Dear One,

I feel like I am in a holding pattern. Waiting for you. Waiting to see your face, smooth as milk. Your almond eyes, bright as the sunset, blue.

The heat is unbearable. I spend my days finding creative ways to escape swollen ankles, upset stomach, sweaty brow.

I wish we were together, you and I. Sitting by water’s edge. My feet dipped in the shore. You, nursing. I long to know you, my dear one. The longing calls out from the bowels, deep. I feel my womb, groaning, to birth you into the world. The thought of it calls me to tears.

Believe me Dear, I have all the love in the world for you. Your eyes will be my treasure, forever. I fear ever letting you go, ever letting the world reach out its blackened hands to touch you.

I imagine your tiny fingers curled, clasping my pinky. Your gentle eyes combing my face. Pure joy. I long to meet such innocence. To meet you, my dear one. Our angel.

We are reaching out our hands. Won’t you come to meet us?

Love Mama

– July 30, 2009

No baby yet. I feel like my life is just one big tease. Contractions. No contractions. On. Off. On. Off. This little boy/girl likes my belly too much. It’s warm in there, you know. Quite pleasant, really. 

Here are some recent belly shots to bide the time:

Photos by Avital Kline

It’s not every day that you arrive at a party and are promptly crowned with roses. It’s not every week that you get to see a dozen of your nearest and dearest collected in a single room, smiling back at you. But that’s what happened Sunday.

This was the scene of my ‘blessingway’ — a rite of passage into motherhood, organized by my dear friends Avital and Marisa.

They read from Psalm 139: “You know when I sit down and when I rise up… You knit me together in my mother’s womb.” They each brought beautiful glass beads to make me a necklace and shared blessings for me, many written on lovely paper, cards and postcards I can treasure forever. We shared a meal. And, at the end, they laid hands on my shoulders and prayed for me, Michael and our baby — praying for a peaceful labour, a wonderful transition into motherhood, and that through becoming parents Michael and I would fall in love with each other all over again.

I am truly blessed.

Staring at items
on the table.
Which shall I move?
What’s the plan of attack?

One… two… ten… eighteen…
staring back at me.

There are too many!
Where do they live?
Finally, after too many minutes of consideration,
I declare to a single item:

“YOU: tape dispenser!
I am moving you to the office! Now.”

One item at a time.
Back and forth.
My multitasking brain now
mush.

Help. me. please. 

Image from Life in Motion Photography

My dear friend and doula, Avital, sent me a link to the most beautiful birth video I’ve ever seen. It’s a montage of black and white photos chronicling a home birth, and the most convincing ‘literature’ I’ve come across to encourage natural birth.

I encourage you to watch it.  

:::::::::::::

Expect the next installment of Expecting: Poetry Monday morning.

I am a female version of Gumby.
My hands like Jello.
Standing, clearing the table
a new ceramic bowl, now,
a thousand pieces
strewn across the floor.

The innie remains an innie (so far) although I am encountering depths of my belly button I’ve never seen before, my feet are swollen beyond belief, and I officially stopped wearing my wedding band as of yesterday when my mother-in-law had to wrench the piece of metal over my knuckle with dish soap and a lever made of dental floss. 

On the pregnancy note, I bring you this poem (of sorts) written in month three:

I am eating convulsively, though I find it repulsive.
It’s all I can do to sleep.
My boobs keep growing
and my nipples are SO sensitive
I scream in the shower
cowering in the corner –
hiding my chest away from
the faucet.

Yes. I am pregnant.

Death Cab for Cutie (with the New Pornographers and Ra Ra Riot) hit Vancouver’s Pacific Coliseum on July 16.

The last time we saw them was in 2006 when I surprised Michael with two airplane and concert tix to see them in New York City. I’d be the first to snag seats for this show but I’m hesitating because I wonder how my then-eight-month-prego-body will manage in the Coliseum stands along with Vancouver’s trademark marijuana clouds.

High baby? Hmmm…

Image by Kameron Bayne

At our first prenatal class on Tuesday night the instructor had each of us squeeze an ice cube in our hand for 45 seconds. It hurt like a $%#%$#&. You can imagine the laughter when I read this little birth class Q & A this morning:

Q: Will keeping a hand in a bucket of ice during class really approximate labour pain?

A: Yes, more or less — just imagine the ice is the polar ice cap and you’re slowly being crushed under it while somebody jabs an icicle in your spine. 

Oh God, help me.

Today I enjoyed this word from Katrina Onstad on throwing out the plan, the birth plan, that is. 

“Modern times, don’t be so pushy,” Chatelaine, August 2008

Our birth plan in progress. We are planning to have our baby at home. We are planning to have a birth pool (I find water incredibly calming.) We have two backup hospitals. We have a group of midwives, one of which will be at our birth. I have a wonderful doula. We started prenatal classes last night. I’m taking yoga classes.

But really, when the water breaks, it’s anyone’s game.

This pregnancy thing is really one giant exercise in trust.

The baby is kicking his/her agreement as I type… ;)