Tell it like it is

Expecting, in a family way, preggers, with child, swallowed a watermelon seed, bun in the oven. Most of the euphemisms for "pregnant" seem patriarchal, sexually repressed or silly.

Tied in a bow

Occasionally I find myself a bit envious of all the great new things available to pregnant moms these days. I thought I was so modern when I had Em 33 years ago. I took Lamaze classes and opted for music in the delivery room and a warm bath for the baby given by her Dad immediately post delivery (supposed to be good for bonding). I read to the baby in utero and generally had a happy and very healthy pregnancy and quick delivery. I thought I was cutting edge. But, among other things, I kind of wish I could have had a doula or midwife--an understanding woman or two of my very own--to see me through. Back then, the concept seemed a little out there, and I got no encouragement from family or friends or the medical community, though I was technically part of the Our Bodies, Ourselves generation. What was I thinking? Midwives or the like have been delivering babies far longer than physicians, and who better than another female to get the job done. On a much lighter note, I really wish I had had cute clothes. I love the way mothers-to-be accentuate their baby bump with tighter-fitting styles. I was of the just-cover-it-up, add-a-bow-and-maybe-no-one-will-notice generation. I looked more like a gift-wrapped gnome than the womanly earth mother I felt inside. Pregnancy is hot. Wish I'd known.

Mother's love

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.

             - Elizabeth Stone

Hats off to babies

I’m cleaning out the attic in very small stages, usually early morning, since the Houston heat keeps me from spending much time there. It hasn’t been bad. In fact, I feel like I’ve been on an archaeological dig, unearthing books, papers and other artifacts from the past, each requiring at least a moment of reminiscence before I cast them into the “save” or “dispose of” pile. The boxes have sat there, as undisturbed as a layer of rock, for over two decades, and that was fine with me. My hand was forced when we decided to downsize our home.

I’ve come across a number of boxes of baby clothes, which are of particular interest to me right now, and I find myself lingering over each. Yesterday I found Emily’s first Christmas outfits—a candy-cane-striped sleeper with matching elf hat (sorry, Em) and a red velvet dress and patent leather shoes. So tiny. I laughed at the scuffed knees of most of her pants, as I remembered her crawling furiously across the floor on her way to learning to walk. I even came across a note that my sister-in-law had enclosed with a box of clothes she’d sent after her daughters had outgrown them. I can only sort for so long, and the heat really isn’t to blame. Not sure what the emotion is…unbounded love, a sense of fleeting time, excitement over a new baby, pain at the realization (in just a few cases) of my bad taste in clothes, all of the above. I saved the hat.    

Room for more

Our daughter and son-in-law, Em and Mark, broke the news to my family yesterday. Since my husband and I live so far away in Texas, I was glad that their day was filled with people who love them to share in their joyous news. And I know that my extended family of sisters, brother-in-law and nephews and nieces will keep a watchful eye over our daughter when we cannot. Since we are of Greek descent, nothing is short and sweet, but rather, the longer the party the better. They gathered at my Mother’s house—the house where I grew up—and created yet another memory for those hallowed walls. The day started with the big news, then moved to celebrating with food and drinks, more relatives and picture taking, finally ending in the evening. This new baby will be my Mother's third great grandchild, and it seems to me that her love just keeps expanding with each.

Now three

Emily says her husband, Mark, kisses her, then kisses her belly every time he leaves the house. This really touches me.

A definite resemblance

I received the first photo of our baby in the mail today. It’s a lovely black-and-white shot from Emily’s first ultrasound, and the little one is in clear view. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking at—is that the crown or is that the bum?—but apparently I'm not the only who couldn't make heads or tails, since the picture has a helpful digital arrow pointing the way. Across the bottom of the photo, in machine type, it says, "Hi, Mommy and Daddy." How incredible: peering at generations of DNA waiting to burst forth this unique little creature, so safe inside his Mom. I put the picture on the refrigerator so I can pat it every time I walk by. “Hi, Baby.”

Naming names

Unlike other women I know, I have no problem with the label of grandmother. I welcome it as an exciting chapter in my life, and I feel proud that I've made it this far with so many good things to look forward to. But, surprisingly, terminology has become somewhat important at this juncture. What do you want to be called? our children ask. My husband's grandmothers were called Grandmother (a.k.a., "the pill") and Grandma, the former being the proper one around which children were to be seen and not heard. Grandma was the fun one who built snow forts and read bedtime stories. I had two Nanas, I guess to avoid confusion or maybe because we kids were a little slow in the vocabulary department. One was intellectual and as fun as she allowed herself to be, the other--my Greek grandma--offered a ready lap and hugs and kisses at all times. Though she knew just a handful of words in English, all of them sounded like love...or food. Most of my cousins called her Yia-Yia. Our daughter calls my mother Nana, and she called my husband's mother Grandma. So I pretty much have the whole gamut from which to choose...or, I guess, I can come up with something new. But there's always baggage: it's sort of like if you knew a girl in high school named Martha whom everyone disliked, you'd never call your kid Martha. So I guess I can't use Grandmother. And I really dislike colloquialisms like Maw-Maw and Pappy, though I'd pay a hundred bucks to call my husband Pappy just once. Baby talk is out, as are puffy ethnocentric names like Grandmere (who are we kidding?) and Yia-Yia. I'm really leaning toward Nana for two reasons: one, my mom, Nana, defines grandparenthood in the best of ways; and, two, I always loved the big, lovable, nursemaid dog of the same name in Peter Pan. I guess that says it all: I want to have the wisdom and caring of my Mom, with the vigilance, playfulness and big sloppy kisses of a St. Bernard.

Brand new, just like you

"Call me when you get home--on the speakerphone," our daughter said to my husband on his cell phone just last Thursday. We finished our errands, leisurely picked up the mail, then called her, just as she'd asked, having no idea what this might be about. I'd rehearsed the moment hundreds of times in my head, but there's nothing like hearing it in real time. Continuity and purpose and love: Learning that we are going to be grandparents melded life in an instant. And since that moment a few days ago, I've been at once (and out of character) a giddy woman, a Baby Gap addict, and a herald of good news to anyone who will listen. Thank you, very little one. We are all new, just like you.