Epiphanies in (Parentheses)

I am reading a book by Joyce Carol Oates called The Faith of a Writer for my MFA program. It is mostly a guide for new or young writers, but she does include some personal revelations mixed in as examples of the advice that she gives. There was this one passage in parentheses that was so strong and unexpected it punctured me in the belly and literally took my breath away:

     To write is to invade another's space, if only to memorialize it; to write is to invite angry censure from those who don't write, or who don't write in quite the way you do, for whom you may seem a threat. Art by its nature is a transgressive act, and artists must accept being punished for it. The more original and unsettling their art, the more devastating the punishment. If writing involves punishment, at least for some of us, the act of running even in adulthood can evoke painful memories of having been, long ago, as children, chased by tormentors. (Is there any adult who hasn't such memories? Are there any adult women who have not been, in one way or another, sexually molested or threatened?)

I have often weighed the costs of telling the true, raw story of my life so far. What punishment in the form of shame and ridicule would I walk in to if people knew what I really did and had been done to me? Lately, I have noticed that the costs decrease in value as I grow older and begin to feel comfortable in my own skin. It is nice to know who you are, and still like yourself.

However, the most eye-opening thought that she presents was the one she quickly mentioned in passing, as if a thoughtless side note that was not meant to spark a big debate, but that is exactly what has happened ever since I read that line. Are there, indeed, any women who have gone through this life unscathed and pure from sexual control/politics/perversions? This is totally hypothetical, as I do not wish for people to spill their guts to a blog.

Regardless of your personal answer, the fact that this question can even be proposed and not immediately seen as insanity makes me extremely sad for the condition in which we must survive during our lifetime. Not all of our wounds are visible on the outside, but for there to be a "condition" of sexual vicitimization makes me horrified as a woman, not for myself, but for the fleeting innocence found in today's children. It makes me scared for them.

There are really no conclusive findings to finish off this post, just a sober feeling inside as I stop typing.

Hoodah Thunkit

I am finding that the process of trying to uncover another person's motives is impossible to do, and too insane to attempt. As I try to peel back the layered onion that is my family's history, I get so frustrated when I can't figure out why people did the things they did (or didn't do anything about the things that other people did). The fact is, you can never know for sure without asking, and that is not always an option.

I rarely assume correctly when trying to determine people's motives. I often have a hard time figuring out my own, so figuring out someone else's seems absurd. Regardless, I find myself constantly obsessing over why people do what they do. I watch television shows surrounding motives, the "big reveal" at the end of every novel is about motive, people confessing at the end of their lives seems to provide peace and release for them and those around them. What is it about motives that are so captivating?

I don't know what the big deal is, but I wear myself out trying to figure some people out. Why? I ask myself that a lot, and I think that the honest answer is that I would rather not demonize someone if I don't have to. I would rather not put people in a clean, small box and be done with them. I have to know why people do the things they do because the messy truth is always more compelling than the nice outward appearance that covers it.

I realize that I am speaking in a vague, general way here, but I guess what I want to say is that it is hard when people create a polite distance instead of being who they really are. I understand the need for polite distance. I do it all the time. I don't allow many people to know my messy truth because people can really do damage with the facts of someone's life. I don't think that very many people live their life publicly so that everybody can rummage around and draw conclusions. It would be way too painful. Still, I possess the need to be understood, as most human beings do.

There is no thesis or conclusion to this post, just some thoughts that have been rolling around for a while. Feel free to share your thoughts.

A Lesson in Love

I have never been able to craft my idea of God's personality quite like I can since Ben was born. There are daily, small situations that serve as metaphors for my spiritual life with God. For example, every morning when I go get Ben out of his crib, we have the same morning routine. I change his diaper, then fix him a bowl of rice cereal with some kind of fruit in it, and then put it in a bottle with a slit nipple so he can carry it around with him while he plays or watches Sesame Street. The routine is a sure thing, it never fails.

However, every morning, while I am fixing his bottle, Ben screams over and over "bottle, bottle," pointing and frantically telling me what he wants, as if I don't already know. I always say the same thing to him, "I know you are hungry and I am making you your breakfast right now, as fast as I can." Sometimes, when Ben is especially eager, I give him a baby cereal bar or biter biscuit to hold him off until the cereal is ready. Or, I will turn on Sesame Street before the cereal is ready to distract him.

When I apply that story to my own spiritual life, I assume Ben's role, and God takes over as the parent. God promises His faithfulness over and over in the Bible, but I catch myself screaming for the very things He has already promised. I know He will come through, but I still feel the need to panic when I don't think He is moving fast enough in my timeline. I hardly ever take into account that He might be preparing the things I need as quickly as possible.

On the other hand, on the rare mornings when Ben wakes up and doesn't seem that interested in food, I still make a bottle, but I might do other things (make the bed, start the laundry) and go a little slower on our routine. I always go faster when he asks for what he wants, because I know that he is ready for food or whatever.

I feel like God is the same way. He has a lot to do, and may not see to our wants and needs as quickly as He would if we directly asked for them. He know our needs, He knows everything, but if He functions like I do as a parent, then He moves faster when His children ask. That is how I view the purpose of prayer. It confirms to God that we are ready for the things that we want and need because we directly ask fo them. I try to keep in mind that I won't always get what I want immediately, but that God doesn't forget that I still need it. He works to prepare those things for me because He loves me and cares about my life.

Also, becoming a parent made me understand free will a little better. I always wondered why free will was necessary because of all the hurt that comes from people choosing to do the wrong thing. I changed my mind recently when Ben moved from a baby to a toddler. He is a lot more independent and makes his own decisions about things like which toy to play with or DVD to watch or what kind of food to eat. When he was a baby, he couldn't go anywhere because he didn't know how to crawl. I held him all of the time and snuggled him every chance I got.

Now, I have to steal a kiss and a hug from Ben whenever I can get it, since he is constantly on the run and doesn't have time for the thousands of hugs and kisses I would like to give him daily. It's the moments when he freely walks over to snuggle with me or give me a kiss that are so precious to me, I can not even explain. It breaks my heart and melts me like nothing else can.

Sure, having a captive snuggling partner the first few months of his life are some of the best memories of my life, but it makes a huge difference when he freely gives affection, instead of just passively accepting my affection. God desires that same euphoria that comes from receiving affection from his children when it is given freely, not just having creations that accept his affection passively.

Pens Can Be Swords

I think that I have decided to write under an assumed pen name. Perhaps only for memoir, but if I feel comfortable with it, I could expand it to be my new name. I am at an unfamiliar crossroads with writing to be free and writing to imprison my family. What kind of mother would purposely write about her sexual exploits when there is the chance that her son would read it? What kind of daughter would write about her hateful parents, especially when death has removed the chance for one of them to submit a rebuttal? What kind of wife would tell, in great detail, how she chose to marry another man in another life, or to show her husband's weaknesses as comedic fodder? Who would do that?

Well, I could name a ton with strong literary reason to do so, but I can't add my own name to that list just yet. The feeling of what "others" would think, or how hurt my family would be makes me pause. Now, a pen name could be easily added to that list. The fact that I had a lucrative secret is intriguing, but it puts me in the category with all of the other women writers that couldn't start a writing career with their own name, so they had to assume another's. Those used to be the women that I pitied most in lit. class. What journey has my life taken that would welcome that silence?

I have my ideas, but I don't trust my voice anymore. Not with my name attached. My mother informed me that I would be leading my family into Jerry Springer territory, and such reckless things could cause shame and even suicide. So, the pen can be a sword sometimes, I guess. I just didn't know that I would be the one holding the fatal weapon.

Getting Off

Yesterday, I spoke something ugly into exsistence. I had just been informed by my professor that a flimsy first draft of a story I had hastily written on a Saturday afternoon was the skeleton of my first published book in the near future. I was floored by that statement, seeing as I had already carefully and ignorantly crafted my thesis project before I arrived there, and it had nothing to do with what this story was about. The exchange went like this:

Dan: I think what you have got here is the beginning of your memoir. I want to see much more of this trip to India than just being on the train. What were you doing there? How did you get around? What did you see?

Me: Well, the part about India is just a prop to tell the real story about me not feeling like I fit in back home or in a foreign land. I planned it to where the train represents the transition I was feeling at the time.

Dan: I didn't get that at all.

Me: Well, I would be glad to clarify that so I could communicate that feeling more obviously.

Dan: No, don't be more obvious. Just ditch the train.

Me: I can't! If I get off of the train, I will never stop writing about it. I have to focus on the train. I can handle the train. Please don't make me get off the train.

Dan: Do I have to beat you into submission? I am telling you that this is your big story. All you have to do is tell it.

What ugly thing is inside people that prevents them from doing important things? Why do I automatically duck out of windows of opportunity?

I told him that I was afraid to tell my story, but that sometimes the stories that I am the most afraid of telling sometimes feel as if they are going to leap out of my mouth at any moment. Like I will go crazy if I could never tell them. But, I am afraid of hurting others.

He said two things to me. He quoted Joan Didion, who said that nonfiction writers are always selling out somebody, and also said that there was a guy in his MFA program in Miami that was writing an unnecessarily complicated story, and when Dan asked him why he was doing that, he told him about a scandalous true family story that the complicated story was based upon and then replied, "I am writing it in a strange way because my grandma reads all of my stories, and she wouldn't like for me to tell that story the way it really happened." He told the guy that he would have to make a choice to write his story or not, and the guy left the program and got a degree in literature.

Dan looked at me and said, "Do you want to write for your grandma, or not? It's your choice."

Now, as I try to recall memories from my time in India, I realize that I must get off the train. Transitions are defined by the fact that they are not permanent and that they are leading you somewhere. I must get off of the train soon. The promise of another station is not always a reality.

A Whole New World

My experience so far of my newly reopened journey of academia is only three days in, but there is such a strong feeling of belonging and not belonging at the same time. I see it in the other students, and it reminds me of my trip to Ireland for a study abroad program.

When we all got to the airport to get on the Irish airline, there were groups forming already; some students already knew each other, others knew the professor well enough to comment on his Sunday night pork chops. I did not know anybody, and had only seen some of the faces once at a meeting about the trip. My friend, Lauren, didn't know anybody either, being from another school altogether, and we happened to be sitting next to each other on the flight from Savannah to Ireland. We became fast friends, but it took a couple of awkward hours of being right next to each other and not talking before the friendship could begin.

That is kind of how I feel now. I got a pep talk from the MFA director two nights ago, saying that he had noticed that I wasn't involving myself with the group very much and to try to at least go to the cafeteria with my homemade meal and join them. I notice other students doing a similar thing, and I have been trying to grapple with why that reaction occurs in some of the most defenseless situations.

But it isn't defenseless, is it? This is a world of competition, where only the best and brightest will show up on the radar, much less be remembered for any length of time. I had already formed opinions and ranked all of my classmates by talent before I got to class, and I can safely assume that they did the same after reading all of the writings that we had to submit before the semester began.

However, that same big question mark still perches on top of my skull everywhere I go: Am I good enough to be here? Does the faculty really see potential in me? Am I going to be able to hang with this group? Where do I rank amongst them?

Essentially, I walk around wondering, "Do I have enough value to be valued by others?" That question directly relates to the human condition, wondering if we are worthy of being the crown of God's creation. Are we meeting our full potential, and if so, are we anything more than ordinary? Sometimes that question is too threatening to know the answer to.

I feel another paradox by being here. I find myself shying away from the crowd, but when I get back to my lonely, essentially empty, rented apartment, there is a terrible fear that robs any solace of solitude and perverts the darkened closets and hallway into fearful seclusion. The gripping fear literally keeps me up at night. I have to listen to Orwell on audio book to find blissful, uneasy slumber.

I have sort of written myself into a corner, and I am not sure where I am going. However, a lady named Jill, a poetry student and a high school teacher back in California, was telling me about the sad state of high school students in her town.

"I only teach independent study in my high school. Students who have been diagnosed with anxiety can opt to take all of there high school classes as independent studies and pick up their assignments once a weeks and work on their own. They say that they are afraid of high school. I don't get it. What is the big deal?" she said.

I told her that I feel like parents are so busy that they don't spend enough time with their children, neglecting their emotional well-being that is supposed to foster their sense of self and confidence. If parents don't care enough to listen and motivate them to try scary and hard things, then why are these children expected to motivate themselves? There has to be a nudge from the parents to push these children out of their nest, easily, with guidance and a net underneath them, or children will never have the confidence to go out into the big world and try anything. The result is that they become the eternal victim, a sad and lonely state to be in.

So, where does this leave me? It leaves me with the responsibility to follow my own example and put my tuition money where my mouth is and jump out of the nest. Goodness knows how many sturdy nets I have underneath me. However, it is still scary and overwhelming, even during this stage of my life. My decisions to press on and be open to uncontrolled results are spurred from my own growing pains that I felt a few years ago when I outgrew my comfy nest. If I didn't try to succeed, I would never succeed. This is my new mantra, my emotional salve after a harsh, long day. So I press on, only carrying the fake stage presence of my early college training and a few flimsy opening lines as the components of my mental tool belt.

I can write, I do write, I must write.

I can succeed, I do succeed, I must succeed.

I'm Going, Going Back, Back to Cali, Cali

That is a lyric from the Notorious B.I.G.'s last album, one I memorized in high school, but the point I am trying to make is that Mark and I are moving to Beaufort on Friday. We are so excited to be moving out of purgatory (A.K.A. Roanoke) and back near family. We got a sweet offer that was too good to pass up, and it was truly an answer to our on-going, tireless prayers. I am so glad to be near the beach again. I can't tell you how badly I have missed it. I hate the mountains. They make me feel claustrophobic.

Ben's German Lullaby

I have been thinking of a song I could sing to Ben when he is getting ready to go to sleep or when he is peacefully eating. I don't particularly like the generic lullabies that are out there, nor do I want something that is popular today, so my song choice seems dated. I wanted a classic song that sounds good with accompaniment or without. I kept thinking of this one song that I sang in my high school choir, and that is the song I ended up with. Here are the lyrics and a video of a choir singing it.

Die Nachtigall

Music by Felix Mendelssohn
Lyrics taken from a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Die Nachtigall, sie war entfernt,
The nightingale, she was far away,

Der Frühling lockt sie wieder;
the spring lures her back;

Was neues hat sie nicht gelernt,
she has learned nothing new,

Singt alte liebe Lieder.
she sings the same old love songs

Making News: Savannah Style

Oh, was I excited to see that Savannah's own WJCL has their own reality show on the TV Guide Channel for being the worst rated newscast in their market. I didn't realize how bad it would make me miss my old ghetto local news station. The highlight of the premiere episode was the arrival of Lindy Brannen to the station. He left the prestigious channel WSAV because of contract conflicts. Another familiar name was Paula Deen, who was in the news because of a protest outside of her restaurant. She is somewhat of a media whore in my opinion, and I don't really love her restaurant. It is too expensive and grossly unhealthy. Savannah should have more prestige than just where Paula Deen lives. Has everyone forgotten Johnny Mercer, or Forrest Gump, or the Civil War? Even the founder of the Girl Scouts is a claim to fame. It is so sad to me when people find out that I am from Savannah and they say, "Oh, do you know Paula?" Why in the world should I know her? That is ridiculous. Anyway, if you don't get that channel, I think you can find the episode on youtube or aol video. It is worth your time.

The Old Me

When I was pregnant, I was the freakin' Zen Master. You could slap me in the face, and I wouldn't get upset. I felt dead inside and I must say that it felt really peaceful. However, lately I have started regaining my old feelings of frustration, anger and rage thanks to my new birth control. I never have done well on birth control, but I am serious about sticking to it now that I know that I am a fertile myrtle, regardless of the consequences. To illustrate the difference, before I had Ben I was at home one afternoon when a realtor came barging into my house without knocking and I didn't pull my gun on her or report her to her broker for being a rude piece of trash. Since taking birth control, I had a nervous breakdown when Mark didn't hook in the car seat correctly so Mom and Mr. Jerry loaned us their car until we move away from Roanoke. When Mark asked me to turn off the fan while still in bed, I replied by screaming, "Who do you think you are?" and continued my walk into the kitchen to fix a bottle. The last adjectives that have been used to describe me have been "ruthless" and "mean." I can't help it, but I can't stop the birth control. It isn't always pleasant to be fertile.

Baby's First Restaurant and Other Adventures

Yesterday was a big day in the life of Ben. He went to the doctor's office for his 1 month well-baby visit and he passed his first standardized test with flying colors. He is now 23 3/4 inches, which means he is taller than 95% of all 1 month old babies. When he was born he was 22 1/4 inches, and he was taller than 99% of all babies! Can you believe that? When he gets older, I will never have to struggle to reach for something on the top shelf again. He got his second Hep B shot (out of three) and he did really well, only crying for a second and then I gave him a pacifier and held him tightly and he stopped crying instantly. The nurse commented on how well-behaved he is and contributed it to our calm demeanor around the baby. I guess they see a lot of harried new moms and dads. Oh, and he weighs exactly 11 pounds.

After that, we went to Panera Bread for lunch, which marked Ben's first restaurant outing. He was perfect. He slept through the whole lunch, giving Mark and I a peaceful meal. Afterwards, we went into the mall so Mark could get a haircut. I held Ben, and he slept through that event as well. Mark didn't come out of it so unscathed. The girl jacked up his haircut and now he looks like a military man or like someone that should own a motorcycle. Mark is pretty depressed about it, but I told him that it will grow really fast.

Also, Ben has been sleeping an extra 1 to 2 hours every time I lay him down. Mark thinks it is because of the vaccine, but I think it could be a blessing from God. He eat last night at 9:30 and didn't wake up until 2:30! I got 4.5 hours of uninterrupted sleep, and for a new mom, that is heavenly.

It has been a long time...

I realize now that it has been six months since I have blogged. I have had a little bit of a distraction in the form of a 10 pound birth named Ben to deal with, but now that he is here and I am getting in the swing of things, here are some of my thoughts (mostly mommy thoughts, so prepare).

1. I am amazed at how much Ben urinates and how little he poops. I catch myself meditating on this very issue more hours than I would like to admit, and when baby books do not specifically address this issue, I render them useless. He pees before and after he eats, which is about every three hours. We are talking about 16 diaper changes per day and at least three outfit changes because he soaks through everything. He eats 4 ounces of formula and an ounce of water/prune juice mix every feeding, and his little diaper cannot hold that much liquid. It is remarkable.

2. I realize that most women romanticize motherhood because they usually have children that are in high school, or at least middle school, and they long for the days that their little boy smelled like baby lotion and would let them snuggle with them for hours. Now their boys smell like, well, boys and they won't even let their mothers walk beside them in the mall. However, I feel like the type of person who never sees things for more or less than it really is, I see things the way they are and don't feel the need to go back in time and relive a "golden time" in my life. I wasn't overwhelmed with roller coaster emotions during my prom, my high school graduation, my choir concerts, my college graduation, my wedding, any number of my moves. I will make the exception for Ben's birth. I was not wired with the hormone that helped me forget my ordeal and I will never forget that time. I cried the night before we checked into the hospital because I knew that it would be incredibly difficult and it was. I won't ever lie about that.

3. I am horrified by my body. No matter what size clothes I wear or what I do to smooth down my stomach, my body looks and feels like a train wreck. I know this seems ridiculous to say only a few weeks after birth, but I felt this way a day or so after Ben was born, and I feel it now. The saddest part is that I somehow know that I will never be happy with my body again. I am very motivated to lose the weight that I gained, but the horrific stretch marks and sagging skin will most likely never fade away. I was always so fond of my skinny waist. I am truly mourning the loss.

4. I have realized that it takes frighteningly little for me to become psychotic. I went 60 hours with no more than 1.5 hours worth of sleep at a time and I was starting to plan my escape. I was so tired that I started fantasizing that I would just plop Ben into Mark's arms, run out the door and never come back. Having fantasies about running away from a helpless 1 month old and a helpless 26 year old is pretty horrible.

5. You hear about how sweet and rewarding it is when your baby smiles at you for the first time, but you are never prepared for it. Ben has started smiling at me when I talk to him and I am in love. More in love than I could have ever imagined. Last night, he was dozing off in my arms and he placed his hand on top of mine and fell asleep with it there. I put up the picture so you can see how special the moment was for me.

Baby's First Photos

Here are some pictures from the sonogram yesterday. It is definitely a little boy, and Mark and I couldn't be happier that he looked happy and healthy in there. I can't wait to see him!

Me at 19 weeks

Okay, so here it is. After several thousand attempts at a decent picture, I finally got one that I was willing to post on the internet. I look bigger on the picture than I thought I looked. Depressing. Anyway, hopefully this will suffice as my official look for a while. Be kind when commenting, I am very hormonal!

The Fun Part

I have been thinking a lot about all the ways that parents get to decide how a child is formed into an adult. We can all think of ways that our parents chose to shape us, and there are occassions where those decisions seemed to have come from an acid trip or the wild imaginings of a crazy person. I tend to think that mothers especially find delight in controlling different aspects of their child's life because they have little control of their own life when they are going through pregnancy. Since Halloween just past, children's costumes have been on my mind for the past few days, and I wonder why the prospect of dressing my child up as some kind of animal or vegetable makes me happier than I have been in weeks. Why would I purposefully humiliate my child for the sake of a bunch of "Ooohs" and "Aaahs" from me and other strangers? I know there will be lots of pictures that will be taken and my child will have to live with the evidence of his or her mother's cruelty every time he or she sees a picture of them as an infant dressed as a pea in a pod or clown fish. However, this does not hinder any of my plans for future Halloween costumes. It gets worse. I heard about someone's kid refusing to wear the costume he picked out for Halloween, so his mother had to improvise and make a homemade costume that wasn't as cute. The first thing that went through my mind was, "Why do kids have to ruin everything?" Clearly, when it comes to kids, free will is very threatening to me.

Mark and I almost get excited when we think about the moment in our child's life when he or she becomes an adult and realizes that half of the things they thought were normal about their childhood were most definitely not normal. I have had several of those moments, and do not think that any child should have that taken from him or her.

There are so many things that parents have to take so seriously when it comes to raising their child, that the only way that they can still find joy in it is to find humor in the whole process every chance they get. I am really excited to have that experience.

Baby-Brewing Update

I realize that I have seriously neglected my blog, which is partly due to my new job having a block on this website (boo!) and the fact that we JUST got set up for the internet at home didn't help the situation.

My belly is increasing almost exponentially, and I am sure that it has absolutely NOTHING to do with all of the candy that I am inhaling. At first I had to have the sour punch straws that I used to eat at the movie theater, but now I can't get enough of sweet tarts. I love them. Mark yells at me because I have eaten almost all of our Halloween candy. We don't have enough to pass out! Oh, well.

I have had a few scary pregnancy things happen, but my nurse always reassures me calmly without making me feel like a crazy person, even though I am a crazy person when it comes to what I think are emergency situations. I have to constantly remind myself that pregnancy is one of the most natural processes of human life, but I usually feel like my belly is a ticking timebomb filled with innumerable ways to hurt me or my rapidly growing fetus.

I have my next appointment a week from tomorrow. This is the big one, when I find out if the baby is growing properly and what the gender is. I am really excited, and I know everything will be fine. Mark and I made the decision to not have any tests that require probing anywhere near my baby. I don't want to risk hurting the baby just to find out if there are any major medical problems that we can't fix anyway.

I am still planning on transitioning from working in a cubicle to working at home. I get tired way more easily now and I can't really control my hormones, whether it manifests in hot flashes, migraines, fits of anger or bouts of apathy for anything. I really like my job, which makes the transition harder because I don't really want to leave. I like all the ladies there and I feel appreciated for my hard work. But I really want to wear pyjamas every day.

Well, that is my update for now. I will have more to say next week after the doctor's appointment. Thanks for checking back even though I have been negligent. I promise to be better.

So Infuriating...

Today at work I have absolutely nothing to do, which is pretty typical, so I start looking at the city data for my town here in Virginia. I go along and look at the median incomes, real estate values, ages, etc. I get to the bottom of the page and it says there are 27 registered sex offenders in my town. I click on it, and there it was. A name and a crime of a person that lives three houses away from me. I was completely disgusted by this, even though I was relatively sure that I was going to find someone in that list of names that lived on my street. Can't explain it, just one of those feelings.

I would recommend that everyone look up this information on www.city-data.com. I checked my family's areas in Georgia, but I don't know all of the nearby streets in their respective towns. There is a link to the person's rap sheet off of the list, which gives all of their information, including work address, other names, and their record.

This particular offender was charged for two counts of aggravated sexual battery. In the state of Virginia, this means sexual abuse (fondling) of the victim by force and against the will of the victim, AND/OR serious bodily or mental injury to the victim results AND/OR the assailant uses or threatens use of a weapon.

I am truly disgusted and angry that he disrupts my feeling of peace in Virginia. Now, I am going to be extra careful about being alone in my house, going outside at night, and bringing attention to myself. These are things that I haven't had to do in months, since I moved out of Savannah.

This might sound like a PSA, but I can't make it any more clear about how upset I am that my baby has to come into a world where such violent criminals are so close.

A Shared History

For my birthday, I received a card from my grandmother. Inside was not the traditional five dollar check that most grandmothers send, but an article that she cut out from a magazine. I don't remember the author of the article or the publication, but the sentiment behind the article has been with me ever since I read it. The author was making an observation on one of the many roles of a mother, one that might be overlooked or unrealized by most people. He said that mothers are the historians of their children's lives. We give them a sense of where they came from so that they can know where to go in life.

I started thinking about the importance of knowing my own family history, knowing "where I came from," even though there are parts that I might not necessarily want to acknowledge all of the time. I am grateful for all of the stories of scandal and southern color that have enriched my life, and I have a deep pride for my family heritage. I realize that I want to give my children the same amount of pride and a strong foundation of knowing who they are before they can discover who they will be in the future.

That being said, I would like to start documenting my family's history as I know it. I will require a lot of help, since my memory is not as good as it should be. I know that there are some things that only I can tell, personal experiences that are unique to what I went through. There are other stories that are not mine to tell, and I will leave those out of the project. I want my children to know who Jernigan was, and Aunt Lula Mae, and Sonny with his greasy hair and ukulele. These stories are like precious gems in my memory and I would like to give that gift to my children.

The Impossible Dream

I was always told that when you dream about being pregnant, it means there is a new idea forming inside of your mind. It never means that you are actually pregnant. So when I dreamed I was pregnant about a month ago, I thought nothing of it. I dreamt that my cousin Melanie, who is currently pregnant, was talking to some of my other family members, and I came out of the bathroom really excited and told her that I was pregnant too. We were happy that we were going to be pregnant together. I woke up and found that dream to be really funny, commenting to Mark that I would have to get pregnant soon to make that dream real, since Melanie was due in November. Little did I know I was already three weeks pregnant.

A week or so after that, I dreamt that I was in a delivery room, but I wasn't the one having a baby. I looked up at the hospital bed and saw Kirsten screaming at the doctor, who was standing in the doorway, refusing to let anyone get close to her. I decided to take charge of the situation and took the doctor's position and demanded that she push. Jon was still at work, so I called him and told him to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. He didn't want to leave work, but I forced him to leave. I cleaned up the baby and he was so darling. He had dark eyes, dark hair, big cheeks, and a big toothless smile. When I woke up, I felt like I had saved the day.

A few days ago, Micah called me and told me that she dreamt about my baby. She told me that it was going to be a boy, and it was going to have brown hair, brown eyes, and big cheeks with a big toothless smile. Apparently, the baby is going to look just like me since Mark has red hair and green eyes!

The last dream that I had was last night, which was the most vivid pregnancy dream I have had. I had nightmares all night long because Mark made me watch a Werner Herzog documentary about a man that was a prisoner of war during Vietnam. The one that shook me up the worst was actually not a nightmare. I was at a Huddle House with my dad. He wanted me to meet a woman that he met. She was not very lady-like, kind of rough around the edges, so I tried to show my disapproval by making bad faces at my Dad. He didn't say anything about my response, but kept looking at his menu. I tried to figure out what would not make me throw up in there, and I realized that I had not told my dad about my pregnancy. I looked up at him and said, "Dad, I forgot to tell you, but Mark and I are having a baby. I am two months pregnant and we are having a little boy." He looked so excited and touched my belly. He looked up at me and told me that he was so happy for me. We went back to my house and Mark asked me why I had bought alot of dried leaves, and I told him that I had a blank canvas and I was going to paint a picture. When I looked back at the canvas, my dad was walking away from it and he had painted a mountain next to a beach and in the corner was a bird about to take off in flight. I never saw my dad again, but as I looked closer at the bird, it was more like a bobcat with large wings, and I thought to myself that I would have not painted that because it looked too masculine. I woke up feeling so sad because I was happy that I was around my Dad, but it didn't really happen. I cried myself to sleep.

I don't know why my dreams have been so vivid since I have been pregnant, but it probably has to do with hormone changes and the fact that Mark and I are going through a huge transition right now. It is pretty amazing how much dreams can affect us and how much they can provide a feeling of resolution, when that feeling is impossible to have in our real life.

Whoa, Whoa Here She Comes...She's a Maneater

Today marks my seventh week of pregnancy, which is roughly half-way through my first trimester. I have realized that I don't feel "pregnant," unless by pregnant I mean extremely nauseous, irritable, out of breath, flabby, bloated, weak, and possess the ability to belch like a man. This might sound precious to the breed of women that long to have a being growing inside of them, who feel that the sacrifice is worth the outcome, or the kind of women who tried for a really long time to have a baby, and they feel that it is worth the inconvenience.

I am neither of those women. I try to embrace the earth mother/mother nature image, and I used to think that I would become one of those women who bathed in the bliss of gestation, but I do not and I will not. I am not jolly.

Mark says that I look at him as if I hate him, and that I pull away when he tries to touch me. The mix of irritability with pain is not a very good combination for a marriage, especially a new marriage. I know that, but cannot do anything about the situation. If I were in this much pain normally I would go to the emergency room, but the nurses just laugh and say that this pain is normal. I have six types of snacks in my drawer at work and have to eat about every thirty minutes or I feel nauseated and get horrible heartburn. I am worried because I know I am going to blow up like a balloon, but I can't stop eating. Needless to say, this is not a good day. The nurse told me that I should feel like myself in seven weeks. I am counting down. I will give an update then. That promise is the only thing that makes me feel better.

And, for the record, I would just like to say that I was tricked about the nature of pregnancy. My two cousins that recently went through their first trimester of pregnancy were not nauseated at all. That is not fair, even though one of them had more serious complications that were way more serious than my situation. But still.

Also, if you read this and sense a touch of a mood swing, I will give you that because my hormones are way out of whack. I have hot flashes and then bouts of bitter cold within a few minutes and all of my symptoms are a reaction to the progesterone that is running through my body. I get it, but I don't feel any better.