back to the beach house where my family was joining us for the night.  All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry and mourn and go to sleep, but hard things are demanding things, and there would be no rest that night.  We drank wine and we ate, but I will admit to taking very little pleasure in any of it.  My father was an anchor in our family, and without him, I feel like we are all adrift from one another without him, struggling to redefine how we work together without a key member.  It’s difficult and will take time, and until then it’s all rough edges and guesses and best tries.

I know that this sounds like a rather dismal and dark day, and I’m okay with that, because it was.  I think it’s okay to admit that the day you bury your father is a dark day.  Sometimes the eternal pursuit of happiness needs to be set aside as we rest in the shadows and mourn what we have lost.  It’s okay to be angry and scared and tired and not much fun to be around.  This is all a part of it, a part of doing the hard things, the things where we embrace our feelings and go down that rabbit hole and percolate in the mess of emotions that make up grieving.  Darkness and light, we need space for them both.



My Reading:

When I think of my father, the first things that come to mind are his unbridled enthusiasm for life, his smile, and his wonderful laugh.  In the year since his passing, I have poured over his memoirs, rejoicing in his voice that comes through his stories, and always I am struck by how deeply, how vividly, he lived his life.  His sense of adventure is infectious even now, as I read his detailed accounts of cross country travel in his youth – all done by hitch hiking – up through to his later adventures throughout Europe and North America.  My memories of him are so vibrantly alive, with music, with laughter and dance and wine and food, so in love with his family and his friends and his home, so passionate in all he said and did, that it was difficult for me to come up with the proper poem or verse to read here, at his memorial.  To focus on death seemed to miss the very point of the way that my father lived his life. 

And so I would like to share a reading from Jack Kerouc, a man that I think my father would have appreciated, a fellow liberal thinker, an American Catholic, and a man of many words who embraced and celebrated the dichotomies that existed in his life.  From his work On the Road, I offer this selection in memory of my father:

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop, and everybody goes ahh...

Dad, thank you for burning so bright.  May we all continue to carry your light forward into the world.

Daycare Angst

I occasionally (read: all the time) worry that Lily might be suffering from having two working parents, that there might be something inherently better about staying home with Mommy or Daddy when compared to daycare.  I’ve had difficulty reconciling the fact that when my maternity leave was over I practically skipped back to work, never shedding a single tear over dropping Lily at daycare, while all the other moms I know talked about how heartbroken they were to be back at work.  I’ve wondered if perhaps Lily is somehow getting shorted because of my desire to go back to work.

This morning I had an experience that changed the way I’ll think about this forever.  I brought Lily into her little daycare, and she was the first baby there for the day.  Because of this, I was able to take her into the toddler room, where she instantly became the star attraction.  Two little girls immediately gravitated toward her, talking softly to her and stroking her arms.  A little boy joined soon after, carefully patting Lily’s hair.  The daycare women moved Lily over onto the soft mat in the middle of the room, and we all stood back.  Lily was soon surrounded by four small children who were all patting her or holding her hands or combing her hair (which, good luck there kids!), and Lily was positively BEAMING, gazing up at all these children with complete adoration.

As I watched this sweet little scene unfold, it hit me.  Lily is her own person, having her own experiences, and at times those experiences have nothing to do with me, and that’s okay.  Whatever she might be missing from being home alone with Mommy all day is more than made up for through her interactions with the other children in her daycare.  She is happy and well cared for and loved, and she has lots of different experiences throughout each day, and the fact that I am not personally there for each of these experiences doesn’t take away from their intrinsic value.

I left Lily with a light heart, slightly wistful that I couldn’t linger for just a bit longer to watch her enjoy the “baby spotlight,” but also happy that she has such a wonderful place to spend her days.

Grief and Change

Grief is a tricky thing.  It ebbs and flows, at times seeping into spaces around ordinary things, surprising you by its presence in the mundane and the ordinary.  I’ve come to discover that I miss my father most when things change.  The birth of my daughter, a promotion at work, a new house – these are all things that I was never able to share with him, things that I know would have brought him joy and pride.  Initially I thought that visiting places where he had been would be hardest, places with memories attached, and yet I’ve found it’s the opposite.  Instead, I grieve for what I was never able to share.  I picture showing him our new house, how excited he would have been, how he would have poured over the long history of the neighborhood, delighting in the local shops and the architecture and the fact that we finally have a proper guest room.  Losing my father meant losing my most fervent and exuberant cheerleader, my favorite story teller, my fellow history buff.  It’s almost been a year since we lost him, which doesn’t seem possible.  It’s still startling to call home and realize I can’t talk to him, to look at Lily and know that she’ll never meet him.  I’m grateful that we were close enough that I can pretty accurately predict what he would say about most situations, but sometimes that’s the hardest part, because more and more the things I miss the most are his unbridled enthusiasm, his smile, his laugh…the things that were so uniquely him, that don’t lend themselves well to recreation.  I miss you dad.

On Weights and Measures

As with all things, pregnancy came with its ups and downs for me.  Primarily (surprisingly, at least to me) positive things.  I never got sick, I felt fantastic, and I spent most of my pregnancy fascinated, no, enthralled, with my ever changing body.  I took good care of myself, I did yoga and spin classes, and I ate ice cream almost every single night.  Never in my entire life have I ever felt so good about myself at a time when I would have expected to feel pretty dejected. 

The aftermath of the pregnancy, though, has been difficult.  My body changed in ways that I didn’t predict, and in my mad pursuit of breastfeeding success, I gained ten pounds while on maternity leave while gobbling down “lactation cookies” (the lactation consultant said to eat four a day, but I figured ten a day would help my milk out more).  I never did produce a lot of milk, but I sure ate a lot of those cookies.

Fast forward to today, and I’m still carrying some of the extra baby weight.  I’ve tried to whittle it off with dieting, with some limited success, but it’s slow going and frustrating. 

Then, a few days ago, as I stood in front of the mirror, fretting about my stomach and my butt and my thighs, as I weighed myself for the hundredth time, only to be disappointed, it hit me as to how unhealthy I was behaving, and what a bad example I am setting for Lily.  Why can’t I be more forgiving of my body, say “thank you” to it for carrying my beautiful, healthy child, and cut myself some slack?  What if, this little voice whispered to me, you just ate when you were hungry and were active for the joy of it and let the rest of it go?  What if you stopped trying to squeeze into pre-baby pants that might never really fit right again anyways because, hey, your hips changed shape when you had the baby and you might lose plenty of weight and they’ll still fit funny.  What if you set an example for Lily to accept herself for who she is?  How different might her life be if she doesn’t spend half her time talking about her diet, her weight, pointing out all her supposed “flaws” and obsessing over a number on the scale?  Because as I sit and whisper mean things to myself in the mirror, I can’t help but think how horrified I would be if Lily were to say those same things to herself.  And I realize that the only way to avoid teaching her how to do this is to quit doing it myself.

Because, really, aren't we both worth it?

Nighttime with Lily

There is a very strong part of me that is just WAITING for the day that Lily sleeps through the night. Like, really and truly puts her wee little head down at 7 and doesn’t peep again until 6 or 7 the next morning. But there is a small (albeit exhausted) part of me that clings hard to those sleep-drenched nighttime shuffles toward her crib, where her fretting is soothed by draping her over my shoulder and softly rocking her as she slumps into my chest. She sighs and her little face turns up towards me and I stare at her until I drift off to sleep myself. Or pulling her into my bed at 5 AM, where she curls against me like a pill bug, tucking her head into my shoulder and pulling her feet up, forming a warm ball of baby pushing into my side. I know this won’t last forever, so I try and enjoy each moment, even when I’m so tired it feels like sleep is clawing at me in the dark. Because a sleeping baby is a lovely thing, but the act of providing comfort is lovelier still.

We Three Peas

As Lily has passed her six month mark and Jeff and I have both celebrated our 39th and 36th birthdays, respectively, I can’t help but consider the idea of another baby. People have assured me that I have time, maybe not all the time in the world, but certainly enough time where this decision doesn’t have to be made today, this instant, right now. But the thing is, with Lily here, time has become slippery. Baby time is different than normal time. Hours stretch out before you, endlessly (at three in the morning when the baby won’t sleep, at noon the next day when you’re on your fifth cup of coffee), and then, suddenly, you look up and you have a great big six month old baby and you have no idea how it all happened but you have over 1,000 photos to document it, so you must have been there for all of it. And this notion of time being this tricky thing has me worried that while this decision doesn’t have to be made today, it does need to be made sooner than I might imagine.

And this is where I’m stuck, because the truth of the matter is that I adore our little family right now. Lily is a happy, bright, funny baby who has carved out a perfect little space for herself in our home, in our hearts, in our lives. Things feel balanced. I feel like, even with a full time job and a baby, I still have a little time to myself here and there. I think Jeff feels the same way. I worry that another baby will throw off this balance, that what little time we have to allow ourselves to breathe will disappear, that I’ll lose myself in the minutia and be unable to see the big picture. I’m hoping that I’m only feeling this way because I’m CURRENTLY lost in the minutia of caring for a small baby, that this fear will ease as Lily gets a little older and I get more confident in being a parent, but the fact that we waited until our mid/late thirties to have children has us on a different time schedule than if we had started earlier.

I’ll admit that as Lily gets older and cuter and more fun by the day, I do wonder what the next one would be like. But, as this decision really can be put off for a little while, I’ve decided to embrace the summer and enjoy this special time with my very merry little threesome of a family. Maybe a little mindfulness will also serve to slow things down a bit, because I can’t help but feel that I’ve been thrown into warp speed, and who would want to miss all this?

Update - Long Overdue

Well, between work and raising a small baby, I seem to have lost sight of this blog. I will try to do better, although at this point I’m not sure if anyone is still checking it. Oh well. Lily is a happy, healthy baby, and is, quite truthfully, the light of my life. I’ve always thought that saying was corny until Lily came along. Now, though, I get it. I come home from work and spend a few hours cuddling with this wonderful, glowing creature who seems to be all smiles most of the time (I can’t lie, she’s human and obviously that means sometimes she’s a grump and she cries, but really, she seems to be happy the majority of the time). Here are a few photos from the past months: Lily at the St. Paul Patrick’s Day Parade:

A random Sunday afternoon:

Sweet, sweet Lily:

We are so in love with this little girl! I'm so excited for summer to come, I envision picnics at the park, barbeques with friends, and long walks around the neighborhood, all with Lily in tow. I never realized what sweetness could be contained in such small things.

Baby Class

Today was the last day of the mom and baby class that I took. The class is offered by the local hospitals, and it started six weeks ago. Each week a group of new moms and their babies met to discuss our lives, our babies, our struggles, and our breakthroughs. I'll miss having this outlet to compare and contrast and get information and other advice from the interesting moms who attended the class. It was so much fun watching all the babies change from week to week. We took a class photo today. Talk about too much cuteness!



I'm hoping to make my own little mom and baby class with some of my good friends to keep up the outlet and great baby interaction.

Sleeping Babe

Is there anything more precious than a sleeping baby? If there is, then I don't know what it is. The utter abandon to sleep, the soft grunts and the tiny hint of a snore, the warm quiet that settles over the house, it is all something to drink in with a sense of gratitude. It is also a great time to grab a snack.

11 Weeks in a Nutshell

So, what have we been up to for the past eleven weeks? We welcomed the lovely Miss Lillian (Lily) Fox Taylor on November 29th, 2011. And after that...time ceased to exist in any form I have previously been acquainted with.

Her birth was a long and difficult ordeal (46 hours in total). Jeff wrote her birth story live while we were in the hospital, and I'll post it later. Suffice it to say, she eventually joined us and we were all instantly smitten.



We spent the better part of a week in the hospital before finally bringing Lily home. We left the hospital in a fog, completely amazed that they let us take this tiny little creature home. The first three weeks were intense and a complete revelation. I know that time is relative, but I have never experienced the truth of this before until I had to care for a newborn infant. Time slowed and our entire world contracted to the small sphere of our home. Night followed day followed night without notice. Sleep came in gasps, short and sudden and quick to end, and at one point I thought I might never get off the couch again.



And yet, as with all things, this eventually passed. I figured out the Moby, and we were given the wonderful gift of the DVD Happiest Baby on the Block by good friends Matt and Adrienne (thank you thank you thank you). We were able to put Lily down, at first for only a few minutes, then for longer and longer periods.



We had lots of visitors (Grandma and Grandpa Taylor, Grandma Rushcamp, Uncle Matt, Aunt Erin, Aunt Melissa, and scores of friends). Lily enjoyed all the attention.






Eventually we got brave and started taking Lily out. She visited Punch's Pizza, The Groveland Tap, The Lowry, The Highland Grill, and various grocery stores and baby stores. Lily is happy to support our local shops and restaurants, and we're all looking forward to warmer weather when we can have weekend stroller adventures as a family.

Meanwhile, Lily continues to get bigger every day. She has started smiling, cooing, and laughing, and is a delight to be around. Well, for the most part. She seriously hates tummy time and is pretty grumpy about the whole thing. She loves her mobiles and watching us cook (all that chopping! and the smells!), and she tries to get outside any time the weather permits. We can't wait to take her on hikes and bike rides this summer. Being a baby born in Minnesota in the winter, her time outside has been limited, although it's been mild enough that she's gotten out more than one would expect.

Here are a few more pics of our lovely, happy girl. Lily, we are so glad you are a part of our lives!

41 weeks (well, almost)

Introducing me, the human wrecking ball:



I've had a few days of pretty steady contractions, although mainly of the Braxton Hicks variety. Once in a while a "real one" will sneak its way in there, but never frequently enough to amount to anything. I have been assured that no one has ever been pregnant forever, but I'm beginning to question the veracity of this statement. I stayed home from work today, confident that today was the day, only to have the contractions slow down. Jeff and I went to the Nook for lunch, hoping that maybe an enormous cheeseburger would crowd the baby out. We'll have to report back later on the soundness of this plan.

At this point, we're both just beyond excited to meet our little girl, and of course I'm feeling rather uncomfortable carrying so much baby around. But apparently my womb is super comfortable, and the baby appears unwilling to make an entrance at this very moment. I keep reminding myself that these things happen when they're meant to happen, but I see no good reason why that time shouldn't be RIGHT NOW.

40 Weeks Plus One Day

So, here I am, forty weeks plus one day. A little over forty weeks ago, Jeff and I were climbing Fox Glacier in New Zealand, unaware of the tiny little spark of life glowing deep inside of me. We took helicopter rides up the mountainside and climbed inside of deep blue fissures in the ice. Later we would walk through the rain forests that sweep alongside the glacier before sharing a quiet dinner. I remember that Jeff poured me a bath that evening, and we enjoyed the quiet of the small New Zealand town before heading off the next morning to Queenstown. Days later we would be deep in the aftermath of the Christchurch earthquake. All the while, in utter silence, cells continued to quietly divide and multiply, and our lives were forever changed, although we didn't realize it at the time.

Forty weeks later, much has changed. I lost my father, and I feel much older than I did nine months ago. I also feel softer and more open towards the people around me. Perhaps this is what happens, sometimes, when you lose someone close to you…you feel more forgiving towards others, maybe because you recognize more fully the transient nature of this life we lead.

Or maybe it's the hormones.

Whatever it is, in these last days of my pregnancy I can do little other than sit and wait and contemplate. I wonder what this little person inside of me will be like, where her life will take her, what her joys will be, what sorrows will visit her. I have so many hopes for her, and so many fears. At my most philosophical, I realize that we each have our own paths to walk in this world, and she is no different than anyone else, but I also feel a powerful urge to do everything in my power to direct her and protect her. A happy medium, I'm sure, is to provide her with love and guidance and all the tools she will need to make good decisions, and then to pray for a sprinkle of luck and sunshine to light her path.

She will be joining us any day now. It's hard for me to imagine all the changes that are in store for all of us, but I know they are coming.

39 Weeks

39 weeks today...and not a whole lot to report. I think we're finally to the point where we feel "ready" insofar as brand new parents can ever be ready. I am pretty sure we have all the required elements to keep a baby alive, at the very least. I still can't really wrap my head around the fact that in a few weeks (at most) we will have a little baby girl that we are totally responsible for. I know I should be savoring these last few days of relative freedom, but I'm so utterly uncomfortable that it's difficult to really fully embrace this time. I've finally reached that stage where labor no longer frightens me, mainly because I am just at that point where I am in a good deal of pain and I figure one day of insanity is worth it if it will alleviate the chronic, daily pain that I'm dealing with. Plus, I miss being able to just be quick and energetic. I miss running up the stairs, going on brisk walks, actually bending over in yoga. Getting back to this level of movement will be a welcome change!

And, of course, I can't wait to meet Baby Girl! For now, I'm stuck staring at my belly, wondering what this little girl will be like. Right now I don't have a whole lot to go on. She seems opinionated (she hates hot water bottles placed too close to her head) and strong (she is definitely trying to bust through my rib cage), two qualities that I appreciate in a girl. The rest...well, only time will tell.

So, here I am, contemplating my belly and trying to determine if I can get any bigger:






Oh, and here I am, sitting on my exercise ball, where I spend quite a bit of time these days. Oh baby!

Quick Pics

We're down to the final weeks, and I'm officially too pregnant for words. No more spinning, very little yoga, and a whole lot of sitting around. A fair amount of grunting occurs when I need to get up or roll over, and my greatest pleasure consists of sitting on an exercise ball and trying to stretch out my pelvic floor. While I'm nervous about labor, I'm to the point where I'm ready to do just about anything to get this baby OUT. It is high time she joins us!

Here is a picture of me at 36 weeks:




And here are some Halloween pictures, at 38 weeks:





I just keep getting bigger by the day, but the days are numbered. In the meantime, we're pretty much "baby ready" or as ready as can be expected, given the fact that we have no idea what to expect. The fact that a hospital is going to send us home with a REAL LIVE BABY in a few weeks is impossible to imagine.

October Weekend

We spent the weekend in a pendulum state, swinging back and forth between preparing for baby and trying our best to enjoy one of our last free weekends prior to baby.

Saturday morning Jeff went to spinning, while I attended pre-natal yoga at Blooma. The instructor used the word "luscious" a lot. "Move your luscious hips," she said. "Swing that luscious baby around," she commanded. I kept sneaking glances at her, trying to figure out if she was serious. She was.

Later, we went to IKEA. Not the brightest idea, IKEA on a Saturday. We braved the hordes and picked up shelving, baskets, and a new rug for the baby's room. We spent the rest of the day putting together furniture and rearranging rooms. It was exhausting. By the end of the day, we both needed a time-out. Putting together IKEA furniture does not tend to bring out the best in people, and we are no exception. After a dinner at Punch's and a quick trip to finish up a purchase at Pottery Barn, we were in for the evening. We had big plans for Sunday, but by Saturday night, we had scrapped them in favor of taking a day off.

Sunday morning we slept in (heavenly, and according to all accounts, something to be savored now before it disappears forever), then headed out to breakfast. After breakfast, we went on a quick walk, and then settled down in the house. Jeff turned on a football game, and I curled up on the couch with The Marriage Plot (Jeffrey Eugineides!). I adore Sunday afternoons like this, the sun puddling on the wood floors, the sound of the cat's claws, clack-clack-clack, as she moves between rooms, the yeasty smell of Jeff's beer brewing on the stove…the house feels full of life and warmth and small mercies, and I wish I could wrap the day in paper, a gift to open on a rainy day.

Eventually we made our way back out into the world, heading to the Rack Shack for barbeque. This didn't work out as planned, mainly because the Rack Shack is closed on Sundays. Disappointed but not thwarted, we ended up at Matt's for juicy lucys and french fries, and then called it a day and spent the rest of the evening watching football.

All in all, not a bad weekend. The house is pretty much ready for baby. Not sure the parents are ready for baby, but we're getting there!

Lessons from my Mother

This past weekend, my mom came to stay with me for a few days. The time was short, but the lessons? They were BIG.

I will admit that I was feeling a little anxious about seeing my mom. This was our first foray into our "new normal," as life continues ever on after the passing of my dad. I spent a lot of time wondering what the grief triggers would be, my brain spinning round and round as I tried to come up with ways to soften what was sure to be a weekend full of difficult moments. I wanted to make sure that I was paying attention to my mom and her needs without fussing over her in a way that would make her uncomfortable.

As it turns out, well, yes, the weekend had some difficult moments. After my baby shower on Sunday, I caught myself thinking "That was so beautiful! I need to call dad and tell him how it went…" and then to startle with surprise that I couldn't do this. I looked at my mom and realized she was crying, too. There were other similar moments, where we shared tears and memories and expressed our deep sadness and sense of loss to each other.

But we also spent hours deep in conversation about parenting philosophies, our shared love of literature, the joy of travel, and our search for creativity in our lives. We shopped for hours at the gorgeous baby stores that are dotted all over St Paul, we shared lovely meals in the sunshine, we laughed, we confessed weaknesses and pet peeves, and we marveled at the gorgeous fall weather.

The time spent with my mother was eye opening…listening to her speak, I was struck by how intelligent and curious and interesting she is. Of course, she has always been these things, and I've always known that she is these thiings, but something about this weekend brought this into crystal clarity for me. Her strength, her determination to find joy and purpose in life, is inspirational.

I find her fascinating, which is such an interesting way to feel about your mother.

Marathon Weekend

We spent the weekend in a flurry of activity, trying to get up to speed on baby-related activities. The nursery is almost done, if you ignore the fact that there is no crib, changing table, or glider in it. I suppose this would bother me more if I was actually planning on having Sweet Pea sleep in there any time soon, but as we plan on having her in our room for quite some time, I'm totally okay with just having the walls painted and the art work hung.

The other big baby-related change is, of course, the loss of the guest room. This forced us to give up Jeff's beloved purple couch, which is being replaced with a sleeper sofa. The couch was hauled out to the ally last night, where hopefully some college students will see it and give it a new adventure.

Sunday morning brough beautiful weather and our annual tradition of cheering on the marathon runners. We normally meet up afterwards at Bonfire for mimosas and bloody marys, but unfortunately our runner (Chad) was sick and we had to skip the celebrations and hope for better luck next year. Still, it was fun to watch everyone on the last leg of the race.




Can't wait to bring Baby Taylor next year to join in the festivities!

Letter to my Daughter

My dearest daughter,

When I was 27 weeks pregnant with you, my father, your grandfather, passed away unexpectedly. I grieve for the loss of my father, and I also grieve that you will never know your grandfather. He was so very excited to have a granddaughter on the way, and I know he would have delighted in you.

When I initially set out to write you this letter, my goal was to give you a sense of who your grandfather was, to capture, in some small way, a bit of his essence and give it to you here, a gift from mother to daughter, a gift of words and thoughts and hopes and memories. While struggling to decide just what stories I would give you here, what qualities to describe and how to hone in on what defined him more than anything else, I first landed on his fearlessness. He never hesitated to share his opinion, he had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he rooted for the underdog more often than not. He was quick to laugh, and when his temper did flare up, he was quick to forgive. He had no fear of expressing himself, of rejoicing, out loud, in the beauty of the world around him. He didn't fear honest praise, and he was ever an ardent cheerleader in our home. Countless times I remember him gazing at my mother with glowing eyes, encouraging all of us children to "Look at your mother! Look how beautiful she is. Go on, tell her how pretty she is." I remember thinking that we should all hope to be so lucky to be as loved as my mother was, then, basking in my father's adoration. I grew to love watching my dad's face light up each time I accomplished something, and even as an adult, he was often the first person I would call to share good news with, knowing that he would take such satisfaction in my small triumphs, whatever they might be. I hope that I can approach the world with this same open heart, and in doing so, teach you to be fearless as well, brave in your beliefs and your ability to face the world around you on your own terms, just like your grandpa did.

I mentioned laughter already, didn't I? Oh little one, the laughter in our home, it was raucous and loud and always bubbling beneath the surface. We fought one another and then laughed about it endlessly, and your grandfather told the best stories, stories that had us all howling with laughter, often turning into stop-I-can't-breathe laughter. I still remember the peace I felt when, as a child, I would lay in bed with my windows open on warm summer nights, and the sound of my parents laughter would drift into my room, lulling me to sleep, safe in the knowledge of their presence and their joy in one another, their happiness with their friends and their small family.

And bundled up with all this fearlessness and laughter was an undercurrent of kindness. Daughter, your grandfather was a kind man, full of forgiveness, with an innate knack of knowing how to connect to people. He listened to people, and people responded to this open ear, this open heart, in a myriad of wonderful ways. He counseled teenagers, he talked to them, he heard them, and daughter, when you listen to people and you really try and hear what they are saying, they will open up little doors in their hearts and you never know what wonderful stuff might come out. Young adults found a champion in your grandfather, and in listening to them, he gave them a voice, a belief in the power and the validity of their thoughts and actions, and in doing this he touched the lives of countless young people. When I look at pictures of my father, I often see that his gaze is not at the camera, but rather at the people around him, people that he loved dearly, and his eyes are soft and his mouth is smiling and you can almost see his gentle soul drifting out to alight on those around him, shining and bouncing and rejoicing in all of us.

But I would be remiss to stop here, to not share with you what I think was underneath all that fearlessness, what held that heart open when others might have closed, what led the people who knew him to remark on his patience and his kindness and his laughter, and that, my dear daughter, is love. As the days pass and I have more time to reflect on my father, on what made him tick, I'm struck by his capacity to love, to love deeply and openly and with abandon, to express this love verbally and physically, with words and hugs and a gentle squeeze of the arm. My father is no longer with us, not physically, but his love remains, as strong as ever. Perhaps this has been one of the more revealing aspects of this loss, the fact that I can still feel my father's love, even without him here to remind me of its existence. And as I ready myself to give birth to you, I begin to understand more and more the way that love can transcend our physical forms, because already, little one, I love you, utterly and completely and always and forever, and I realize that my father loved us all in this way, and that love is still here. It is all around us, in the smiles and the laughter that we share, in our delight for the beautiful gifts that surround us, in our gratitude for the memories we share and the memories yet to be made. My father let his love shine out onto the world around him, painting broad golden strokes that brushed across the lives of his family and his friends, and that light lingers there still. Your grandfather lived a life full of laughter, he loved fiercely, and he chose kindness more often than not. For this, he was loved in return, deeply, and this legacy of love will extend to you. A part of your grandfather will live on in you, as it does in all of us, and he will forever be a part of your heart, as he will forever be a part of our hearts. In this way, dear daughter, none of us are ever truly parted.

Love,

Your Mother

32 weeks

Me at 32 weeks (almost). I'm getting into the uncomfortable stage, and Jeff is fighting a losing battle with the pillows that keep getting added to the bed. The baby is doing well, and has moved into a head-down position, where she'll hopefully stay until she makes her debut. We're working on finishing up her room and trying to distinguish between "needs," "wants," and "utterly superfluous." Right now I am pushing for some diapers, at the very least.

Lutsen

Jeff and I spent a beautiful weekend at Lutsen, soaking up the sunshine and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. I find that there are few things in this world as soothing as a large body of water to gaze across. During times of great sorrow, the vastness of a sea, or an ocean, or a great lake has the power to calm racing thoughts and smooth the jagged edges of the heart. Sitting at the edge of Lake Superior, I was finally able to think about my dad without the sensation of being choked by scrabbling fingers of grief clawing at my throat. The expansive beauty of the North Shore gave me the space I needed to think, and I had only to open my eyes to be startled into a sense of wonder…a bald eagle flushed from the brush at the edge of the lake, sweeping by our heads…an endless blanket of stars wiping the sleep from my eyes at three in the morning, peeping through my window and beckoning me onto the balcony, whispering stories of mystery and time and the expansiveness of the universe.

The weather over the weekend was glorious -- warm, sunny, and calm.

At night we watched the moon dance over the water




and in the morning the sun rose over the lake in a puddle of gold and blue.




We started each day with breakfast at the Lodge



And then headed into Grand Marais. We found a local music festival





and then headed home to cook up dinners at our cabin.

Steak with aspargus risotto, brats and sweet corn, then evenings by the fireplace, listening to music and talking softly in the dark.