Super saver

Sometimes I think I save way too many things, just because I am overly sentimental. Yesterday I took out the box marked, "Emily, 1977," so I could put it aside to show Em and Mark when they come to visit over the holidays. Inside was every card and letter we received congratulating us on her birth, as well as our wrist bands from the hospital and the little pink nameplate that was on her hospital basinet ("Baby Olson,") and one tiny baby shoe from the outfit we brought her home in. The rush of memories was well worth the storage of a few extra boxes of mementos, I've decided. It's not like I'm a hoarder or anything...

PS. This week the baby is the size of an heirloom tomato!!

Team sports

We went to a couples' baby shower for a friend last weekend. It's so funny how the women all cooed over the expectant mom, the baby gifts and the homemade gluten-free cake, while the men tried doubly hard to be manly, talking sports and loitering outside doing whatever it is that men do when they are together. Is a baby shower too much to ask of men? I sure hope not. I just think a man is much more apt to show his softer side when other men are not around.

I can't hug a photo

Em is emailing pictures of herself and her tummy development to her Dad and me. This last one we received is definite evidence of a baby on the way, since she's now well into her second trimester. She looks so great. At this stage, the baby is reacting to sounds, we've learned, so Em says she talks to her/him as she goes about her day. I can't wait to see her next month when I visit RI from TX. Pictures might say a thousand words, but I can't hug a photo. And I might have a few words to say to the baby, too.

Pick a pepper...

I subscribe to a website that emails me each week to tell me about the baby's development. It's so fascinating how much happens in the course of seven days and how quickly he/she is growing. From one week to the next, joints become moving parts, fingers and toes develop tiny little fingernails and toenails, the internal organs learn their jobs. I am fascinated and humbled by nature. But I find it interesting, and mildly funny, that the last bit of the email is always about weight and size--and it's always a food metaphor. A couple of weeks ago the baby was likened to a small avocado, then a turnip, now a ripened pepper. It's probably because there's a universal understanding about vegetables and fruits, thus making them the perfect international language of baby development. But when I picture my grandchild as produce, I have trouble imagining his or her perfect face without plug-in features like Mr. Potato Head. That's not right.

To be or not to be at school

I ran across a bunch of school papers of Em's as I continue to plod through the dastardly attic. There were themes running through them which made me laugh out loud. An early kindergarten paper queried about "Things I Like." Em listed me, her dad, Whiskers (her cat), her friends and days off from school. Another paper asked about a wish list. She wished for peace, for love, for happiness and for "school to be closed for two weeks." Her "favorite dreams" listed going to the beach, going on vacation with mom and dad, flying, and the school "falling down." There were more examples of her dislike of formal education, which really amused me, since she always did quite well in school and college. The mind of a little child is so uncluttered...so straight to the point. So truthful. What a great time to be sorting through all this--it makes me even more excited about welcoming another little brilliant, truthful and unfettered mind into the world.

Cake, anyone?

I'm going to make a diaper cake. No, it's not edible. Rather it's a cute little confection constructed from disposable diapers, trinkets and ribbon designed to look like a cake. It would make a great centerpiece for a baby shower, I think. So I bought teeny tiny newborn diapers and some pretty pastel ribbon, and I'll give it a shot the first opportunity I have. I'm not too good at this crafty kind of stuff, but the directions I found looked relatively easy. I don't like to knit, I don't know how to crochet and I gave up cross stitching because it made my fingers hurt. I once tried making homemade Christmas tree ornaments, but I inadvertantly hot glued a decoration to my leg that left a scar. You get the idea. So I'll make a non-biodegradable, inedible fake cake to satisfy my grandmas-should-know-how-to-make-things-for-baby mentality. And I'll do it with love and lots of humor. No glue guns required.

Hit me with your best shot

Now in her second trimester, Em is feeling the baby move. I was astounded when I felt those first flutters so many years ago, and it made me happy to be a female of the species. My whole pregnancy suddenly went from conceptual to interactive: I move, he/she moves...I rub, he/she settles down...sometimes...I hum, the baby is comforted. The world could fall apart, but I'd protect that squirming, punching, kicking, thumb-sucking little one inside me with everything I had because I felt her and I knew she was real. Me and baby. And now you.

Not fair game

I watched a perfect stranger walk up to a pregnant woman today and touch her belly without even asking, "May I please touch your belly even though I'm a perfect stranger?" I remembered how I disliked it when that happened to me. I also disliked all the unsolicited advice I got while pregnant with Em. "You're not getting big enough...you're getting too big...you're how far along?...don't drink skimmed milk; the baby needs fat!...your breasts will never be the same (maybe better??)..." and on and on. Sometimes it made me cry, probably because I didn't have the gumption to tell people to back off at the tender age of 22. I try to be very respectful of Em's body and her feelings, though I did catch myself a couple of times with hands midair heading straight for her tummy like it was community property. How dare I.  On the upside, strangers tend to be very polite with pregnant women, holding doors and offering their seats. That's nice.

When the student is ready...

Husband: I'm going to teach my grandchild to fish.
Me: I didn't know you knew how to fish.
Husband: I don't.
Me: So how's that gonna work?
Husband: Well, I guess he or she can teach me.

Life anew

Okay, so I'm still cleaning out the attic, and the last several boxes have unearthed some great baby toys circa 1977. It was like a trip through time, as I unwrapped a couple of My Pretty Ponies, the Cabbage Patch Kids (with birth certificates), and all the Fisher Price stuff. I was amazed how well they have withstood the test of a hot Houston attic, about 33 years and a couple of moves. My intention was to give everything to a local charity, but I've since had second thoughts. As I washed and re-packed the toys, I had a sweet vision of my grandchild playing with them when he/she comes to visit. I imagined my regaling the little one about the Cabbage Patch black market in the early 1980s or the time Em decided to sell the whole stable of her Pretty Ponies for 25 cents at a garage sale or how we used to have puppet shows with the Fisher Price little people stuck to the ends of our fingers. Best of all I had a glimpse of recognition as we settled on the floor in happy play.

Moms need play dates, too

We’d moved to Michigan just a few months before with a new baby and new employment for my husband. I was headlong into adjusting—to foreign surroundings, motherhood and a job that required Curt to be on the road for extended periods of time. I longed for familiarity and adult conversation. What I managed instead was a routine of feedings, naps and daily outings to remind me I was part of something beyond the walls of my home and the dullness of the ‘burbs. We were on such an outing when I heard the squeals of a child. I turned to see a beautiful little girl, arms flapping and legs, though confined by her stroller, purposefully propelling herself towards us. My own daughter turned toward the ruckus with a wary glance, and their eyes met in instant and happy recognition of their mutual baby-ness. One a towhead, the other a brunette, they cooed at one another as we adults introduced ourselves. The play date we arranged turned into a decades-long and singular friendship between the mothers that has withstood maturation, distance and the ambiguities of a long life. I still marvel at the essentialness of it. Perhaps this was a quirk of fate or simply the tenacity of a toddler. I prefer to believe in the magic of the universe, the perfect confluence of time and events that can neither be planned nor anticipated, but simply received.

I wish this for Em as she traverses the joys and challenges of motherhood.